I met the author, Wright Morris, when I was an undergraduate in the early 1970's. He looked like Mark Twain, only serious. I never read anything of his, but somewhere along the line I picked up a used copy of his final novel, "Plains Song." It sat on my shelf for years, probably decades, untouched. Then recently, I came across his name again in a book of correspondence between Ralph Ellison and Albert Murray. One of the two--I can't remember which--commented on how good Morris's writing was. So that's what prompted me, after all these years, to finally read "Plains Song." It was worth the wait. This is one of those rare books that is the reason that I read, and also the reason I write--although my writing will never approach anything near the level that Morris reaches in this extraordinary novel about a farming family in the Nebraska plains. I've read--and loved--Willa Cather's books and stories about the Nebraska plains, but "Plains Song" is something else entirely. The closest comparison that I can think of is "The House by the Medlar Tree" by Giovanni Verga. Verga, too, manages to completely submerge the reader in a world that has a resonance and a rhythm entirely its own. I confess that there are moments in "Plains Song" when I have no idea what Morris is telling me, but it doesn't matter. Confusion is part of life--maybe its most preeminent part. Thank you, Wright Morris, for creating and sharing such a truly remarkable work of art.