On balance, it’s been a top-shelf year for reading (and some
re-reading), most of it centered on novels, biographies and historical books
related to—or of an era close to—a current writing project of my own.
This year’s round of reading took me through swaths of
excellent books by Mary Doria Russell (the Doc Holliday novels), Charles Portis
(all of it), Larry McMurtry and some revisited Cormac McCarthy, among others.
Crimespree Magazine, for whom I write a regular column,
recently asked for my top five reads of the year for an online feature, so that
effectively pre-empts my annual round up of same in this space.
Instead, I thought I’d expand on what I regard as my single
most enjoyable read this year.
The criminologist/singer-songwriter/painter and now essayist
gathers a stunning array of prose pieces on topics ranging from the history of
tequila, to filmmaker Monte Hellman, to Tex Ritter, to Georgia O’Keefe, to
Hemingway and the neglected novels of the aforementioned Charles Portis.
At once erudite and occasionally raucous—but always gripping—it’s
a bit like reading lyrical, deep-dive Americana pieces penned by Sam Groom’s “The
Stranger” from THE BIG LEBOWSKI.
In his introduction, Russell sums up the terrain thusly:
“These essays are my own Moveable
Feast (to borrow from Hemingway) of a time spent mostly in The West. Bill
Reynolds never altered a word, that I can recall, and also allowed your
reporter to stumble, headlong, down grammatically innocent back roads at my own
peril and pleasure, with a snorting distaste for the semi-colon. As the
legendary Anton Chekhov stated: ‘It’s not so much what I have see as how I
have seen it.’ The job.”
You don’t have to know Russell’s music to gulp down or savor
these essays as they’re presented.
This is an author who has a particularly lyrical way with
words who is writing about his passions and sharing his own lifetime’s earned wisdom on the subject of the
West, art and the often unexpected or previously unexplored intersections
between.
A sample: “In the early 1960s Johnny Cash used to roam out
here, kicking at cow skulls and digging up old bottles and bones — communing
with the desert spirits. Talking to
himself. Something was gnawing at him. What happened to the old-time
cowboys and prospectors? Where had the Old West gone? The Indians who’d painted
on these cave walls? What was their story? Johnny was acrawl with nerves back then. Fidgety. Restless. He’d trek deep
into the Western outback. Disappearing for days. Hearing voices. Talking to the
ghosts inside his skull.” — excerpt from the essay, “Bitter Tears & Mean as
Hell: Johnny Cash in the Wild West”
Highly recommended, and a book I’m sure I’ll be dipping back
into, often, in the coming New Year.
—Craig McDonald
Dec. 22, 2016
(& a hearty Merry Christmas!)
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