What to say, really? Everett is a complex and strange master for our complex and strange, so-called ‘modern’ landscape. He always manages subtle and sometimes misleading stories and conversations about human proclivities, about race, about society, without ever letting them obnoxiously and lazily take over the stage. He always seems to have a more meaningful game at play, masterminded behind a never-ending series of stage curtains.
If nothing else Everett should always be read to experience something I can only think to call his confidence, an ephemeral talent for touch and tone, a hand at the small of your back, guiding you, with intentions always unclear–you might be set down for a warm meal, or shot and left gasping in a shallow river. Every footstep feels muddy, uncertain, superbly ambiguous, always unsettling. Everett always finds ways of reminding me as a reader to work against my own complacency. The author is not always your friend. By the end of this one, you’re going to adore the title and spend the hours after finishing it haloed by afterimages, aftershocks, ghost presences burned into your peripheral vision.
Graywolf Press has the Midas Touch as of late. They can do no wrong.