Enon [NOOK Book]


Hailed as “a masterpiece” (NPR), Tinkers, Paul Harding’s Pulitzer Prize–winning debut, is a modern classic. The Dallas Morning News observed that “like Faulkner, Harding never shies away from describing what seems impossible to put into words.” Here, in Enon, Harding follows a year in the life of Charlie Crosby as he tries to come to terms with a shattering personal tragedy. Grandson of George Crosby (the protagonist of Tinkers), Charlie inhabits the same dynamic landscape of New England, its seasons mirroring ...
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Hailed as “a masterpiece” (NPR), Tinkers, Paul Harding’s Pulitzer Prize–winning debut, is a modern classic. The Dallas Morning News observed that “like Faulkner, Harding never shies away from describing what seems impossible to put into words.” Here, in Enon, Harding follows a year in the life of Charlie Crosby as he tries to come to terms with a shattering personal tragedy. Grandson of George Crosby (the protagonist of Tinkers), Charlie inhabits the same dynamic landscape of New England, its seasons mirroring his turbulent emotional odyssey. Along the way, Charlie’s encounters are brought to life by his wit, his insights into history, and his yearning to understand the big questions. A stunning mosaic of human experience, Enon affirms Paul Harding as one of the most gifted and profound writers of his generation.

Advance praise for Paul Harding’s Enon
“Drawing upon the same New England landscape and family as his Pulitzer Prize–winning debut, Tinkers, Harding deftly captures loss and its consequences in this gorgeous and haunting follow-up. [Enon is] an elegiac portrait of a severed family and the town of Enon itself, and Harding again proves himself a contemporary master and one of our most important writers.”Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Praise for Tinkers
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize
and the PEN/Robert Bingham Fellowship for Writers
An American Library Association Notable Book
“In Paul Harding’s stunning first novel, we find what readers, writers and reviewers live for.”San Francisco Chronicle
“There are few perfect debut American novels. Walter Percy’s The Moviegoer and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird come to mind. So does Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping. To this list ought to be added Paul Harding’s devastating first book, Tinkers.”—NPR
Tinkers is truly remarkable. It achieves and sustains a unique fusion of language and perception. Its fine touch plays over the textured richnesses of very modest lives, evoking again and again a frisson of deep recognition, a sense of primal encounter with the brilliant, elusive world of the senses. It confers on the reader the best privilege fiction can afford, the illusion of ghostly proximity to other human souls.”—Marilynne Robinson
“A novel that you’ll want to savor . . . I found reading it to be an incredibly moving experience.”—Nancy Pearl

From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
Novelist Harding's literary debut, Tinkers, which won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, introduced the world to a New England clockmaker named George Washington Crosby. This second novel continues the family story through George's grandson, Charlie Crosby, a man tumbling into a downward spiral of drug abuse and depression following the death of his daughter. Charlie turns his trauma inward to preserve both the memory of his daughter and the town of Enon in which he was born and raised. The narrative is a bridge between these intertwined but disparate experiences. While Charlie paints a bucolic portrait of Enon in his mind, his body and overall appearance wither away. Eventually, his memories and drug-induced imagination conjure up his daughter's ghost, and the faculties of imagination and memory are presented as potentially harmful, leading to prolonged and intensified suffering. The reader is left to ponder whether grief is best remedied by hanging onto the memories of the past or by moving forward without them. VERDICT With crisp, descriptive language, Harding continues where his previous novel left off, exploring the complexity of family and mortality. [See Prepub Alert, 3/18/13.]—Joshua Finnell, Denison Univ. Lib., Granville, OH
From the Publisher
“Harding conveys the common but powerful bond of parental love with devastating accuracy. . . . Enon confirms what the Pulitzer jury decided: Paul Harding—no longer a ‘find’—is a major voice in American fiction.”Chicago Tribune
“Paul Harding’s novel Tinkers won the Pulitzer Prize; its stunning successor, Enon, only raises the bar.”O: The Oprah Magazine
“An extraordinary follow-up to the author’s Pulitzer Prize–winning debut . . . Harding’s subject is consciousness rooted in a contemporary moment but bound to a Puritan past. His prose is steeped in a visionary, transcendentalist tradition that echoes Blake, Rilke, Emerson, and Thoreau, and makes for a darkly intoxicating read.”The New Yorker
“So wild and riveting it’s practically an aria . . . Harding is a superb stylist.”Entertainment Weekly

