These characters are woeful, and so so human. They argue, they fuck up, they run away; they build coffins. They climb up on a ladder to sit on their roof and smoke a daily cigarette. Wallace has boiled them down so that what's left is a concentrated capsule of grit, of the necessary prose, no chicken scratch or chicken shit, just the yolk and the white and the thin membrane of its newly laid shell.
"She smoked, and the smoke rose and quivered from the red and orange coal into a dreamy cloud, then off into a dreamy nothing. But most of the smoke was inside her, in her lungs and her blood. It made its way to her brain and she felt lighter, lighter. She felt like she could follow the smoke if she wanted. The cigarette didn't last very long, never as long as she wanted it to, but always time enough to review the plot points of her life. . . . Every night she climbed the ladder's rungs and sat here, here on top of the world, smoking, she wondered what it meant that out of all of oit, out of every single second she remembered, this was the best, the very best, the moment she lived for, surrounded by the invisible world beneath the moon and long dead stars, sharing her own light with the dark." From "The Ladder"