“The second I finished reading Earthquake , without even thinking, I began reading it again. The prose has a lovely tidal pull. It's lyrical, vivid, stark, beautifully contained, dark, unblinking, and lulling. A pure and durable stream of coming-of-age vignettes. Earthquake is lush yet gritty, wondrously detailed yet written so cleanly. The book is a gem, and I use the term gem almost literally. The prose seems to have found its ideal voice, like a diamond formed at great depths in the earth, under intense pressure, and is fully alive, a sparkling artifact of compressed energy.”—Amy Gerstler
Autobiographical literary vignettes are generally gratifying—especially if they’re written by Capote—but this trio furnished my brain with a bit of a glazing. Just couldn’t invest.
don't yell at me, i know it's supposed to be autobiographical but i put it on littry fiction shelf because it's just little vignettes unmoored from narrative structure so i call it fiction. its just so...short. i hate buying short books because i can read them in about an hour and then i remember that things cost money that i no longer have and i should really invest in longer books but then i remember that i'm rapidly running out of places to put big books in my apartment because i have too many books already and i'm stuck in the middle of this crazy run-on book dilemma caused by my own stubbornness and unwillingness to ever get rid of a book ever. but if you have more money than me, or are a slower reader, or had a nature-girl huck finnish existence, go on and read this book, i don't even care.
at times equally engrossing and descriptive, this slim and slight story's only flaw is that it leaves me presently engaged and nothing is left to read. laden with random memories, meanderings, musings, and lovely imagery, you feel like you're peering over the shoulder of the main character, just along the periphery.
passages of a time when childhood exploration of the wilderness and it's crevices overpowered the want for technological gadgetry and medias.
susan barnes takes us back to a near-past and revels in the discovery of quiet moments and shifting thoughts on what it meant to be a child turning older.
the move from rural pre-american alaska to various northeastern cities is both heartbreaking and illuminating, and by the last all-too-short-in-total pages, you want to engage the world at large and experience something grander than the concrete landscapes which surround us.
This is a lovely book with gorgeous language. Still, It left me feeling very off kilter at the end. I kept waiting for something, anything and it didn't come. That said, I love the structure.
A book can be short so long as by the end it feels cooked. Earthquake didn't feel that way. It seemed like pinkish chicken, like right when Susan leaves home and begins traveling across the country, right when I am in tune with her voice and her way of shock, I get no more from her. She shuts the door in my face and leaves me with nothing else to do but write this review. Good for her, but I would have been happy to read more about the countryside in Alaska, a place I've never read about in fiction until now.