Some Luck

Some Luck

3.4 24
by Jane Smiley

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Longlisted for the 2014 National Book Award

From the winner of the Pulitzer Prize: a powerful, engrossing new novel—the life and times of a remarkable family over three transformative decades in America. 

On their farm in Denby, Iowa, Rosanna and Walter Langdon abide by time-honored values that they pass on to their five…  See more details below


Longlisted for the 2014 National Book Award

From the winner of the Pulitzer Prize: a powerful, engrossing new novel—the life and times of a remarkable family over three transformative decades in America. 

On their farm in Denby, Iowa, Rosanna and Walter Langdon abide by time-honored values that they pass on to their five wildly different children: from Frank, the handsome, willful first born, and Joe, whose love of animals and the land sustains him, to Claire, who earns a special place in her father’s heart.

Each chapter in Some Luck covers a single year, beginning in 1920, as American soldiers like Walter return home from World War I, and going up through the early 1950s, with the country on the cusp of enormous social and economic change. As the Langdons branch out from Iowa to both coasts of America, the personal and the historical merge seamlessly: one moment electricity is just beginning to power the farm, and the next a son is volunteering to fight the Nazis; later still, a girl you’d seen growing up now has a little girl of her own, and you discover that your laughter and your admiration for all these lives are mixing with tears.   

Some Luck delivers on everything we look for in a work of fiction. Taking us through cycles of births and deaths, passions and betrayals, among characters we come to know inside and out, it is a tour de force that stands wholly on its own. But it is also the first part of a dazzling epic trilogy—a literary adventure that will span a century in America: an astonishing feat of storytelling by a beloved writer at the height of her powers.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

You have never read another ensemble novel like this one: Each chapter of this trilogy launch covers a single year, a snapshot in the lives of one family from 1920 to 1953. Thus, a stirring literary panorama steadily unfolds before our eyes, revealing Rosanna and Walter Langdon and their five wildly different offspring in ever-changing light. Some Luck begins during the Depression on an Iowa farm, but scatters and spreads around the country and through war and radical social change. Now in trade paperback and NOOK Book.

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Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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Random House
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Walter Langdon hadn’t walked out to check the fence along the creek for a couple of months—now that the cows were up by the barn for easier milking in the winter, he’d been putting off fence-mending—so he hadn’t seen the pair of owls nesting in the big elm. The tree was half dead; every so often Walter thought of cutting it for firewood, but he would have to get help taking it down, because it must be eighty feet tall or more and four feet in diameter. And it wouldn’t be the best firewood, hardly worth the trouble. Right then, he saw one of the owls fly out of a big cavity maybe ten to twelve feet up, either a big female or a very big male—at any rate, the biggest horned owl Walter had ever seen—and he paused and stood for a minute, still in the afternoon breeze, listening, but there was nothing. He saw why in a moment. The owl floated out for maybe twenty yards, dropped toward the snowy pasture. Then came a high screaming, and the owl rose again, this time with a full-grown rabbit in its talons, writhing, going limp, probably deadened by fear. Walter shook himself.

His gaze followed the owl upward, along the southern horizon, beyond the fence line and the tiny creek, past the road. Other than the big elm and two smaller ones, nothing broke the view—vast snow faded into vast cloud cover. He could just see the weather vane and the tip of the cupola on Harold Gruber’s barn, more than half a mile to the south. The enormous owl gave the whole scene focus, and woke him up. A rabbit, even a screaming rabbit? That was one less rabbit after his oat plants this spring. The world was full of rabbits, not so full of owls, especially owls like this one, huge and silent. After a minute or two, the owl wheeled around and headed back to the tree. Although it wasn’t yet dusk, the light was not very strong, so Walter couldn’t be sure he saw the feathery horns of another owl peeking out of the cavity in the trunk of the elm, but maybe he did. He would think that he did. He had forgotten why he came out here.

Twenty-five, he was. Twenty-five tomorrow. Some years the snow had melted for his birthday, but not this year, and so it had been a long winter full of cows. For the last two years, he’d had five milkers, but this year he was up to ten. He hadn’t understood how much extra work that would be, even with Ragnar to help, and Ragnar didn’t have any affinity for cows. Ragnar was the reason he had more cows—he needed some source of income to pay Ragnar—but the cows avoided Ragnar, and he had to do all the extra milking himself. And, of course, the price of milk would be down. His father said it would be: it was two years since the war, and the Europeans were back on their feet—or at least back on their feet enough so that the price of milk was down.

