more proof that christine schutt should be read

Christine Schutt's newest, All Souls, did little for me beyond packing in a few wowwy phrases, but for some reason I still reserved her Florida and checked it out. I'm insanely glad I did. It is far and away one of the most beautiful books I've read in a long, long time. Blindingly great. So great, in fact, I guess I'll have to quote it two times in as many days.

Something else I never told Aunt Frances or Uncle Billy, how outside the Big House, down the hill of stone steps to the boathouse where the boats hung by chains under canvas drapery, near to where the pier was piled up and also covered against the snow, at the lookout of the prickly cedars, I saw, I saw a car fall through the ice. I saw the ice crack and steeple. I saw the back of the car sink. 'Help! help!' I was calling despite no one near enough to hear me. The ice was thunking open and taking the car down fast, talking: small sounds from the car, the ice sounding, awe, awe. I made my own noises moving backward, hand to my heart, heel in old snow. I was afraid to run.

In the spring there might have been talk of raising the car, but I never heard it. I lived in the bliss of mystery. I was allowed.