I'm really hovering between "liked it" and "really liked it" with this one. Pinckney Benedict has written a crazy-good, frustratingly odd bunch of stories. I call frustration only because my brain is split down the middle in its response to these fourteen stories of deep Appalachia. The title story sets the collection's surreal tone in motion, with "Buckeyes," complimenting it nicely, if only briefly. In "Butcher Cock," Benedict's fascination with illegal animal fights first appears, and it is here that I think the collection is most succesful. Not so much in the story of "Butcher Cock" itelf (which, I think, gets so surreal that it starts to trip itself up), but in the desperate, violent, and darkly funny environment of 'Miracle Boy's' fighting dens and surrounding, brokedown homesteads.
I can't remember the last time I read a collection so adeptly and consistently toned in offbeat sadness, so rich in setting and character. Pinckney Benedict has a way of making me (a wimp city boy) at home on the farm, even if that farm is plagued with murderous mudmen, diseased cows, or the ghosts of dead relatives. Benedict's voice falls somewhere between a more adventurous Flannery O'Connor and a slightly less grounded Tim O'Brien. This is a good thing. I guess I would classify these stories as "magical realism," but labeling them so would be a disservice; Bennedict is navigating his own new territory here. In more ways than one, my reaction to 'Miracle Boy and Other Stories' was not unlike my reaction to P.T. Anderson's challenging 'There Will Be Blood,' in that I wasn't always exactly sure what was happening in front of my eyes, though I knew it was something that had never happened before and that it was, most likely, light-years beyond badass.
To me, "Miracle Boy," "Buckeyes," "Pony Car," "Mudman," "Bridge of Sighs," "The Beginnings of Sorrow," "Pig Helmet the Wall of Life," and "The Secret Nature of the Mechanical Rabbit," are the stars of the collection; still, that's eight out of fourteen stories. Not bad. And none of them are "bad," really; it's just that some of them go off the deep end with the surrealism, at least as far as my taste is concerned. "Joe Messinger is Dreaming," is a prime example. Told in the past, present, and future (all at the same time) the story is a bold experiment that gets lost in itself. Benedict's writing is always gorgeous, but it sometimes outstays its welcome. Some of these stories run upwards of forty pages and, when they do, you feel it. I gave up on a couple of them, and, still, liked others without loving them. "The World, the Flesh, and the Devil," is a strange hybrid of survival tale and ghost story that starts strong but ends, I think, with some sort of naked ghoul wandering out into a pack of feral dogs. What the... "Zog-19: A Scientific Romance," steps into Brock Clarke country with its repetive phrasing and incessant puns (a good thing for a short space) but outstays its fifty page welcome. I laughed at the jokes the first time, chuckled the second time, and wrinkled my brow in worry by the twentieth time. However, even in that mammothly weird story, Pinckney Benedict draws some intersting people and puts them down in an interesting place.
In the end, I like Benedict's characters, even if I don't like how long they hang out and what exactly they're doing. To try out a bad metaphor: I liked the runner's high I sometimes experienced with 'Miracle Boy and Other Stories' but I didn't really like running the whole marathon of its pages just to get to these exhilarating, but ultimately fleeting bursts of euphoria. But that's a dumb metaphor. And the book is fantastic. I just wanted less of it. Kind of like how I wanted less ice-cream after I finished eating that entire, delicious pint. You know what I mean?