Reading McCracken’s fiction, I often fall into a kind of conversation that does not happen in life, as though the characters and I have met mid-thought: no need for small talk no need to anchor ourselves in time or space. But McCracken is one of those fleet-footed writers who will never be trapped, or even reliably tracked, by aboutness. These descriptions depict the book the way I was taught to draw a bird in kindergarten: a circle for the head, an oval for the body, two triangles for the wings. This is a novel about loss and grief a novel about resilience and renewal a novel about a mother-daughter relationship a novel about writing. McCracken captures the twilight zone between consciousness and subconsciousness, where intuitions are not yet filed away, impulses not yet stifled. The world, strange in the first place, is often made stranger by our minds. The essence of her fiction: seemingly nonsensical and yet making perfect sense.
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