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Here is an account of a few years in the life of Quoyle, born in Brooklyn and raised in a shuffle of dreary upstate towns.”

It happens in Newfoundland, a place of water, moisture, and rottenness, of words that travel long distances, a place for people who know everything about boats, cliffs and icebergs. No, this one is not without its problems--this is not Graham Greene, it is not Toni Morrison, it is not Geoffrey Eugenides, after all. Alas, it suffers from similar ailments shared by other Pulitzer winners: it is, at times, a tad too superficial ("A Visit from the Goon Squad"); somewhat dull-ish, small, insignificantish ("Breathing Lessons"); dense ("American Pastoral") or even a little too long, overdone (sorry--"Loneseome Dove"). & it is thoroughly enjoyable, too. (Which is NEVER a detractor from the overall experience.) He fell into newspapering by dawdling over greasy saucisson and a piece of bread. The bread was good, made without yeast, risen on its own fermenting flesh and baked in Partridge's outdoor oven. Partridge's yard smelled of burnt cornmeal, grass clippings, bread steam. Why we're going, the raw materials," Partridge said. "Wine, ripe tomatillos, alligator pears." He poured fumé blanc, then told Quoyle that really it was for love, not vegetables. Naw," said Partridge. "Rub the ink with hot salt and talcum powder. Then wash them again, put a cup of bleach in."

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He got in the habit of walking around the trailer and asking aloud, "Who knows?" He said, "Who knows?" For no one knew. He meant, anything could happen. His friend did not smile. Was on the job. Read for a few seconds, lifted his face to the fluorescent light. "Edna was in she'd shred this. Al saw it he'd tell Punch to get rid of you. You got to rewrite this. Here, sit down. Show you what's wrong. They say reporters can be made out of anything. You'll be a test case." Not very snappy, no style, and still too long," said Partridge, "but going in the right direction. Get the idea? Get the sense of what's news? What you want in the lead? Here, see what you can do. Put some spin on it." This book is revolutionary in it's use of language. She punctuates inventively and her punctuation "style" gives her sentences a strange movement. The book moves, it actually moves, as you read it.

In an important passage, Quoyle's colleague Billy gives him a metaphor for the schema for a man's life: "Ar, that? Let's see. Used to say there were four women in every man's heart. The Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stouthearted Woman, the Tall and Quiet Woman." (p. 182). While I have a hard time relating that to my own experience, it definitely correlates directly to Quoyle. The Tall and Quiet Woman is clearly the wonderful Wavey (!) and the story of she and Quoyle is another wonderful highlight to this charming book. I was enthralled with the people I met while reading and when this family saga ended - of loves lost and found; of careers begun, stalled, and begun again; of friendships and warmth and caring; of dark times and sad times and cruel times and joyful times – when it all came to an end, I felt I would give anything for a few more (like 10 or 20) chapters, even though the ending is perfect. Parents die, wife dies, aunt shows up out of nowhere and whisks the whole aimless uninteresting lot of them off to a dreary remote end-of-nowhere town in Newfoundland.

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Quoyle nodded, hand over chin, If Partridge suggested he leap from a bridge he would at least lean on the rail. The advice of a friend. a babysitter "doing overtime in a trance of electronic color and simulated life, smoking cigarettes and not wondering. The floor around her strewn with hairless dolls."

Quoyle said he would try it. His voice wavered. Partridge was astonished to see the heavy man's colorless eyes enlarged with tears. For Quoyle was a failure at loneliness, yearned to be gregarious, to know his company was a pleasure to others. The aunt in her woolen coat when Quoyle came into the motel room. Tin profile with a glass eye. A bundle on the floor under the window. Wrapped in a bed sheet, tied with net twine." It might be that some shade of humour and likability may edge it’s way between the covers after the man starts the job after which the book is named. I am just not sure it is worth the slog as so far the only enjoyable part of the book has been the knot work quotes at the start of each chapter. This is my first Proulx, so I didn't know if the unusual writing style is typical, or specially chosen for this particular story. I hope it's the latter, as it works very well. There are a few innovative aspects to the text itself, the names and the grammar. Annie Proulx comes up with some of the most original names I have ever seen (Tert Card! Bunny! Partridge!) and this helps make the text more memorable and fun. The staccato sentence structure where she often drops the subject is a clever way of dropping us into a pseudo-interior dialog inside Quoyle's head. These two features give a unique dynamic to Proulx's writing.I think one weakness is that the mother of the girls is too horrible, and the manner of her departure from their lives stretched my credulity somewhat.