As they drove west into the sunset, the dusk seemed to linger on the horizon for much longer than it should. All across Noah's line of sight a pale orange merged into yellow and then blue and then dark, but it seemed to take forever. He felt a sort of cognitive dissonance because for a brief moment it was as if the sun was unsetting itself. He realized that the dusk lingered, not of its own will, but because in a sense he was chasing it.

He'd seen thousands of these Arizona sunsets but on this open stretch of Highway 191, on this Friday night, it caused him to speed up...65, 70, 80, 90 miles per hour until it seemed like he drew out the process an hour longer than it should have lasted. Gabby didn't comment on the speeding. In fact, she and Noah remained silent for most of the hour. And when the dark finally won out, about 30 miles outside Flagstaff, only then did they resume conversation.

Indian Killer

I just finished Sherman Alexie's Indian Killer and am stunned by this lackluster effort. I've read two of his short story collections, Tonto and the Lone Ranger Fistfight in Heaven and Ten Little Indians, and found them both entertaining and innovative in construction. And so it pains me to write negative things about Alexie. He's an easy guy to root for and abundantly talented. But, Indian Killer finds Alexie mired in a permeating hatred that deprives his characters of depth and interest. The point of view oscillates amongst a vast cast of characters, providing snippets of insight into their lives without fully developing any one of them. The white characters are stereotypical to the point of caricature. They are buffoons, violent, stupid, wooden, set pieces in a war against five hundred years of oppression and violence. Certainly Alexie's poor development of white characters provides a greater commentary about the pitiable state of mainstream American culture in general, but in doing so he makes these characters uninteresting to the reader. If you have a novel full of Rush Limbaughs and racist rednecks or bleeding heart Indian wannabes, it might make for entertaining plot twists. It might provide a satisfying piece of genre fiction. It might even make one hell of a movie. But, it does not leave much room for the pleasurable textures of literary fiction.


The book at large is riddled with ultra convenient plot developments that come off as contrived, sloppy, and perhaps worst of all, just plain lazy. The dialogue is another lowlight. Many of the conversations sound awkward and sometimes unbelievable. For such a respected author, a torchbearer for the second wave of the Native American literature renaissance, the lack of effort evident in this novel is, at times, shocking. And speaking as a fan of Alexie's, I find myself disheartened and hurt.

The Double Dream of Spring

I gotta start by saying I miss you. And I love you. And sorry ‘bout last year. I thought it would be nice to give you back your knife as a present. You always did like the detailing on the pearl handle. I thought maybe you could use it wherever you are, but after I buried it things got tough. They only send your pension checks once a month, and they ain’t much. Momma can’t pay a thing with the money she’s got, and me and Lelen needed to eat. You should of heard Momma carrying on while we were in the pawn shop.
She says, ‘Now, Gabby, how you gonna go and give a dead man a birthday present and then pawn it off. That just about makes you the biggest Indian giver in the world.’
And boy was I embarrassed in front of the man at the pawn shop. And maybe she was right, but I bought formula and diapers and a quart of rum with the money I got from it, and you know, I don’t regret it cause I know you woulda been okay with it. And Momma was okay with it too once she got a couple snuffs of the booze in her.
You’re probably looking down on me right now, and you see I got something here with me, so I’ll just go ahead and come out with it. I’ll never be able to replace that knife, but I got you another present, and I promise I ain’t gonna go and dig this one back up. Partly because it doesn’t have any re-sale value, but mostly cause I think you’ll like it more than that knife anyway. It’s a book of poems called the ‘Double Dream of Spring,’ and it’s by Ashbery. I know you always liked him, so before I leave here today, I’m gonna take a shovel and bury it real deep next you, so you don’t have far to reach for it.
I bought it at that place in Flag we went to when you first moved out here. Momma and I took the bus over there a couple days ago, and boy, that store hasn’t changed a bit. I was poking around through the poetry section when this younger guy says from behind the counter, ‘Excuse me, m’am. Do you need any assistance?’ Just like that. In that snooty damn voice they always use when talking to us. And you know how those businessmen are anyways. It’s the same old story, they either act like we’re stealing or they try to rip us off, and this one was no different. He was eyeballing me and Momma and Lelen from the moment when we walked in. One hand on the phone to call the cops and one hand on the cash register. He was wearing this sweater vest and tight little plaid pants, and I swear, he was just about as obviously queer as you can get in this world. And so I says to him. ‘Yes, young man. I’m looking for a book a poetry by this guy, but I can’t remember his name. I’m hoping you can help me out.”
He kind of relaxed and then says real condescendingly, “You’ll have to be more specific than that, m’am. We’ve got hundreds of books of poetry here.”
And I start poring over the books pretending to try and remember Ashbery’s name. I say ‘well, it’s just on the tip of my tongue. It’s Ashley, or Adeli, or Audenberry…” And the clerk just keeps staring at me real annoyed like, and I go ‘Oh, hell I don’t know. He’s a big queer and he’s real into surrealism.”
Boy, did that grab his attention fast. He darted over and says, “We don’t tolerate that kind of language in here.”
I look at him all innocent and said, “Well, hell, I was just trying to be specific.”