“Without blurring the sharply lucid nightmares and recollections, Mr. Harding pushes Charlie’s madness to a crisis point of destruction or renewal. The journey to the depths of his grief is unforgettably stark and sad. But that sadness, shaped by a gifted writer’s caressing attention, can also bring about moments of what Charlie calls ‘brokenhearted joy.’”The Wall Street Journal
“Harding is an extraordinary writer, for the intoxicating power of his prose, the range of his imagination, and above all for the redemptive humanity of his vision. With painstaking brilliance, Enon charts one man’s attempt to salvage meaning from meaningless tragedy, to endure the ubiquitous presence of a loved one’s absence. A superb account of the banality and uniqueness of bereavement, it more than earns its place alongside such non-fictional classics as Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking and CS Lewis’s A Grief Observed. That Enon is a work of fiction that feels authentic as memoir makes it all the more astonishing.”—Rebecca Abrams, Financial Times
Enon is Joan Didion’s Blue Nights on major meds. . . . Time was the subject of Tinkers as grief is the subject of Enon. The two are related, like father and sons. Read Enon to live longer in the harsh, gorgeous atmosphere that Paul Harding has created.”San Francisco Chronicle
“Paul Harding’s excellent second novel . . . is a lovely book about grief, the ways in which we punish ourselves for feeling it, and, ultimately, how we rebuild our lives even when they seem unsalvageable.”—New York Daily News
“Harding’s mythic sensibility, soaring empathy for his devastated yet life-loving protagonist, comedic embrace of the absurd, and exquisite receptivity to the beauty and treachery of the living world make for one astonishingly daring, gripping, and darkly resplendent novel of all-out grief and crawling-from-the-ruins survival.”Booklist (starred review)
“Drawing upon the same New England landscape and family as his Pulitzer Prize–winning debut Tinkers, Harding deftly captures loss and its consequences in this gorgeous and haunting follow-up. . . . Offering an elegiac portrait of a severed family and the town of Enon itself, Harding’s second novel again proves he’s a contemporary master and one of our most important writers.”Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“As Charlie’s grief reaches its apex, he’s consumed by dark visions, and Harding’s skillful whipsawing of the reader from the surreal to the quotidian is the best writing he’s done.”Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780812984606
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 9/10/2013
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 272
  • Sales rank: 186,799
  • File size: 3 MB

Meet the Author

Paul Harding
Paul Harding is the author of the novel Tinkers, which won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. He has received a Guggenheim Fellowship and the PEN/Robert Bingham Fellowship for Writers. He was a fiction fellow at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and has taught at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Harvard University, and Grinnell College.
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Reading Group Guide

A Conversation Between Paul Harding and Shelf Unbound

The following interview appeared in the February/March 2014 issue of Shelf Unbound.

Shelf Unbound: You dispense with the obvious plot line in the first chapter: Charlie Crosby’s thirteen-year-old daughter is killed in an accident and his wife leaves him. The rest of the novel unfolds the myriad ways Charlie attempts to distance himself from his pain but not from the memory of his daughter. How did you go about structuring the novel?

Paul Harding: Pretty much just as you describe. I wanted to lay all of the cards on the table, right up front, so there was nowhere to hide. The first paragraph is like the opening of an old newspaper article: who, what, why, when, where. It’s one thing to know all of the facts, one thing to understand the facts intellectually, abstractly, as, say, “tragic.” It’s another thing, though—the job of a novel, a work of art—to describe the human implications of those facts, the experience of them by a particular, imperfect human being. It was also one of those challenges you set for yourself as a writer, because such challenges are why you write; the language and the art are there because they have the capacities to explore the impossible facts of human experience, in this case of tragedy. How possibly to express the impossible fact of losing your daughter? A voice breaks the silence and begins an attempt at an account. . . .

