The narrator unburdens himself to One Eye, explaining who he is, and what he isn’t: “I haven’t fought in any wars or fallen in love. If anything, the journey that comprises the book – sleeping in the car, surviving on spaghetti hoops – is an anti-odyssey, but it provides the skeletal framework for a story that uncomfortably examines social isolation. After a violent incident, the pair leave town, fearing a visit from the dog warden.īut this is no one-man-and-his dog Huck Finn-style road trip. The dog is not just company, but a complicated beast with its own demons. Too old for starting over, too young for giving up.” Man and dog live in a nameless seaside town, in a cluttered, junk-filled house, where black mould on the walls has “mushroomed into a reverse constellation”. One Eye lost his other eye badger hunting, and as the book opens is adopted by a man who hints at, but never tells us, his name, admitting, “I’m 57. Irish writer Sara Baume begins her debut novel not with the outsider who dominates it, but with the dog who becomes his sole companion. F rom Robert Grainier in Denis Johnson’s Train Dreams to Sam Marsdyke in Ross Raisin’s God’s Own Country, literature abounds with rural loners, characters whose isolation is as palpable to the reader as it is central to their own narrative.
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