no. 2

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lobal warming is really getting on my nerves. Here at Powell's we relish our sodden, Oregon winters. The incessant, gloomy drizzle not only keeps tanned, optimistic Californians out, but, well, it keeps us just where we like to be, pleasantly downcast and dejected. To an Oregonian, nothing spells comfort like gray skies, soggy socks, and a lingering bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder. But this year everything's gone terribly wrong. The weather's been so infernally pleasant – sunny even! – I've hardly opened my umbrella, let alone my bottle of Prozac. Are greenhouse gases really to blame? Who's to say. But at least my colleagues and I have discovered a remedy for that unwanted bounce in our step. I don't know why it took so long. The solution should have been obvious. Who has more experience battling the harmful effects of blue sky than the inhabitants of the Sun Belt? It's no mistake southern literature is so dark and disturbed. The poor souls need something to counter all that insufferable sun. So for the past few months my coworkers and I have been reading nothing but tortured southerners. And though the mood in the lunch room has been about as friendly as a Snopes family picnic, at least we've stopped pining for our light boxes. The current favorite among my colleagues is a bit of a surprise. It's not Flannery O'Connor or William Faulkner as you might expect, but a newcomer, William Gay. Though Gay is an aging carpenter who started publishing novels late in life, he's rapidly made up for lost time. His recently released second novel has already solidified his reputation as one of the best living writers of southern gothic. The title, Provinces of Night, is a phrase from Cormac McCarthy's Child of God. If that doesn't tell you everything you need to know (see below), the tone of the novel's first sentence should: "The dozer took the first cut out of the claybank below Hixson's old place promptly at seven o'clock and by nine the sun was well up in an absolutely cloudless sky and it hung over the ravaged earth like a malediction." Gay's characters have names like Fleming Bloodworth, Raven Lee, and Itchy Mama; they are driven by jealousy and ancestral blood-ties; they put hexes on people from their mamma's porches; they wither as they age; and they die unpleasant deaths. Gay's pitch-perfect portrayal of southern dysfunction will cure most any festive mood and send its reader straight for that aging bottle of sour mash languishing amongst the roach droppings under the sink. For many of my coworkers, reading William Gay has been more than sufficient to cure that infectious smile. But for an unfortunate few, those facing a particularly virulent case of good spirits, Gay just hasn't been up to the task. These sufferers need stronger medicine. William Gay quotes Cormac McCarthy. Why not just take him undiluted? Now, Cormac McCarthy has written a number of truly devastating works. Blood Meridian, for example, is savage to the core, and The Crossing is unbearably sad. But when what you really need is a relentless five hundred page tour through despair, stupidity, and depression, Suttree is your ticket home. This novel about the miserable life of Cornelius Suttree, who trades in his priveledged pedigree for a position in Knoxville's community of outcasts, will take you weeks to get through. When you're done, you'll be emotionally exhausted. Your thoughts will be so consumed with wonder that any of us manage to suffer through each anguished day you won't even notice those birds chirping joyfully in the branches overhead. While we're sampling passages, here's one pulled at random from Suttree: "He was enamored of the night and those quiet regions on the city's inward edges too dismal for dwelling. Down alleyways of flueblack brick. Through a gate unhinged to a garden of gloom" After twenty hours of that, you won't even be able to get out of bed in the morning. The only problem with Suttree is the undeniable fact that in parts it is hilariously funny. Gene Harrogate, Suttree's semi-moronic, melon-humping protégé, is the funniest literary character this side of Evelyn Waugh. You will undoubtedly chuckle for days after he tries to get rich killing bats. But don't let that deter you. Just as a shot of bourbon will damage your liver with or without the cherry garnish, Suttree will send you, global warming be damned, straight into a despondent funk. I can't recommend this novel highly enough. —Carlisle