Before I can review Mark Spragg’s
new novel, The Fruit of Stone, I need to perform
an exorcism — of a New York Times book
review by a guy named Jonathan Miles, whose credentials include
Books Columnist for Men’s Journal (one of those magazines
that show men how to spend an hour in a fitness club doing what
real cowboys do 12 hours a day). Here’s a taste of
Miles’ sarcasm: “The light must really be something in Mark
Spragg’s Wyoming. Whether tinting ‘the air an apple
green,’ seeming to ‘grind against the shadows’ or
falling ‘bronzed and buttery on the endless sweep of
grazeland,’ or whether coming as ‘feathers,’ a
‘slap’ or a ‘soft throw,’ it exerts a
mighty influence on the people it illuminates.” Get your head out
of your palm pilot, Miles, and stick it out the window.
There’s a lot of light west of Yonkers — and few know
it better than Mark Spragg.
He is a master of writing
about light. And emotions. And hard friendships. And harder love.
He should be. Spragg is a man (not a guy) who grew up working 12
hours a day at ranching, real ranching.
Their story runs
like a hard back road: gorgeous and tricky, held in light that
“grinds against the shadows” — the light of the Real West.
Spragg continues to honor the gifts he demonstrated in his essay
collection, Where Rivers Change Direction. And we are the lucky
recipients.
The Fruit of Stone, Mark
Spragg, Riverhead Books. 2002. 287 pages. Hardcover:
$24.95.
This article appeared in the print edition of the magazine with the headline Light and love in Wyoming.
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