![]() ![]() “Somewhere, in some medical waste bin back in Saskatoon, there was a computer chip that knew it was a road. ![]() “Being a road wasn’t so bad, once he got used to it.” Pinsker’s narrative voice is quiet and enchanting, with laid-back writing offsetting strange flights of fancy - there’s a prosthetic arm that thinks itself a stretch of a Colorado highway ( “A Stretch of Highway Two Lanes Wide”), and dream children coming out of the ocean ( “And We Were Left Darkling”). ![]() And it all somehow works, making the collection seem quite cohesive and a real whole built out of stories as building blocks. ![]() Pinsker’s stories, at least the ones in this collection (a smallish sample of her generous short stories output, apparently), for all their variety seem to center a lot on music (apparently besides being a writer, she is also a musician) and memory, the two motifs most prominent in most of them, told through the filter of melancholy and contemplation. But then a few stories in, when I got into Pinsker’s writing rhythm and the peculiarities of her storytelling I realized how much I was enjoying this book. Her writing is really good, but something about the way she tells her stories - almost vignette-like at times, often leaving you hanging just at that moment when you want and need more - was initially holding me back from loving it. I’ll be honest - it took me a little while. By the end of this story collection I realized that Sarah Pinsker’s writing has grown on me. ![]()
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