The best books that exemplify my two crucial virtues in "realist" fiction: understatement and attention to detail

In both my novels I explore the cultural, almost exclusively oral history of Maine woodsmen and -women. An old man now, I knew people who worked as loggers, river drivers, and so on before the advent of power tools, electricity, or motorized hauling.

A non-writer friend told me about this book, which is concerned with the same culture across the New Brunswick border, mere miles from where my novels are set. His evocation of that arduous, raconteur-populated, dangerous world bolstered my own seat-of-the-pants knowledge and offered a wealth of specific physical detail and a sense of storytelling’s central importance in the old logging communities.

The book, then, served as a model for my own explorations of a culture whose likes we will never see again and whose preservation in words is among my own most passionate aims. 

What I admire so deeply in Ms. Robinson’s work is her capacity to tackle immense themes (from abolitionism to free will) in prose that is deliberately understated and yet stirs me deep in my soul and elicits my deep concerns for her characters, in this case, the title figure.

When I first read Robinson, I thought of B.B. King’s comment on the guitarist Johnny Winter, famous for his prolific, note-opulent solos. When asked about these tours de force, Mr. King diplomatically said, “Sometimes it’s not what you put in but what you leave out.” I know that, as primarily a poet, I can become seduced by the “lyrical” capacities of style; Robinson serves as a good check on that yen for excess and shows how presentations that might seem artless can shake the very earth.

Alice Munro is, I believe, my favorite living author (written before Alice's death on May 13, 2024). As with Marilynne Robinson, the choice of this particular collection, as opposed to others of Munro’s, verges on the arbitrary. Her capacity to render inner lives–which more often than not are quietly turbulent–seems to me matchless and she achieves her effects without straining for effect. She always seems to find the pluperfectly concise language to draw us into the small maelstroms of a character’s life. 

As one who is persistently intrigued by the way in which pasts and presents can conflict with, interfuse with, and complement a character’s view of her/himself and the ambient world, I am also much taken by Ms. Munro’s frequent recourse to achronological presentation. Her plots tend not to be that in any conventional sense of the word; things seem to happen suddenly and simply, and while these things may seem relatively trivial on the first encounter, they can explode with significance later in the narration.

I fight in my own writing against what I call the and then-and then-and then unraveling of a story, and like anyone else tempted to use that approach, I am checked by this collection–and by everything else this astounding woman has produced. Once more, I marvel at the end of any of these stories, that I can feel so immersed in the emotional lives of the characters, no matter that Munro makes no gestures in the direction of bells and whistles. It takes a truly penetrating mind to render the inner worlds of her women (and men in other instances) so economically and deftly– and thoroughly.

This book contains a pair of novellas, Reading Turgenev and My House in Umbria. While William Trevor has never to my mind written so much as a clause that’s not worth reading, Reading Turgenev is my preferred fiction here. It is a triumph of Irish realism, lyrical without any straining for effect, a heartbreaking reflection on frustrated love, and a sort of elegy for people who suffer because of that frustration. I read it for the first time in one sitting, so gripped was I by the various, quiet but soul-wrenching emotional dramas occurring, especially between the main character and her male cousin. I have gone back to it twice since and will again, I’m sure.

The novella is rife with social observation, and Trevor’s ear for telling dialect, the depiction of which never makes him sound the least condescending on the one hand or sentimental on the other, makes his achievement all the more impressive. I come from this work feeling that I know not only the human characters but also the physical and social world in which they exist as thoroughly as any author could have me know them.

One of biologist Heinrich’s books, an extended nonfiction essay, may seem an eccentric choice here, but–like other works of this writer’s–it has had a profound effect on the way I regard the natural world in northern New England, my home territory.

There are life-scientists who write well and ones who command a patent, deep knowledge of their subject matter. None comes to my mind who so magnificently combines a fine novelist’s sensitivity to language with so broad and detailed a scientific awareness as Heinrich does. And he is bold. It takes a mind and writer of his caliber, for instance, to make a thumb-sized golden-crowned kinglet the hero—and a doughty one at that, one obliged to eat thirteen times his body weight to survive subzero nights–of his study.

The particularity of Heinrich’s vision is exemplary, something that I, a writer obsessed with the ecology of the region he shares with this author, will forever strive for, though my odds of reaching his level of authority are admittedly slim.