Crows over the Wheatfield: A Novel

Crows over the Wheatfield: A Novel

by Adam Braver

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Driving home at dusk, Claire Andrews, an art history professor at a prestigious New England university, accidentally strikes and kills a boy. Though immediately cleared of blame, she is nonetheless left psychologically devastated and haunted by the accident's consequences. Meanwhile Claire wrestles with her study of Vincent van Gogh's Crows over the Wheatfield<


Driving home at dusk, Claire Andrews, an art history professor at a prestigious New England university, accidentally strikes and kills a boy. Though immediately cleared of blame, she is nonetheless left psychologically devastated and haunted by the accident's consequences. Meanwhile Claire wrestles with her study of Vincent van Gogh's Crows over the Wheatfield and the painting's mysterious relationship to its creator's untimely death. As worrisome parallels between the suicidal artist's life and her own begin to emerge, she'll have to reconcile herself to her past to become whole again . . . or surrender to the darkness that is enveloping her.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Van Gogh scholar Claire Andrews strikes a young boy while driving home and kills him instantly. Though she could do little to prevent the accident, Claire faces intense guilt, as well as a high-publicity, slanderous lawsuit pushed by the boy's grandfather, former city attorney Fletcher Kennealy. Claire's estranged husband, Richard, moves in to help her through the ordeal, as Claire struggles to complete a career-crucial monograph on Crows over the Wheat Field and its connection to Van Gogh's suicide. Claire quickly goes on sabbatical to Auvers-sur-Oise, the Mediterranean town where Van Gogh ended his life. There, she uncovers surprising new insights into Van Gogh and his already well-studied friendship with Dr. Paul-Ferdinand Gachet, physician, art collector, and amateur painter (and, natch, discovers parallels between Van Gogh's life and her own). Over-the-top prose ("Claire felt the dramatic irony of hope, looking into those pure eyes, knowing that heartbreak, disappointment, and affected and unaffected tragedy lie just beyond the door"), a plodding pace and a too-fast denouement can't quite kill this second novel from Braver (Divine Sarah), who gets Claire's feelings right and offers up a nice look at Van Gogh's last years to boot. (June) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A second's inattention changes the shape of a woman's life. Claire Andrews is a well-respected van Gogh scholar and newly single university professor. Her life has a predictable pattern: teaching, researching, socializing with a few close friends. If she isn't exactly going through the motions, she is at the very least treading a well-worn path, but after she strikes and kills a young boy with her car, the comfortable order of her world is permanently altered. Perhaps more disorienting than the accident itself are the responses it elicits. Claire's university, anxious about bad publicity, wishes her to take a leave; her neighbors cannot meet her eye; and the boy's family sues for wrongful death. In the midst of her trauma, Claire finds two bright spots: her estranged husband's unexpectedly loyal response to her grief; and her own newfound curiosity about the last days of van Gogh's life when he painted Crows Over the Wheatfield. Braver's novel moves between Claire's struggle to cope with the disintegration of her personal life in the wake of the accident, and a research trip to France during which she discovers new information about van Gogh. In both narratives, Claire is attuned to the significance of single moments in which the world and our perceptions of it can change in momentous and irreversible ways. Despite the care with which the author alternates between Claire's scholarly and personal trials, a strategy echoed in the novel's switching between passages about van Gogh's trauma and Claire's suffering, the juxtaposition can be both facile and jarring. The self-discoveries Claire makes in France have a formulaic, scripted quality that makes Claire unlikable and unbelievable. Proneto uttering sophomoric platitudes about art and life, Claire seems more concussed than introspective after her accident, a matter not helped by the stilted quality of the characters' dialogue. Braver (Divine Sarah, 2004) makes an ambitious attempt to examine how accidents harden into fate and tries to coordinate too many stories, yet he has no central character strong enough to synthesize them.
Margot Livesey
“An intricate and suspenseful narrative of love and art. . . . A remarkably absorbing and intelligent novel.
Sigrid Nunez
“[A] brilliant exploration of the nature of art, accident, and truth.”

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Read an Excerpt

Crows over the Wheatfield

A Novel
By Adam Braver

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 Adam Braver
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0060782323

Chapter One

Late October


It was amazing how different the world appeared once shifted back an hour. How altered the towns along Route 111 looked at 5:30 P.M., now that the hands of the clocks had been maneuvered. The storefronts of the smaller villages that usually were filled by darkness and northern decay were gleaming tonight. Lit up on the insides, they shone through normal working hours, almost festively alive. And this illusion seemed to work on pedestrians, as more people cluttered the sidewalks, creating the myth that there was life after dark in these forgotten little coastal towns -- all you needed to do was turn back the clocks.

