I stayed up too late to finish Bucking the Sun tonight. Once I got close, I had to finish it out if for no other reason to hear the solution to this uncertainty that has developed over so many pages. And though some of the detached, separated scenes were a bit confusing, I was impressed overall with the subtle characterization and the beautiful use of language.
So good. I love a good book. I really do. And though the mysterious relationship was rather plain to me, I was thrilled by the surprise of who was actually in the truck at the end. A good twist. Better, though, is the writing.
We're here right now: Some certain morning, August freshly onto the calendar and the sun-count ever so slightly farther from solstice and toward equinox, you step into the day and the air carries the first minty trace of a turning season. Only a hint, cool and astringent and brief, then the summer sun asserts itself. But from then on, you can never quite put it out of your mind that autumn has been heard from. (101)
The communist in me likes this: But those who put their hands to the work ought to own that work, Owen. That's flat basic. That's the meaning of the movement" (367).