Walter walked away from this depressing thought. The funny thing was that when he told his father that he broke even this year, expecting his father to shake his head again and tell him he was crazy to buy the farm when land prices were so high, his father had patted him on the back and congratulated him. Did breaking even include paying interest on the debt? Walter nodded. “Good year, then,” said his father. His father had 320 acres, all paid for, a four-bedroom house, a big barn with hay stacked to the roof, and Walter could have gone on living there, even with Rosanna, even with the baby, especially now, with Howard taken by the influenza and the house so empty, but his father would have walked into his room day and night without knocking, bursting with another thing that Walter had to know or do or remember or finish. His father was strict, and liked things just so—he even oversaw Walter’s mother’s cooking, and always had. Rosanna complained about living with his parents—it was all Walter wanting his own place, all Walter looking at the little farmhouse (you could practically see through the walls, they were so thin), all Walter walking the fields and thinking that bottomland made up for the house, and the fields were rectangular—no difficult plowing or strange, wasted angles. It was all Walter, and so he had no one to blame but himself for this sense of panic that he was trying to walk away from on the day before his birthday. Did he know a single fellow his age with a farm of his own? Not one, at least not around here.

When you looked at Rosanna, you didn’t think she’d been raised on a farm, had farms all through her background, even in Germany. She was blonde, but slender and perfectly graceful, and when she praised the baby’s beauty, she did so without seeming to realize that it reproduced her own. Walter had seen that in some lines of cows—the calves looked stamped out by a cookie cutter, and even the way they turned their heads or kicked their hind feet into the air was the same as last year’s calf and the one before that. Walter’s family was a bastard mix, as his grandfather would say—Langdons, but with some of those long-headed ones from the Borders, with red hair, and then some of those dark-haired Irish from Wexford that were supposed to trace back to the sailors from the Spanish Armada, and some tall balding ones who always needed glasses from around Glasgow. His mother’s side leavened all of these with her Wessex ancestry (“The Chicks and the Cheeks,” she’d always said), but you couldn’t tell that Walter’s relatives were related the way you could with Rosanna’s. Even so, of all Rosanna’s aunts and uncles and cousins, the Augsbergers and the Vogels, Rosanna was the most beautiful, and that was why he had set his heart upon winning her when he came home from the war and finally really noticed her, though she went to the Catholic church. The Langdon farm and the Vogel farms weren’t far apart—no more than a mile—but even in a small town like Denby, no one had much to say to folks who went to other churches and, it must be said, spoke different languages at home.

Oh, Rosanna, just twenty, but with the self-possessed grace of a mature woman! He could see her profile as he approached the house in the dusk, outlined by the lamplight behind her. She was looking for him. Just in the tilt of her head, he could see that she had some project in mind. And of course he would say yes to her. After all, no fledgling had it easy, farmer or crow. Hadn’t he known since he was a boy the way the fledglings had to fall out of the nest and walk about, cheeping and crying, until they grew out their feathers and learned to fly on their own? Their helpless parents flew above them, and maybe dropped them a bit of food, but flying or succumbing belonged to them alone. Walter put his foot on the first step of the porch, and felt his customary sense of invigoration at this thought. On the porch, he stamped two or three times, and then slipped out of his boots. When the door opened, Rosanna drew him in, and then slipped her arms inside his unbuttoned jacket.

On the front porch, sitting up (he had just learned to sit up) on a folded blanket, Frank Langdon, aged five months, was playing with a spoon. He was holding it in his right hand by the tarnished silver bowl, and when he brought it toward his face, his eyes would cross, which made Rosanna, his mother, laugh as she shelled peas. Now that he was sitting, he could also drop the spoon, and then, very carefully, pick it up again. Before learning to sit, he had enjoyed lying on his back and waving the spoon in the air, but if he dropped the spoon, it was gone. This was no longer the case. One of the qualities Rosanna attributed to little Frank was persistence. If he was playing with the spoon, then it was the spoon he wanted to play with. If he dropped the spoon, and she happened to give him a sock doll (the sock doll that her sister, Eloise, had sewn just for Frank), Frank would fuss until she gave him the spoon. Now, sitting up, he put the spoon down and picked it up and put it down and picked it up. Although he much preferred the spoon to the doll, Rosanna always told Eloise and her mother how much Frank liked the doll. Eloise was now knitting him a wool hat. It was her first knitting project; she expected to have it done before October. Rosanna reached into the basket of pea pods and took the last handful. She didn’t mind shelling peas.

Frank was a good baby, hardly ever fussy, which, according to Rosanna’s mother, was a characteristic of all her side of the family. Speaking of peas, Rosanna and her sister and four brothers were just like peas in a pod for being good babies, and here was Frank, another of the same breed, blond, beautiful, and easy, plenty of flesh but not a bit of fat, active but not fussy, went right down every night and only got up once, regular as sunrise, then down again for another two hours while Rosanna made breakfast for Walter and the hired man. Could she ask for a better baby?