The structure of the novel emerged as I listened to Charlie tell the story, one sentence at a time. I think of the book as a confession, like St. Augustine’s—one voice speaking in-timately and directly, in good faith, to the reader, trying to account for the speaker’s actions, as flawed and troublesome as they might be. I didn’t want there to be any layers of narrative between the reader and Charlie’s experience. It had to be direct, because so much of the book is about Charlie trying to figure out how to be equal to the tragedy of losing his child, how to improvise a new language, a new perspective, a new, heartbroken humanity out of what remains. His response is fragmented and off-balance and radically disoriented, full of advances and retreats and redoubts and descriptions of how, to paraphrase Shakespeare, his heart is not confederate with his hand, and that is reflected in how the book is structured. There’s no overseeing narrator next to or, perish the thought, above him, tidying things up, smoothing things over for the reader. It’s raw, in real time. The book was also always a monologue—again, a single voice speaking directly to the reader. It is meant to read like a book from the Bible: a psalm; a hymn; an incantation, a prayer; a lamentation.

SU: Your debut novel, Tinkers, won the Pulitzer in 2010. How did the weight of expectation for Enon impact your experience of writing it and perhaps even the novel itself?

PH: I was lucky in that Random House had bought Enon and I was seventy-five or so pages into a draft before Tinkers won the Pulitzer. That and the fact that the editor who bought the book, Susan Kamil, had not read Tinkers before she picked up Enon helped a lot. Whenever the gravitational pull of Tinkers threatened to distract me from the particular difficulties of composing Enon, I was able to go back to those first seventy-five pages and remind myself, Whatever the solution, it lies in here, not in Tinkers.

As far as the worldly distractions of following up a successful debut and so forth, I didn’t let them worry me much. Publishing is a rowdy, contact sport, and I’m just as opinionated as the next reader about what books I think are solid works of art or clever, depthless sleight of hand. After the feel-good story behind Tinkers, I knew that no matter what there’d be some, um, blowback, so I just ignore it. Tinkers took guff before and after the prize, Enon will take its fair share of guff, too, and that’s how it is. I always tell my writing students, don’t write your books for readers who won’t like them, and don’t write your books for bad readers. Enon is consistent with its own terms, not Tinkers’s terms, and that’s bound to fluster some people. I was a drummer in a kind of second- or third-tier touring rock band for years, and once you’ve had the piss taken out of you by, for example, the English rock press, a snippy notice from, as William Hazlitt described it, a reviewer engaging in irrelevant smartness at the writer’s expense seems downright quaint. Really, I should be so lucky that my biggest problem is dealing with following up a Pulitzer Prize–winning debut novel, you know?

SU: Charlie is the grandson of the main character in Tinkers. Why did you decide to revisit this family and to continue exploring themes of time, loss, and nature?

PH: Well, the book came to me as a visual image accompanied by a version of that first paragraph. Or the first paragraph contains the fundamental facts that I understood from the visual image, which was a sort of black paper silhouette cutout of a steep hill studded with gravestones and the figure of a man skulking across its crown, under the moon and stars. I knew all at once that it was the Enon cemetery, that the man was Charlie Crosby, that he was scurrying home after a night of misadventure, that his daughter was buried below at the bottom of the hill, and that he was sneaking behind her grave because he was ashamed of who he had become since she died. It was a fairly traditional, classic, mythical, legendary story, like Orpheus, like Persephone. From there it was just a matter of quietly listening for, then to, his voice, of listening and watching as he attempts to reckon with what happened.

Thematically, time, loss, nature, memory are what I find myself always obsessing over. Those things are the hallmark mysteries of our fraught human careers. They are essential and irreducible. With Enon, I also found myself putting pressure on things like belief. In what do we believe? How is belief constructed? How does it persist or corrode? What is belief? What happens when the world in which we believe, or think we believe, assume we believe, evaporates? Charlie enacts all of these improvised personal rituals; it’s like he conjures or improvises a religion based on the worship of his dead daughter, something he understands is bad news, but in which he nevertheless persists for some time. And that fascinated me, too—the discrepancy between what we know and what we do. He knows better than he acts. It’s St. Paul, the evil which I do not want to do is that which I do, and the good I mean to do is that which I do not do.

SU: Charlie medicates himself with whiskey and too many pills, passing out each night on his living room sofa and waking up to experience his tragedy anew. In Tinkers, his dying grandfather is moored in a hospital bed in his living room. Did you purposefully choose the same room of the house for them to decay in?

