"Plain Language" is rich with all the beautiful things that make the novel my favorite form: a small story that personalizes a sweeping historical (or current) issue/event, a probing exploration of relationships, questions of meaning in human struggle, and stunning descriptions of setting. I was moved by the straightforward look at the harsh realities and softer mysteries that make marriage a unique partnership. Virginia and Alfred are different in their beliefs, yet alike in their no-nonsense views of the world. I loved watching them join, separate, and join again, and seeing their conjoined life from both viewpoints. The significance of forgiveness was poignant.
I also loved learning about the dust bowl in Colorado, and about the Quaker religion. I thought Quakerism was a perfect match for the starkness of the landscape. Author Barbara Wright showed me the subtle beauty of the prairie, something I'll admit I typically overlook. I appreciated the way she kept reminding me of the constant dust and wind, which kept me alert to the precariousness of the couple's situation and heightened the dramatic tension. I was so impressed that I read these two passages aloud to my husband:
"He always watched for rain, hoped for it, prayed for it, knowing full well it never came at the right time or in the right amount. It came down too hard, in the form of hail, or in vertical spears that washed out roads and ran off the pastures without soaking in. It came too early or too late. More recently, it didn't come at all."
AND
"The wind blew every day on the prairie, and Virginia soon became accustomed to its background noise, which sometimes resembled a hum, or sometimes a moan or a howl, and other times the gunning of a motor. The ill-fitting windows rattled like dancing bones and admitted enough dust into the house to form ripples in the floor if left unattended. This was not the light fluff that formed dust kittens under furniture and that, at the slightest gust, floated across the room on a cushion of air. No, this dust was more like pulverized glass, and it blasted the paint off buildings, scoured the color from license plates, and drew blood when it collided with bare skin."
In its way, "Plain Language" wasn't so much plain as it was downright poetic.