Rosanna finished shelling peas and set the bowl on the blanket, then knelt in front of Frank and said, “What a boy! What a darling boy! Are you a darling boy?” And she kissed him on the forehead, because her mother had impressed on her that you never, never kissed a baby on the lips. She laid her hand gently on the top of his head.

Frank still had his grip on the spoon, but his mother’s face transfixed him. As it loomed closer and then retreated, his gaze followed it, and as she smiled, he smiled, and then laughed, and then he waved his arms, which resulted in the spoon’s being thrown across the blanket—a first! He saw it fly and he saw it land, and his head turned slightly so he could watch it.

Rosanna laughed, because on his face was a bona-fide look of surprise, very advanced, as far as Rosanna was concerned (though she would have to admit that she had never paid one iota of attention to her brothers and sister, except when they were in her way or in her charge—no one ever said that she enjoyed watching them or had a flair for it). Now Frank’s body tilted forward, and all of a sudden he fell over on his side, cushioned by the blanket. Being Frank, he didn’t cry. Rosanna sat him up again and handed him the spoon; then she stood up, thinking that she could hurry into the house and set the bread loaves, which should have completed their second rising by now, into the hot oven and be back out in a minute or two. Nothing could happen in a minute or two.

Spoon in hand, Frank saw and heard his mother’s dress swish around her legs as she went inside, and then the screen door slapped shut. After a moment, Frank returned his attention to the spoon, which he was now gripping by the handle, bowl upward. He smacked it on the blanket, and though it was bright against the darkness of the blanket, it made no noise, so he brought it again to his face. It got bigger and brighter and bigger and brighter—this was the confusing part—and then he felt something, not in his hand, but on his face, a pressure and then a pain. The spoon jumped away from him, and there was noise—his own noise. His arm waved, and the spoon flew again. Now the spoon was small and didn’t look like a spoon. Frank looked at it for a very long time, and then he looked around the blanket for something that was within reach. The only thing was a nice clean potato, into which Mama had cut two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Frank was not terribly interested in the potato, but it was nearby, so his hand fell upon it, gripped it, and brought it to his mouth. He tasted the potato. It tasted different from the spoon.

More interesting was the sudden appearance of the cat, orange, long, and just his, Frank’s, size. Frank let the potato drop as he looked at the cat, and then the cat was sniffing his mouth and smoothing its whiskers across Frank’s cheek, squatting to inspect the potato, pressing himself into Frank until Frank fell over again. Moments later, when the door opened and flapped closed, the cat was crouched on the porch railing, purring, and Frank was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling of the porch and kicking his legs—left, right, left, right. Mama picked him up, then arced him through the air, and he found himself pressed into her shoulder, his ear and the side of his head warm against her neck. He saw the cat one last time as the porch spun around him, and beyond that the green-gold grass, and the pale horizontal line of the dirt road, and the two fields, one for oats, a thick undulating surface, and one for corn, a quiet grid of still squares (“There’s a little breeze,” thought Rosanna; “I’ll open the upstairs windows”), and around that, a different thing, empty, flat, and large, the thing that lay over all things.

