“The wind picked up, ruffled [Elsa’s] dress. She paused in beating the rug, sweat running down her face…and tented a hand over her eyes. Past the outhouse, a murky, urine-yellow haze burnished the sky. Elsa tilted her sun hat back, stared out at the sickly yellow horizon. Dust storm. The newest scourge of the Great Plains. The sky changed color, turned red-brown. Wind picked up, barreled across the farm from the south. A Russian thistle hit her in the face, tore the skin from her cheek. A tumbleweed spiraled past. A board flew off the chicken coop and cracked into the side of the house…The cows mooed angrily and pushed into each other, pointing their bony butts into the dust storm. Static electricity made their tails stand out. A flotilla of birds flew past them, flapping hard, cawing and squawking, outrunning the dust…”
- Kristin Hannah, The Four Winds
This is one of those times I feel like I need to apologize in advance. So I will.
I’m sorry I didn’t like the book everyone else loved. And if you are one of those people who loved this book, I assure you, this is nothing personal.
Before now, I have never read a book by Kristin Hannah. That said, I know her by reputation. She is an extremely prolific author with a vast following. Her super-mega-bestselling novels have been purchased in the millions, along with a like number of tissue boxes. Her books are not simply read, they are cherished; not merely liked, but beloved. When I started The Four Winds, it was with the knowledge that I was certainly not alone in cracking the cover.
Alas, having finished, I find myself in a lonely position, among the apparent few who did not appreciate it.
When I find myself in such a contrary pose, I typically hesitate. I appreciate the possibility that I missed something, or I read something the wrong way, or that I simply didn’t get it. I am also not the type of person who provides contrary literary opinions simply as a way of seeking attention. Books, after all, are an investment in my time, which is valuable to me. I don’t read them with an eye towards later evisceration. Certainly, I don’t feel any special need to deconstruct popular books and successful authors.
But here we are, nonetheless.
Before I go on, I should add that I am going to be discussing a plot point that happens about one-third of the way into the novel. I don’t think it’s a spoiler, as it’s not structured as a surprise, and it is imperative to actually describing the novel. In any event, consider this a warning.
With that out of the way, a brief summary is in order. The Four Winds is the story of Elsa Martinelli, a woman of Job-like dimensions upon whom has fallen a hateful set of parents, a no-good husband, an uber-brat of a daughter, and the Great Depression itself. There are moments when it seems as though Elsa’s creator read a book about the Dust Bowl, wrote down every bad thing that ever happened to anybody, and then forced them all upon this one indomitable woman. Elsa endures this all with fortitude, equanimity, and grace, and the only real problem with Hannah’s presentation is that it felt – to me – entirely false.
To begin, I found the characters extremely simplistic. Hannah paints in bold lines, and just about everyone in this story is a type, whether it’s the Italian-Catholic mother-in-law or the handsome young labor organizer. Take, for instance, Elsa’s mom, who is so pointedly hateful she makes Cinderella’s stepmother appear reasonable. Her dad, somehow, is even worse, because he adds a bit of physical violence to his aggressive unpleasantness. The hinge of Elsa’s life is a man named Rafe, about whom we know only two things: he is Italian, and he is good looking. Nevertheless, Elsa loves him completely and relentlessly. The heart has its reasons, I suppose. And don’t get me started on Loreda, Elsa’s daughter, who apparently joined a New Deal program by which she is paid by the eye roll. Like, I get that’s she supposed to be a teenager. But also, it’s the Great Depression.
While the characters did not work for me, I understand that this is not an objective critique. Many fine tales rely on archetypes. Not every book need be an intense, Dostoevsky-like psychological excavation of the human soul. Still, the types in The Four Winds were, in my opinion, extremely bland.
Furthermore, Hannah employs a tell-not-show form of storytelling. Rather than carefully setting up a scene, letting that scene play out, and then observing the consequences, The Four Winds races pell-mell from one incident to the next. While this creates a blistering pace, it also builds zero tension, drama, or stakes. It is telling that the highpoints occur when Hannah slows down and simply describes the land. Her descriptions of the dust storms, for instance, are quite good.
I will give but one example, lest I belabor the issue. At one point, shortly after Elsa has hit the road for California, she is confronted by a vagrant intent on robbing her. The man actually grips Elsa’s throat, implying lethal danger. Then, Loreda appears with a shotgun, and the man runs off.
All of this – setup, execution, aftermath – occurs in less than two pages. Let me repeat: a life-or-death situation that arises and disappears in – according to my quick count – just 264 words. Then, Hannah caps off her “set piece” with this conclusion: “They would be changed by this, all three of them.”
By my recollection, this incident is never referenced again.
Once more, Hannah’s style is not illegitimate storytelling. Authors ask you to accept things as true all the time. But the The Four Winds goes too far, asking me to take just about everything – from Elsa’s love to Loreda’s badass turn – on faith. For me, I need a reason to believe. I need some demonstrations about the facts underlying the conclusions I am given.
This is especially true with regard to the countless moments when Hannah wanted me reaching for my hankie. To be clear, there is nothing wrong with emotional manipulation in a novel. Indeed, if a writer is not trying to manipulate my emotions – that is, if the writer is not trying to make me feel something – then there is no point reading what they have written. Here, though, being told that something sad has happened is not the same as feeling sad about it.
Perhaps the biggest problem I had with The Four Winds is that once Elsa sets off for California, it follows The Grapes of Wrath almost beat for beat. Long drive across the desert: check. Mean store owners: check. Squatter’s camp full of helpful common folk: check. A flood: check. Unfortunately, while The Grapes of Wrath felt journalistic in its detail, The Four Winds feels like a superficial and too-glossy copycat. Whereas John Steinbeck marinated you in detail and context, Hannah simplifies everything to good versus evil. Just about everyone Elsa meets in California, from a nurse who won’t help a dying woman, to a school that doesn’t want to teach Okies, is a cartoonishly villainous monster. None of these deficits are helped by leadenly expository dialogue that feels like the novelization of a U.S. history textbook for elementary schoolers. Okay, that might be a bit too harsh, but there was never a moment when I found myself thinking: this is definitely what it's like when two human beings converse.
If there is a saving grace in The Four Winds, it is Elsa herself. I give Hannah credit for trying something a bit ambitious, by centering her epic on a wallflower. Elsa’s arc, from shrinking violet to something more, gives this book its spine. There were times, I should add, that I totally believed in Elsa’s journey. The problem is that the world around her, and the people in it, all struck me as curiously lifeless cutouts. Reading this was like walking onto a studio backlot of a western town, where the facades of the buildings give the impression of a tactile reality. Upon closer inspection, though, came the realization that behind each façade, there is very little of substance.