The Story of Edgar Sawtelle
by David Wroblewski
From the Jacket
Born mute, speaking only in sign, Edgar Sawtelle leads an idyllic life with his parents on their farm in remote northern Wisconsin. For generations, the Sawtelles have raised and trained a fictional breed of dog whose thoughtful companionship is epitomized by Almondine, Edgar's lifelong friend and ally. But with the unexpected return of Claude, Edgar's paternal uncle, turmoil consumes the Sawtelles' once peaceful home. When Edgar's father dies suddenly, Claude insinuates himself into the life of the farm—and into Edgar's mother's affections.
Grief-stricken and bewildered, Edgar tries to prove Claude played a role in his father's death, but his plan backfires—spectacularly. Forced to flee into the vast wilderness lying beyond the farm, Edgar comes of age in the wild, fighting for his survival and that of the three yearling dogs who follow him. But his need to face his father's murderer and his devotion to the Sawtelle dogs turn Edgar ever homeward.
First Sentence:
A Handful of Leaves
In the year 1919, Edgar's grandfather, who was born with an extra share of whimsy, bought their land and all the buildings on it from a man he'd never met, a man named Schultz, who in his turn had walked away from a logging team half a decade earlier after seeing the chains on a fully loaded timber sled let go. Twenty tons of rolling maple buried a man where Schultz had stood the moment before.
Edgar Sawtelle... where do I begin??
This book is 566 pages of dare-I-say life changing fiction. After months in the top five best-sellers list, I'm sure there are a plethora of reviews out there, better and more efficient than anything I could write. So instead, I'll focus on my impressions.
I'll admit, the size of this hard-cover edition is intimidating. This is a monster of a book and I'm reminded of the movie 'Wonder Boys', in which, near the end, Micheal Douglas's author character Grady Tripp confesses that his novel exceeded one thousand pages because he 'just couldn't stop'. In the beginning, I felt that like Grady Tripp, Wroblewski also meandered excessively, included more than was necessary regarding the history of the land and the in-depth exploration of Edgar's parents and grandparents. Edgar isn't even born until page 30. Still more chapters as he grows and learns to communicate. And all of it is lovely, stunning, moving prose.
But Edgar's father doesn't die until page 122 and a full 200 pages later, he sets out on his own. To shrink this story down to a one line summary of: "After his father's death, a mute boy runs into the woods to live with three dogs"--the blurb accompanying the title in the best-seller charts--is setting some readers up for failure. There is much, MUCH more to this story. This is a book to sink your teeth in, to become immersed in, to savor and enjoy and get lost with. The characters speak to you, the landscapes leap off the pages.
And the dogs.
Wroblewski claimed he wrote the book he wanted to read, a story about a boy and his dog. This is the book I want to write, and loved reading. The kennel of Sawtelle dogs is perhaps the heart of this entire story. These dogs have been crafted with care and respect and honesty and romance, at the same time being both just dogs and so much more.
Perfection is this:
This will be his earliest memory.
Red lights, morning light. High ceiling canted overhead. Lazy click of toenails on wood. Between the honey-colored slats of the crib a whiskery muzzle slides forward until its cheeks pull back and a row of dainty front teeth bare themselves in a ridiculous grin.
The nose quivers. The velvet snout dimples.
All the house is quiet. Be still. Stay still.
Fine, dark muzzle fur. Black nose, leather of lacework creases, comma of nostrils flexing with each breath. A breeze sushes up the field and pillows the curtains inward. The apple tree near the kitchen window caresses the house with a tick-tickety-tick-tick. As slowly as he can, he exhales, feigning sleep, but despite himself his breath hitches. At once, the muzzle knows he is awake. It snorts. Angles left and right. Withdraws. Outside the crib, Almondine's forequarters appear. Her head is reared back, her ears cocked forward.
A cherry-brindled eye peers back at him.
Whoosh of her tail.
Be still. Stay still.
The muzzle comes hunting again, tunnels beneath his blanket, below the farmers and pigs and chicks and cows dyed into that cotton world. His hand rises on fingers and spider-walks across the surprised farmyard residents to challenge the intruder. It becomes a bird, hovering before their eyes. Thumb and index fingers squeeze the crinkled black nose. The pink of her tongue darts out but the bird flies away before Almondine can lick it. Her tail is switching harder now. Her body sways, her breath envelopes him. He tugs the blackest whisker on her chin and this time her tongue catches the palm of his hand ever so slightly. He pitches to his side, rubs his hand across the blanket, blows a breath in her face. Her ears flick back. She stomps a foot. He blows again and she withdraws and bows and woofs, low in her chest, quiet and deep, the boom of an uncontainable heartbeat. Hearing it, he forgets and presses his face against the rails to see her, all of her, take her inside him with his eyes, and before he can move, she smears her tongue across his nose and forehead! He claps a hand to her face but it's too late--she's away, spinning, biting her tail, dancing in the moted sunlight that spills through the window glass.
My heart hurts when I read this passage, hurts with fondness and love and echoes of my own childhood memories, growing up in a family where dogs were integral and natural. Words cannot describe the power of this book... the total immersion as the words draw you in and swirl around you, the images that are so real you'll swear you've watched a movie. But better. Way better.
Edgar Sawtelle is an experience. It wouldn't surprise me if a movie follows, and while I will probably watch it, I know right now that it won't measure up. There is no way to capture all the subtleties, and to try--to bludgeon these nuances into obviousness, or to try and hack away the backstory or filler scenes--would destroy the very essence of Edgar Sawtelle. This book is a masterpiece, a complete world that will linger long after the cover is closed.
(And all that stuff I said before, about the seemingly needless and excessive backstory? Without it, the later events wouldn't be nearly as powerful.)
Five strong stars out of five
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