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417 pages, Hardcover
First published August 2, 2016
In the hills grudges never died, they remained as they took place, as the words were uttered, since there was nowhere for them to go, nothing to break them apart, the soft edges of the hills offered nothing hard enough to smash the anger, nothing sharp enough to cut through the Gordian knot, so it lived fresh, undeniable as the first day. In the hills there were only first days, no history. Nothing was allowed to die. They marked time by the growing list of wrongs until its weight pulled them under and they vanished, smothered with the breath of sand in their mouths.X-Ray heaven and you may not like what you see in the underyling structure. The wind blows hard and always in the Sand Hills region of Nebraska. Disturb the soil, even a little, say by planting anything other than grass, and that soil will catch the next gust on out of there. Not exactly a farming Shangri-la. And tough on cattlemen too, as big bovines have been known to trample the life out of a place, given the chance. Makes for a hard life. Calls for hard people. But where is the line between tough and ornery, strong and cruel, determined and murderous? Where is the line between being attached to the land and being nailed to it?

for a short, lovely time she believed that her life, their life, meant this place and what they did here, what they learned by living and loving each other. It was because she still felt him here, J.B., he touched her, and nothing could change this place, this land...It was how she understood the Indians…who mourned the land, not as wealth, but as the place where all was alive, all living, in one form or another. The whites took it but the dead still walked it, the spirits, whatever they were. Her faith had removed God, dispersed him like seed or gravel. It was not that God didn’t exist. It was that he wasn’t alone, but in pieces, parts, always whole, sufficient, always multiple. So like the ancient Greeks she trod lightly, carefully, tried to give no offense to the land, the sacred grass her feet crushed, the ants hurriedly preparing caverns for the winter, pushing tiny yellow boulders out of a hole the size of a bee’s leg. Oh the offence, to walk so clumsily through the world, to crush and bring havoc, that they couldn’t help. But to give no recognition to the cost of their being alive, to the price paid for their dreams by everything else?I had two small gripes about the book. My ARE copy comes in at 416 pages, a very reasonable length for a novel that covers as much territory as this one does. I was enrapt for most of the read. But I did feel that there was a sag towards the back end, before the finale. The other was that after a significant death, a whole host of characters head into town for a rodeo. I have no idea if this would have been usual behavior at the time, but it felt to my 21st century sensibility too soon after the loss for such an outing.
come to my blog!She stooped to pick a wild pink rose, avoiding the tiny spines that slivered like unseen glass hairs onto one's fingers. There was little scent, but the creamy softness of the petals like the insides of a dog's ear more than made up for it. She placed one on her tongue, and imagined she could taste the hills, the bittersweet tang of life.
She blew in like a hard west wind, the kind that dropped a man's bones to zero, froze his hair to his skull, and clogged his eyes with ice.