PH: I never thought of that! It makes perfect sense, though. Both novels are domestic, centered on domestic, family life. The living rooms in both cases are kind of like the ruins of former, intact homes, homes and families that we find in the process of dissolution. That’s the kind of thing I’d never purposefully decide on. It just made sense to me that Charlie would not want to sleep in his bed, upstairs, where he and his estranged wife slept, near where his deceased daughter slept. He is kind of exiled to the living room.

SU: You are often cited for your gorgeous writing style, for your inventive and poetic imagery and use of metaphors. Take this one sentence near the end of the novel, with Charlie assessing the ways he has imagined his daughter to keep her alive: “They were fetishes, cobbled together by a mind clumsy with drugs and sorrow, and shaken in terror like rattles at the immense and exact unfolding of my daughter’s true absence elaborating itself in the world.” That, like many of your sentences, is one to swoon over. What is your starting point and process for writing such a sentence?

PH: I think of every sentence as its own little cosmos, its own little self-sufficient system. I try to find the internal laws, the eternal truths of each sentence, from within inside. So they build up in these weird, nonlinear ways, where I start out with a subject in mind and then find out that what I thought was the subject is in fact a part of the predicate of a deeper, previously submerged subject that has surfaced in the process of orbiting around it, and once it surfaces I need to circle back around to the beginning and rig everything around that, and sometimes in the process of doubling back I find that that is not the subject but yet another part of this elaborate system of predicates, and so on. I love the capacity of single words and I love the capacity of the sentence. And then the sentences all start to circle around larger themes and preoccupations of the character and the author, and so forth. The sentence you cite, for example, arose from thinking about idols—thematically, like “idolatry” and what that means theologically, et cetera, but also literally, as in dolls, little figurines, little fetishes, that are supposed to contain the spirit or soul or divinity they invoke, but cannot, are too small, are reductive and, as it were, blasphemous to the integrity or in this case memory of the soul they represent. Charlie understands that the little rag-doll versions of Kate he keeps making up are no way to commemorate her, are a kind of self-indulgent violence against her, although he keeps trying to make better, sufficient ones for a good while, until he begins to realize that there is a true, even more terrifying grandeur to her literal absence. I’ve been interested in William James’s interest in Hegel’s dialectics, how absence and presence, say (being and nonbeing, in theoretical, generic philosophical terms), only embody their meanings relative to one another. There is no such thing as “absence” in general, any more than there is such a thing as “grief” in general, or “evil.” These are not abstract metaphysical concepts but concrete manifestations of human action and experience. Every absence is the absence of something specific (in the same way that “grief” and “evil” are not just these clouds floating around the world that envelop people but are direct human experiences or acts). Anyway, that won’t do for a novel, which works through character, character, character, not argument or rhetoric or theory, so it ends up being dramatized, made immanent in Enon as the absence of a daughter, the one, the only daughter, Kate, and no one else. That means that Kate’s absence is as detailed, and precise, and intricate, and precious as her presence. And that’s an earth-shattering, terrifically frightening, but authentic revelation to Charlie. I didn’t think all this up deliberately beforehand, it just emerged over the course of composing the book; I thought about what Charlie thought about what I thought about, and so forth, and each moment just arose from the process of pondering it in the context of Charlie sitting in his living room and walking around within the boundaries of the village. Every sentence was a little crucible for a new permutation of these ideas, in the context of how a fictional character experienced them on a literal, visceral, immanent level, how he tried to be equal to these tragic circumstances.

At any rate, that’s maybe a bit much, but it illustrates the genesis of that sentence.

SU: Do you plan to write about this family again?

PH: The problem I’ve left myself with is that, in the course of isolating Charlie so that I could have this solitary guy confronting existence and so forth, I killed everyone else off! If I write more about the Crosbys, I guess I’ll have to go back in time or something. At the moment I’m just floating around the house, reading this and that, taking notes, fiddling around with two or three vague ideas, hoping a voice will begin to speak from inside one of them. It’s mysterious and fun and engrossing in a way that nothing else is.

Following the interview, Paul Harding had one more response to add, to a question often asked:

Question: Charlie’s abuse of drugs and alcohol figures prominently in the action of the novel. To what extent are his character or his actions defined by themes of addiction and recovery?

