Oh, George Saunders

You broke self’s heart, especially with your story “The Wavemaker Falters” (from the collection CivilWarLand in Bad Decline), which was the last thing self read before falling asleep (and sleeping for the next seven hours —  yahay!):  your touching story of the husband who lies in wait behind a soda machine while the love of his life emerges from a manager’s office “looking flushed and happy.”  But even better was what happened afterwards, when your narrator confronted his wife and she said she was “going to continue no matter what,” and he then ran away to somewhere he could look at “starving pronghorns” coming down from the hills to “lick salt from the headstones” of a cemetery.  And the ending literally, literally had self crying and cheering simultaneously.

The only thing self didn’t like was the title, for she wishes it could have been simply “The Wavemaker” instead of “The Wavemaker Falters.”

The other stories (“Isabelle” and “CivilWarLand in Bad Decline”) have been pretty funny, too, and now self is reading something with a 400-pound narrator.  Naturally the story begins with an episode of epic humiliation  (Did self just write that?  Episode and Epic?  And to think she never thought she was much good at onomatopeia!)

Page 52:

Up in the sky are wild clouds that make me think of Tahiti and courageous sailors on big sinking wooden ships.  Meanwhile here’s me, a grown man with a joystick-burn on his thumb.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

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