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Some Luck: A novel 3.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 24 reviews.
_Becki_ More than 1 year ago
Really really enjoyed this book. My father grew up on a farm in Iowa and his sister married a farmer and had 6 children. CANNOT wait until my cousin has finished reading it so we can discuss how close to the mark Jane is with this family. Haven't been a big fan of the author's in the past, but she has done so well with EACH character in this book and encapsulating a year into each chapter. The family/farm life unfolded in such an interesting way - some characters, as in life are more predictable than others. And while I could not relate to all of them - I felt I liked or understood most of the characters and wanted/want to know all of their stories. CANNOT wait for the next two!
Lissabookworm More than 1 year ago
Wonderful book, beautiful characters, can't wait for the next two!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I loved this book from beginning to end and cannot wait for the next installment. Meeting the young couple at the start of their lives together and getting to know their children as they are born and as they grow was just engrossing to me. I think the author did a wonderful job of creating a three-dimensional world. The characters seem so real, it's almost as if she is reporting on a group of people instead of making them up. I highly recommend this book.
faderson More than 1 year ago
I would expect anything less from a Pulitzer prize winner. I loved the characters, the story everything. I did not want it to end!
CarolynSS More than 1 year ago
I find this book very difficult to get through. Struggling to finish it. Don't think I will purchase the entire trilogy. May get from library if I can finish this first one.
YoyoMitch More than 1 year ago
The first volume of a good trilogy hooks the reader with a good story; definitive characters, intriguing concept, and exceptional execution of that concept then leave the reader panting for the next part of the story.  Knowing the second book is complete (as is the present case, along with the third volume) caused this reader to consider writing the publisher, pleading for an opportunity to read the next volumes early. This book is so good, smart, well-written and addicting that I found myself reading slower as I neared the end of the book, hoping to cause the book to last as long as possible. Beginning on January 1, 1920, the book follows the Langdon’s, an Iowa farm family as they live, grow and prosper. This premise would be dull with little appeal in the hands of a lesser writer; it is polished to a gleaming brilliance in the hands of this Pulitzer Prize winning author. Ms. Smiley takes this concept and weaves a flowing plot, well created characters and a brilliant concept into a work of timeless fiction with the flavor of Narrative History. This quiet farm family is (and will be) followed for the next 100 years. Each chapter in each of the books will cover a year, with each volume spanning 33 years. A major benefit of such an expansive idea time line, the sprawling posture that was America in the years from the end of World War One to the Korean Conflict comes into focus with a clarity and order unknown in previous works. As Rosanna and Walter begin farming their own land, they start a family. Frankie is first born and his voice is as important in the early chapters as is those of the adults. (Frankie’s perception of the world to which he has just been introduced is delightful).  Each chapter is told from the experience of different family members (there are five more children born to Rosanna and Walter in the books progress) in varying parts of the year in focus. Trying to describe the depth and fullness of this book is nearly impossible and one deserves the delight of discovering the struggles, successes, heartaches and delight in the telling of the tale. I had initially felt the Langdon family was too ideal – each child is hardworking, ambitious, smart, and never rebellious. It occurred to me that the life of a farm family in the early 20th Century were filled with hard work, little contact with others outside their community (what contact that did occur was rarely of a dissident voice), education was a treasured prize and that culture nurtured close-knit family ties. I expect the nest book to follow with the exactitude, clarity, spot on pacing and true-to-life feel of Some Luck. Maybe a letter to Knopf Publishers would hasten the publication by a few days.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Overall, I enjoyed reading this book, but honestly I didn't get the point. It told a story, yes, but there did not seem to be a general theme or point the author was trying to make.  The authors use of slang terms and modern words in  the historical context was distracting.  Also the ending was abrupt and left me highly disappointed. 
Actmom More than 1 year ago
I purchased this book for my husband for Christmas; a friend had recommended it. We have read Jane Smiley's A THOUSAND ACRES and loved that wonderful book. We are former Iowa residents and identify with Smiley's environments. My husband enjoyed SOME LUCK very much, and it's waiting for me on my nightstand.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I'm a fan of Jane Smiley's, but I found this novel overlong and just a bit directionless. It has all the usual verisimilitude as to time and place of her other books, but at the end, I had a sense of having been put to a test. Whether up-beat or not, I hope for some uplift at the end of a long read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Highly recomended and a great read
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
15, 42, 38
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Growing up on a farm in the 40's & 50's in Minnesota, I could identify with much of the book…especially the farm life; going from using work horses to tractors, walking to school, no electricity, running water, or modern conveniences. I love the author, Jane Smiley. Not sure that many book clubs could relate!
richard11 More than 1 year ago
A good read. Started slowly but as the years go by the story picks up. All the members of the family are engaging.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I am enjoying this book and find it's narrative structure and intense detail quite familiar and much like Smiley's previous work--which is a good thing. That some reader/reviewers have not read the book past the first few pages is obvious. How do such reviews remain posted? As a final note, must add that The Greenlanders is my favorite Smiley book. I've read it three times and am looking for a hardbound copy as it is a book I want to keep and pass on to others.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Actually I thought this book was just average. I was surprised because I liked a Thousand Acres and it was a much better book than this one. Sorry, but it's just boring. I love a trilogy but the first book made me realize I don't want to read this one. It's basically a narrative on a family. The writing is bad, the characters are boring and I didn't really even want to get to know them. There's a lot of books like this, a timeline in a family and a lot are more interesting. Sorry Jane. Skip this one.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Under the author's skillful hand, the characters in this family saga come alive. The format, one chapter for each of thirty-three years, does not impede the flow of the story, as it could. The chapter in an uneventful year moves quickly to the next without slowing the pace of the story. I really enjoyed this book and look forward to reading the next installment in the trilogy.
AHHP More than 1 year ago
I have not yet finished this book. It is so drawn out with inane details that I had to rest from it and start another book. I will get back to I-maybe skip some parts. I have never not finished a book that I started but this may be a first.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
From an author who lived in Iowa several years, I found it weird that she has people shelling fresh peas once when the snow is still on the ground, and again later in the book in March. I'm no farmer (or gardener), but I do know you don't get fresh peas in March or when the snow is still on the ground. Where was the editor when this was being prepared?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
And none seem worth an award especialy the poems which text wise amount to a pamphlet. The blurb of this one could be any of twenty 1.98