The Last Report On The Miracles At Little No Horse: A Novel

I have to admit that I didn't finish this book. I vowed to myself, back when I slogged my way through the insufferable Anna Karenina, that I would never again finish a book just because I had started it -- and I continue to live by that standard. Still, I came very near the end, and my complaint about "The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse" could not have been repaired in the space left.

What it boils down to is this: for me, Erdrich didn't achieve a genuine internal life for all her characters. I bought the perspective of Agnes/Father Damien, but when Erdrich shifted perspectives to Berndt or Lulu or Nestor or Father Jude, I just didn't believe in them. The reason is simple. They all had the same connection to their sensations and feelings as Agnes, and that is just not feasible. All of her characters engage completely with the world around them. They all feel the textures and smell the smells and taste the tastes and hear the sounds and see beyond boring sight. One character with that gift in a story is totally believable. Two characters in a story I can understand. But more than that and I call bullshit. I have known maybe three to four people in my entire life who have a true relationship and understanding of their sensations (although I am sure there are countless more who think they do), and I just can't by an entire reservation full of folks with that ability.

It's a shame too. Erdrich is a truly poetical prose artist. I just don't believe in her characters, and that is all important to me.