Volt by Alan Heathcock
My rating: 4/5 cats
what i am finding i like the most about these tales of the downtrodden in appalachia are their range of expression. this one falls in between the explosive, gratuitous (in a great way) violence of Crimes in Southern Indiana: Stories and the almost severe restraint and quietude of In the Devil’s Territory. they are stories of strict realism, told dispassionately, but not without emotional appeal, if that makes sense.
and before anyone squawks, for me, “appalachia” is a state of mind and a mode of delivery rather than a specific location, which is completely arbitrary of me, but ppbblltt.i am not exactly sure where “krafton” is, except “west” somewhere, so it might not be technically, geographically, appalachia proper. but to me, appalachian lit is that which takes place in that unsung “america” whose denizens have slipped through the cracks in one way or another, and live small-town, insular lives, concerned with the realities of the day-to-day struggle, living on their own terms, autonomous from the country that has all but forgotten it, where there is struggle and fortitude and suffering, and the hardscrabble old-testament practicality that comes from this romantic underclass. and while this is not technically always appalachia, it is as convenient a term as any to describe that body of literature that emerges. for me, it is a transition from my early love of thomas hardy, my late-teen love of steinbeck, my early twenties discovery of cormac mccarthy, and my last-ten years affection for Winesburg, Ohio.
i am loose with my terms.
this neo-appalachia trend is, for me, noteworthy because of its characters. people responding to situations, invoking a situational morality, not unsophisticated, but definitely inward-turning, unsentimental, earthy. it’s a tonal thing; you either see it or you don’t.
but enough about that, on to the actual book. these stories all take place in the fictional town of krafton, and are explorations of loss and loyalty, specifically about the things we will do for family and for justice.
there is a lot of death in this book, but it is not the showy, cinematic kind. it is quiet and unsentimental. people die from accidents, murders, accidental manslaughter, war, and acts of god. god is definitely a presence in this book, although frequently a presence-by-absence.
as one character meditates,
Maybe awful things is how God speaks to us. …trudging up the lightless tunnel. Maybe folks don’t trust in good things anymore. Maybe awful things are all God’s got to tell us he’s alive.
helen farraley becomes the town’s substitute God, as krafton’s “first and only law officer.” she appears in a couple of stories, she sees people at their most broken, and she administers justice or compassion accordingly. she gets the last word in the collection, and she uses the opportunity well.
this is a book that more people should read, a little like like mccarthy, but with less emphasis on the beautiful and jarring possibilities of language.
there are only eight stories here, which gives heathcock the opportunity to really explore the town and the interactions of its inhabitants, giving a sense of the collective mindset of the
people, but naturally, i would like more. i am a greedy monkey when i find an author that does what i like well.
if this makes no sense, blame nyquil. i am.
