The narrator, by contrast, tends to be all swooning sensitivity, imagining people in their homes “reading, sleeping, fucking, crying, watching television” as she drives by night across Arkansas. Their awkward questions about refugees and the brutality of US history add energy to the wandering narrative, as do the regular bouts of marital spite, with the narrator’s husband portrayed as a pretentious blowhard who winds her up even in his sleep, “so calm in his nasty, guiltless dreams”. There’s pathos here, but maybe not quite how Luiselli intends With her husband, a soundscape artist on his own quest to retrace the steps of the last Native Americans conquered by European settlers, she sets off with their two children from past relationships, a 10-year-old son (his) and a five-year-old daughter (hers).
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