The Only Harmless Great Thing

I knew I'd love The Only Harmless Great Thing before I bought it because I have knelt before Brooke Bolander's prose many times before and cooled my hot head beneath its flowing language. What I didn't know is that I'd want to hug her heroes and interlace my fingers with theirs as they raised their fists (or what have you) to strike at things miles wider than themselves. Things that very much deserve to be struck. Yesterday, I peeled open the electric cover, read this book around work and around life, and resented the hell out of every interuption that came my way.

Coming to a new Bolander piece, the mind has to wade in slowly. It has to pause sentence by half-sentence to translate a work of English-as-we-wish-it-would-be into the English we use over countertops and through car windows. As she overthrows clich??d phrases again and again, she reminds us how large life truly is and how we fail as thinkers to make the connections that would open up worlds to us.

Should we thank our publishers above who know enough to deliver her verbal delicacies to us like events on some secret holiday schedule of need? Or should we curse our culture because life in general isn't written like this? (Just imagine an existence of Bolander-scribed street signs and vacuum cleaner directions! sigh) We should do both. Be thankful for what work of hers we get, and shout at life for always leaving us wanting more.