Claire's commute home from campus usually concluded with the veil of dusk over her Providence driveway. If she was quick enough, Claire could leash up her one-year-old dog, Cocoa, and walk the length of her street until she was at the top of the hill. From there she could watch the sun drop into the other half of the world. Perhaps it was the result of finding herself alone again, but she needed the nightly ritual to wring out her psyche.

The first night of standard time each October was always disorienting. Coming out of the classroom,she saw the night pouring through the sky, reminding her of the same power and explosion of Van Gogh's form against a brilliantly conceived dawn. And, for a moment, she understood Vincent's momentary lapses of lucidity, of how strange and blinding the natural world must have seemed -- one that only bold brushstrokes could tame. (She thought to make a note of that for her class, and possibly for her newest book project.)

The drive down 111 was in near total darkness, without even the moon as a night-light. She trailed red brake lights that cast a fiery hue over the night. Traffic was snarled per usual at the town of Carver. These roads had never been built with the expectation that they would be traveled by the hordes of commuters that had extended the city into every outreach of the region. And poor Carver, so fragile and all alone, with little to show but a Dunkin' Donuts, a hobby shop, a string of stagnant antique shops, and a hidden work center for retarded adults, had become the epicenter of the coastal traffic. After winding around the waterfronts, the major shortcuts and minor routes all collided in Carver for a straight path out to the freeway. A final ten-mile-per-hour crawl that stretched along past once glorious houses that now sat fearfully exposed at the roadside.

Clouds had darkened the edges of the horizon, giving a strange dual dimension to the blackened sky. In an odd moment of prewinter fury, a flock of black-winged birds whipped the sky, swooning to the left, with a sudden awkward turn to the right, as though lost and trying to rediscover their way south. They looked equally frozen at the merge, shadowed against the brilliance of the still glistening bay that paralleled 111.

Claire looked over to her left at the houses that had stood for nearly two centuries. For seven years she had been commuting this road from the university, yet she was noticing them for the first time. Perhaps separating from Richard had really opened new sights for her. There was a red Colonial, its lit-up windows sparkling and winking back at the drivers. Beside it a little shack that must have housed generations of New England fisherman who trolled for quahogs or lobsters. And how different this all must have looked, four generations ago. These homes originally built with northeastern reserve, where heavily trafficked routes did not belly up to their front lawns, where seclusion was their protection from the changing world. Claire squinted to read the historical plaque by the red Colonial's door, but couldn't quite make out the name of the original owners. She thought she might have seen the name Williams, and then wondered if the Williamses could have ever imagined that this is what would happen to their lovely home. The pride of their workmanship set three blocks from the bay, isolation that must have afforded them a view into the sweetly infinite horizon. This implied paradise now sat along the backed-up roadway, one block from a Shell gas station, a block the other way from a Blockbuster video, and directly across the street from a fried chicken stand that also made donuts and tacos.

The traffic started to move a little, enough that Claire dragged the stick of her nearly new Honda Accord into second. The other side was running remarkably faster, as those residents heading into the village were unfazed by the darkness at this earlier hour. It was their road and their night. Yet, as suddenly as she found her side moving, she was just as quickly stepping on the brake.

Just hold tight, Cocoa. Hold tight.

On the front lawn of the red Colonial stood a young boy, maybe ten, maybe younger (perhaps older, it is hard to tell in these days of adult fashions for children). Yellow light squared off every available window of the red Colonial, yet still there was a strange emptiness to the house behind him. Had he been there before, and just been obscured by her thoughts? He postured with one hand on his hip and the other clutching a skateboard. His expression looked somewhat puzzled, as though his pupils were in a permanent state of refraction from trying to adjust to the new night. Claire witnessed a certain disappointment in him. His hour of play before dinner had been cheated from him; the daylight stolen, replaced by a stream of unforgiving cars with burning headlights. She watched the decision process. He sized up the elements, weighing the possible against the impossible, dislocating risk from consequence. But mostly she saw the defiance of righteousness, of a boy's decision to refuse to have his right to play taken. He threw down . . .


Excerpted from Crows over the Wheatfield by Adam Braver Copyright © 2006 by Adam Braver. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are saying about this

Sigrid Nunez
“[A] brilliant exploration of the nature of art, accident, and truth.”
Margot Livesey
“An intricate and suspenseful narrative of love and art. . . . A remarkably absorbing and intelligent novel.

Meet the Author

Adam Braver is the author of Divine Sarah and Mr. Lincoln's Wars. His work has appeared in Daedalus, Cimarron Review, Post Road, and Pittsburgh Quarterly. He teaches creative writing at Roger Williams University in Bristol, Rhode Island.

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