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First edition bound in cream colored cloth. A near fine copy in a very good dust jacket. Dust soiling to the edges of the book's upper page block. The dust jacket has some frays at its upper edges. Chips to its corners. Soiling to the rear panel.
255 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1978
8 people want to read
About the author
Don Robertson
75 books38 followersRobertson was born in Cleveland, Ohio and attended East High School. He briefly attended Harvard and Western Reserve University (now Case Western Reserve University) before working as a reporter and columnist.
Robertson won the Cleveland Arts Prize in 1966. The Society for the Study of Midwestern Literature presented him with its Mark Twain Award in 1991. The Press Club of Cleveland's Hall of Fame inducted Robertson in 1992, and he received the Society of Professional Journalist's Life Achievement Award in 1995.
Robertson died on his birthday in 1999, aged 70. He's buried in Logan, Ohio.
Robertson won the Cleveland Arts Prize in 1966. The Society for the Study of Midwestern Literature presented him with its Mark Twain Award in 1991. The Press Club of Cleveland's Hall of Fame inducted Robertson in 1992, and he received the Society of Professional Journalist's Life Achievement Award in 1995.
Robertson died on his birthday in 1999, aged 70. He's buried in Logan, Ohio.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
November 17, 2011
Rating: 3.25* of five
The Book Report: Philip Moore needs to know why Grace McElroy killed her children. That might sound compelling as a premise for a novel, but it doesn't sound amusing, right? In Robertson's hands, the quest Moore sets out on is poignant, sad, amusing, and in the end, universal. We go with Moore as he relives his own passage from innocence to disillusionment, and thus comes to understand the (misguided, for sure!) lovingkindness of Grace McElroy's act. She, and Philip Moore, and the reader, achieve a calmer and less troubled modus vivendi after the storm. We all always do. It's the sadness of being an adult. But it's hugely better than the alternative: Never becoming an adult.
Or so I think. And I suspect Robertson did too.
My Review: My mother gave me this book for my 18th birthday. I suspect it was a none-too-subtle jab, but I read it and loved it. Now, after more than 30 years have passed (as has the aforementioned prickly mother), I remember this book with wistful, wry amusement. It suits my hopeful misanthropy, my cynical romanticism, my misty-eyed pragmatism down to the ground.
I'd like to emit a bleat of dissatisfaction that Robertson has fallen completely off the literary map. Writers like him, and Sloan Wilson, and Erskine Caldwell, are all unjustly underknown. Their untricky, simple, heartfelt style doesn't wear well, say some of the snobbier readers. I beg to differ, and I think many more would agree with me than with the tricksy-twee writers' fans.
But we don't have publishing houses. Drat.
The Book Report: Philip Moore needs to know why Grace McElroy killed her children. That might sound compelling as a premise for a novel, but it doesn't sound amusing, right? In Robertson's hands, the quest Moore sets out on is poignant, sad, amusing, and in the end, universal. We go with Moore as he relives his own passage from innocence to disillusionment, and thus comes to understand the (misguided, for sure!) lovingkindness of Grace McElroy's act. She, and Philip Moore, and the reader, achieve a calmer and less troubled modus vivendi after the storm. We all always do. It's the sadness of being an adult. But it's hugely better than the alternative: Never becoming an adult.
Or so I think. And I suspect Robertson did too.
My Review: My mother gave me this book for my 18th birthday. I suspect it was a none-too-subtle jab, but I read it and loved it. Now, after more than 30 years have passed (as has the aforementioned prickly mother), I remember this book with wistful, wry amusement. It suits my hopeful misanthropy, my cynical romanticism, my misty-eyed pragmatism down to the ground.
I'd like to emit a bleat of dissatisfaction that Robertson has fallen completely off the literary map. Writers like him, and Sloan Wilson, and Erskine Caldwell, are all unjustly underknown. Their untricky, simple, heartfelt style doesn't wear well, say some of the snobbier readers. I beg to differ, and I think many more would agree with me than with the tricksy-twee writers' fans.
But we don't have publishing houses. Drat.
Displaying 1 of 1 review