I do not really understand this book. I wish I did because I admire Barry Lopez greatly.
Eleven short stories, seemingly interconnected and sounding narrowly autobiographical at the levels of touch, sight and sense, present characters who share ways of life on an unnamed Pacific Northwest river but are separated from one another by their psychology and their flaws. Even when nature runs amok, with fire and flood, the human beings, so conflicted, so easily thwarted, show up poorly against Lopez's depictions of the natural world. Nevertheless, together they make a kind of unintended community, begrudgingly responsible for one another.
For the reader, experiencing this book is walking a thin line, half in and half out, between fiction and nonfiction. The prose is quite specific, yet somehow, you don't know where you are. These characters are not people we identify with, in the literary sense. Partly, we recognize them as archetypes, symbolic, even allegorical. They teach (us, themselves) lessons. They experience the landscape spiritually and materially. One is deeply callous while another is wracked with guilt about the necessary ego involved in creating any sort of art. Readers can't help guessing that Lopez is talking about writing, about his craft. At the same time, the characters' choices often seem so wack, so out of keeping with what a reasonable person might do in a similar situation, it is difficult to see oneself in them. They are one thing and another.
Lopez has a new book out, Horizon. Before I read it I wanted to re-connect with Lopez's work by reading one his older efforts. I have read a good deal of this material already. It's been a minute, though. Hence this choice.