Ethan Canin paints with words. His prose conveys both the rich textures of oils and the soft graces of watercolors.
Like all art that moves us, Canin's storytelling in Blue River is about its specific subjects and about more as well. It invites us to look beyond the images it presents and to reflect on other subjects at which it only hints. Canin's words, like a painter's brush strokes, free our thoughts to drift. When they touch back down, they enrich us.
There is beauty in Canin's art:
I have always been made silent by zoos and museums, and at the city aquarium can watch the electric eels, as still as assassins, for half the afternoon. The streetcar took me to the city aquarium, where I walked upstairs, zealous and alone, still in my blue scrubs from the hospital. I picked one tank each visit and stood in front of it. Approaching an animal so closely was a suspension of nature's wary side, and a small miracle not unlike the miracle of anaesthesia. I felt the same forbidden tingle standing a hand's length from a circling hammerhead as I did when the scalpels I wielded made their first painless cuts into an abdomen. For a moment God and nature looked the other way.
The man staring down the divine is Edward Sellars, a physician with a loving wife and son, a thriving practice and a luxurious house and other comforts that material success brings.
Edward savors the beauty of highways, which he believes is hidden to all but a privileged few. He is an eye doctor, but he closes his own eyes for several seconds at a time as he drives alone along those almost empty highways at night. He seeks professional help to learn why he takes such risks, but his perception is keen enough to suggest he understands his drives more fully than he would like.
A brief visit from his long-estranged brother lets loose Edward's memories of their lives as they and their sister grew up in a small town along the Mississippi River in a household headed at least nominally by their mother. She clings desperately to her religion in hopes that faith will ease the sting of her husband's leaving her to raise their children without him.
Most of the novel is Edward's recalling the past in a monologue that sounds as if he is talking to himself, although it is directed at least in part to the brother with whom he can no longer have conversations. The events in this story serve more to illuminate characters about whom Canin makes us care than they do to propel the plot.
Comparing a work by one writer to a work by another is a kind of critical shorthand that rarely works. Often the analogy fails to convey what is unique about the newer writing.
Canin's stories have been compared to those of writers ranging from F. Scott Fitzgerald to John Cheever. Such comparisons work only if one understands them as one would understand a comparison of Van Goghs to Cezannes or Gauguins. Canin's writings are not lesser works, merely different ones. They can be displayed in the mind's gallery along with works by more celebrated authors, each complementing the others without being diminished by them.
Blue River's ending leaves much unresolved. This suggests not that Canin despaired of tying up his narrative, but that he keenly understands the limits of what we can understand about ourselves and others.
No matter how well we know ourselves and how clearly we remember all we've done, we can never know what we will do. Our capacity for surprise is infinite, and we are always capable either of falling short of our expectations or surpassing them. Our past may be crystals, but our future is clouds.
Canin reflects this in an exquisitely rendered conclusion that is -- in a word chosen carefully with full appreciation for how rarely it applies -- masterful.