Imagine this classic switched-at-birth situation (names and time periods ignored): The director of “Twister” picks up the script for “Inception.” On day one of filming, the A.D. pleads “But boss, this seams to be a film about dreams-inside-of-dreams-inside-of-dreams” and the prideful director, refusing to own up to the clearly near-sighted mistake replies “Nope! It’s a tornado movie! ROLE CAMERA!” [For realsies, the calls to my mother and moments shared with my cat whilst inside this beautiful, exhausting, exhaustive maelstrom were more the precious to me, though COMPLETELY unexplainable to them.]— From Ian McCord
Baking a multitude of tartes tatins for local restaurants, an Ohio housewife contemplates her four kids, husband, cats and chickens. Also, America's ignoble past, and her own regrets. She is surrounded by dead lakes, fake facts, Open Carry maniacs, and oodles of online advice about survivalism, veil toss duties, and how to be more like Jane Fonda. But what do you do when you keep stepping on your son's toy tractors, your life depends on stolen land and broken treaties, and nobody helps you when you get a flat tire on the interstate, not even the Abominable Snowman? When are you allowed to start swearing?
With a torrent of consciousness and an intoxicating coziness, Ducks, Newburyport lays out a whole world for you to tramp around in, by turns frightening and funny. A heart-rending indictment of America's barbarity, and a lament for the way we are blundering into environmental disaster, this book is both heresy--and a revolution in the novel.