PH: Charlie is a regular, unremarkable man who grieves and who plausibly and understandably attempts to buffer his grief with liquor and drugs because they are within arm’s reach. He eventually puts the liquor and drugs away because he understands their increasingly corrosive effects. So the booze and pills are certainly in the foreground of the narrative, and they influence the action and Charlie’s perceptions. My main concern was striking the right balance between the simple fact of Charlie’s drug and alcohol abuse and the popular, quasi-clinical language of recovery and addiction. Such language obliterates nuance and individuality. It is generally coarse and unbeautiful and it’s a kind of categorical mistake to subject the book to its terms. Enon is a novel, not a psychology text; an aesthetic composition, not a clinical report or therapeutic model. Fiction works best when written and understood in terms of character, in terms of the human soul, the heart, and consciousness. To my thinking, everything else is a predicate of character—secondary, tertiary, even—and must be given its proper weight relative to the proper subject, this particular man. Any theoretical reading is bound to prove deficient, therefore, because it makes the man a predicate of some generalized ideal. Subordinating Charlie to any theory can only make his exceptions in conforming to it failures, rather than the very actions that make him recognizable as an imperfect, individual soul, struggling, improvising, trying in good but often enough hobbled faith to be equal to his lot, as all of us in fact do in our own lives. In such readings Charlie ends up being a kind of patient offered up for diagnosis rather than as a unique human being.

All that said, I am a practical guy. I understand that the surface, so to speak, of the novel is steeped in the dude getting wasted. It’s a real issue. I just want to make sure that readers avoid reductive readings, that they make it past that surface into the depths and real complexities of Charlie’s lived experience.

1. Enon begins with Kate’s death. Why do you think Paul Harding put her death up front? How did facing her death on the first page affect your reading of the novel and your expectations for the plot?

2. Much of the story involves Charlie’s family history and connections to the past, but without Kate and Susan, Charlie is the last Crosby in Enon: “My whole family made a circumference of ghosts, with me the sole living member in the middle.” How does this fact add to and change how he mourns his daughter?

3. What role has the town of Enon itself played in Charlie’s life? How does the place contain and amplify his grief?

4. As Charlie spirals deeper into his despair and into addiction, he feels shame for what he has become and how his life has decayed. What does Charlie’s story have to say about the personal responsibility of a grieving person? To whom does he feel responsible? Are there boundaries to dealing with loss?

5. While remembering Kate, Charlie also imagines different scenarios in which she is alive, including a scene where he imagines multiple Kates. How do these imagined scenes reflect Charlie’s grief or his real life in any given moment?

6. Harding writes many beautiful passages to convey Charlie’s inner life. How does Harding’s writing immerse readers directly in Charlie’s life? Are there any passages in particular that made his experience real for you?

7. At the end of the book, Charlie faces two anniversaries—a year since Kate’s death, and her fourteenth birthday. He is then recovering from his addictions. What turned Charlie toward recovery? How does he begin to turn things around?

8. Charlie lets Susan go with relatively little struggle. It becomes clear early on that while Susan and Charlie loved each other, Kate bound them together. What do you think of the way Susan’s response to Kate’s death is portrayed, and of her separation from Charlie?

9. How do drugs change Charlie and how he handles loss?

10. Throughout the novel, Charlie creates routines to help him get from day to day. How do his routines help him cope with his loss? How do they serve both to isolate him from the world and, later, to help him re-enter it?

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 11 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 11 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 7, 2014

    As light hearted and bemusing as a self inflictedgunshot wound

    This book is like reliving that summer before you started antidepressants and everyone in your life knew you were depressed but you thought you just needed some comfort food and to re up on bath and body works.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 13, 2014

    Powerful writing

    Intense descriptions of psychological tangents by a suffering addict.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 8, 2013

    What a sad, sad book. Having lost a much older child in a tragi

    What a sad, sad book. Having lost a much older child in a tragic accident, I could identify with Charlie’s loss, pain, and lack of will to continue living. However, unlike Charlie, I had the love and support of my husband, other children, family, and friends. This is a heart-wrenching story about poor Charlie, who makes his daughter, Kate, his life. When she is killed, he has no boundaries; no job; no apparent friends; his wife leaves him; he has nothing left to define his life; turns to drugs and alcohol; and, “lives” in the past and dreams. Many times, I was hoping in the next chapter that Charlie would finally reach the depths of his despair and pull himself back together. A sad, sad tale.

