(Note: Sorry about the photo. I checked it out from work, and they keep the dust jacket, so I snapped this picture of another copy we have. It should suffice.)
I am very torn about my
feelings toward Daniel Woodrell. I wholeheartedly agree with the consensus of
his small fan base that he is one of America’s undiscovered gems, and his prose
style is second to none, accomplishing the feat of being both polished and
humble in its execution. But I find his stories to be very weak in narrative,
like I am looking at fancified skeleton of an incomplete building, to crib a
quote from Hemingway. The first novel I read of his, The Death of Sweet Mister,
may be in my top ten, and still has the power to devastate even when I am just
reminiscing about it. Luckily, his first novel since Winter’s Bone, The Maid’s
Version is a close second to Sweet Mister, even more so than Woe To Live On. But
it still lacks a cohesive and easy-to-follow story arc, which is an important
aspect to my enjoying a novel. The plot tells of a dance hall explosion that
happened in 1929 in West Table, Missouri. The facts of the case are skewed,
cause we are told it by a man who heard it from his strange grandma, whose
sister died in the explosion that killed 42 people. They never learned who did,
whether it was mobsters, zealots, or just bad luck. But we do see many versions
of what might have happened, like a crazed preacher who was a main suspect who
meets a brutal end, or a notorious bank robber who isn’t so notorious who might
have a clue as to what might have happened. It is a little hard to follow,
since Woodrell loves to decorate with his words, leaving little else as a
driving force that can elevate the story. But it is damned pretty to look at,
and if that is enough for you to warrant a reading, check out this relatively slim
book, or any of Woodrell’s other offerings.
Rating: 4/5
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