The Hook - Having read, heard and enjoyed Peter Heller before, this is a natural for me. I will get to see him once again when I attend Booktopia 2017 in Manchester, Vermont.
The Line - ”Celine always rooted for the weak, the dispossessed, the children, for the ones who had no means or power: the strays and homeless, the hapless and addicted, the forlorn, the remorseful, the broken.“
The Sinker - Celine represents all the best of Heller’s writing style, knowledge and expertise. His passages that describe the wilds, nature, fishing, hunting, painting, and the beauty of a photograph, are stellar. His characters are often rough-edged and Celine, the protagonist in this story that is her namesake, is no different. A PI, who mostly deals in reuniting birth parents and their birth children, Celine is a woman to heed. Somewhere there’s a past that we are only getting a glimpse of, one in which she learned to shoot, to fight, to become a strong, and self-sufficient woman. Her ability to read people and honed instincts make her perfect for her job though the heartache she sometimes deals with can take their toll. A recovering alcoholic with emphysema, one who takes many risks, she has little to lose, in her own words ”I am already dead.”. Celine’s Watson, Pa or Pete, a man of few words, adds depth, wisdom, and peace to her strength.
When a young woman approaches Celine to get to the bottom of the disappearance of her father, an award-winning photographer who went missing in Yellowstone over twenty years ago, she accepts the assignment with trepidation.
I found Celine somewhat uneven. Celine is aching in its tale of love and loss but there were times I was confused in the flow of the mystery. I enjoyed the story when Heller was on his game in passages like this:
”It was that time of day, or night, that happens only a few weeks a year at a certain hour in certain parts of the American West. The sun sets behind mountains but the cloudless sky that is more than cloudless, it is lens clear—clear as the clearest water--holds the light entirely, holds it in a bowl of pale blue as f reluctant to let it go. The light refines the edges of the ridges to something honed and the muted colors of the pines on the slopes, the sage-roughened fields, the houses in the valley—the colors pulse with the pleasure of release, as if they know that within the hour they too will rest."
Or in this description of a photograph:
”It could begin in the tilt of her head, the angle, the light tension it put on the neck so that she seemed at once poised and relaxed, the way a violin can look—or a bird. Celine thought of the great blue heron in Baboo’s cattails, just below the porch. How the bird would stand, it seemed for hours, neck stretched over the shallows in effortless balance, between stillness and strike. Because the strike would inevitably come. Celine used to think that if eternity was anywhere it was somehow contained in the attitude of this bird. Everything the heron had done, and would do, and was so now so perfectly not doing, was contained in her bearing. And so Amana. As she tipped her head she was both bowing to time—there is no mercy there, that is clear—but she was also gathering herself, her focus, for something that went beyond acceptance. She had acted and she would act, and there would be love in the action, and imagination. In whatever she did. That was also clear.”
Celine is a quirky character with a story to tell, one that might not be finished. If so, I’m willing to go along for the ride.