    I received a free copy of Enon through Goodreads First Reads.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 14, 2013

    more from this reviewer

    If you are looking for a read that is full of plot twists and tu

    If you are looking for a read that is full of plot twists and turns, feel good characters and a happy ending, then you would be well advised to give this tragic book a miss.  If you are prepared to dive into its pages, you may be surprised at the emotions it evokes in you.

    Without revealing spoilers, this novel is a journey into hell via the grief and anguish of one man.  We see how this duo enables his year-long addiction to alcohol and drugs, alienates those he loves and are trying to support him, and generally takes him on a downward spiral few of us could imagine going on. This novel takes the reader to the brink of the character’s madness, as we are trapped inside his head during his periods of hallucinations and flashbacks while he struggles unsuccessfully to come to grips with the destroying loss he has suffered.

    To pull no punches, this is a grim and almost depressing book, but the Author has written it beautifully and with great assurance; bringing to the page something that needs to be read to understand that we, although of the same species, do not cope with grief in the same way.  The book is written in the first person narrative, and this style is  very effective in making this novel believable as we drift with the main protagonist further from his hold on reality.

    I did find in some places that the book was a little disjointed and rambling, whether or not this was intentional on the part of the Author to play into the whole mind of the main character I don’t know, but it was a little distracting at times and pulled away some of my enjoyment in this read.  Also, not being a voyeur, I found this book to give me an uncomfortable feeling as if I were intruding in a place I really should not have been, and this again detracted from my enjoyment.  The unending flow of misery and isolation really began to pull me down in the end, and I was relieved when I finally turned the last page and was able to set this aside.

    Although the book was definitely not for me, I gave it a three thumbs rating because of the way in which it is written.  It is rich in prose and the visual landscapes of settings and emotions the reader encounters as they ‘journey’ through the book, were written in such a way as to demonstrate the command of the pen this Author appears to have.

    If you enjoy reading about another’s pain, be it self-induced or inflicted on them by forces beyond their control, this is probably a read you would enjoy, other than those in this area I really couldn’t recommend this novel to readers of any one particular genre.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 10, 2013

    From the opening lines of the book Enon, "Most men in my fa

    From the opening lines of the book Enon, "Most men in my family make widows of their wives and orphans their children. I am the exception,"
    the reader realizes they are joining the protagonist, Charlie Crosby, on a difficult path to find understanding and peace amidst tragedy.
    As I began of the book, I was taken back to my first reading of The Stranger, where Albert Camus's protagonist delivers news of his mother's death with terse prose that does not include judgement or emotion. Charlie shares simple statements of his daughter Kate's death that reflect his shock and his need to keep his emotions at bay. Though he does his best to escape his emotions, Charlie finds them unbridled at the subconscious level and he visits with Kate in his dreams. 
    Throughout the story, Charlie has difficulty grasping the reality of his loss, and through this trying process tries escape his own thoughts. In the background we see the dissolution of his doomed marriage as he is overwhelmed with his need to examine his own life and its meaning. 
    Charlie's life unravels during his difficult intrapersonal journey. Charlie reflects on the experiences of his past, who he is and where he came from in his struggle for inner peace. His reflections move in time between his youth and his past with Kate. 
    The title of the book Enon is a reference to AEnon of the bible where John the Baptist performed his baptisms. Reading this story of Charlie and the difficulties that he wrestles with, we are hoping that he can find life anew from the healing waters of the Enon.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 14, 2015

    a challenging read with many run on sentences that I found myself having to re-read.

    In his deep depression over the death of his young daughter his life completely falls apart. His mind, his house, drinking...loss of friends. So sad but beautifully descriptive even if the description is of chaos. I didn 't realize that this was the same family from another book, The Tinker,s until after I'd read the reviews. I enjoyed the first book much better. These ramblings are like James Joyce, going on forever. Yet, the protagonist's mind is on that run-on track. It did, however, give me a headache!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2014

    Ove or obessiin Love or obsession

    Love Mr. Harding's descriptive abilities.
    I can actually feel the New England fog at dawn.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 21, 2013

    Beautiful book touchingly written about the grief and pain a parent suffers with the loss of a child+

    Paul Harding captures the intense grief of a parent whose child is killed. He honestly conveys the pain of a parent in this situation and the difficulty of finding a way to go on. He is a beautiful writer and this, like Tinkers, is an outstanding book that I would highly recommend.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 13, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted September 18, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 5, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

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