i finished this today, lived with it for three days. this book was an odd comfort, the way he wrote made you a witness, his detail was exact, using all the senses. mostly an uncomfortable witness. there was a hollow in me through most of the book. he told his stories and left out things that you put in, the details being clues, the pauses, the stares of characters.
     the richness was in the landscape, the clothes and mannerisms of the folks, mountain and townsfolk, bitter people and dumb kind people.. this was the loudest hum of quiet i had encountered since reading carver and denis johnson's Jesus' Son. these stories colored my days during and after it. i felt unsure and bothered, worried and sad for people. this is the sort of book you take with you if you were going to spend a few days on a drunk in a hotel room in the tenderloin in san francisco or, say, bakersfield.
     and here i am empty handed and open hearted knowing that i will not have anything more by pancake to satisfy the void. he shot himself, mouthwise on a shotgun...i think he was 27.