The Remains of River Names

The Remains of River Names

by Matt Briggs

The novel is told in twelve linked stories, each of which is a chapter told in turn by the members of a counter-culture family in the process of destroying itself. The novel takes place over twenty years, from the '70's to the 90's, from the beginnings of familial disintegration to its individual members coming to terms. This novel won the 1998 King County

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The novel is told in twelve linked stories, each of which is a chapter told in turn by the members of a counter-culture family in the process of destroying itself. The novel takes place over twenty years, from the '70's to the 90's, from the beginnings of familial disintegration to its individual members coming to terms. This novel won the 1998 King County (Washington) Arts Commission Publication Award for Fiction.

Editorial Reviews


A terse but often graceful chronicle of a family's decline and fall -- a family, to be sure, that never got anywhere in the first place -- The Remains of River Names is either a novel or a collection of interlinked short stories, or perhaps something in between. Whatever it is, it's an auspicious debut volume for 29-year-old Matt Briggs, whose sharp-eyed yet sympathetic vision of life in the overgrown, semi-rural backwaters of the Pacific Northwest puts him somewhere on the spectrum that leads from Raymond Carver to Kurt Cobain. His style is certainly terse and declarative in the now-familiar Carver tradition. But his characters are often startlingly self-aware, and even in their dead-end desperation they remain alive to the remarkable landscapes, both fecund and desolate, that surround them.

Briggs' biographical note explains that he was raised by "working-class, hippie parents" in the Snoqualmie Valley, east of Seattle. So it's tempting (if ultimately irrelevant) to assume that the fictional Graham family of the 1970s and '80s resembles Briggs' own, and that Dillon, the Grahams' youngest son and the most consistently likable of the book's narrators, is something of a self-portrait. Dillon, who's around 8 at the beginning of The Remains of River Names, wakes up one day to discover that his pot-dealer parents, Art and Janice, have vanished from their ramshackle house. They've taken the car, the food and even Dillon's toys, leaving nothing for Dillon and his 12-year-old brother, Milton, but a dinner roll, a little peanut butter and an almost mocking pile of house-and-garden magazines.

It turns out that Art and Janice are on the lam. They eventually retrieve Dillon; Milton, Janice insists, is "old enough to take care of himself." The apathy and even hostility with which they view their own children is characteristic; all four members of this nuclear family are shooting off into space on their own solitary trajectories. But if Briggs is making a point about how ill-prepared '60s casualties like Art and Janice were to raise kids of their own, he does so without rage or didacticism. In fact, in a later chapter called "The House Below Laughing Horse Reservoir," Janice emerges as one of the book's most sympathetic figures. With Art in prison, she makes one last stab at holding her family together, taking the boys to a distant town where she hopes to reconnect with Ray, an ex-boyfriend who is now an important apple grower.

Even Art, a paranoid and self-centered father, gets his shot at redemption, in the chapter called "Sewage Lagoon." With his wife and kids far in the past, Art is out of prison and living with an Alcoholics Anonymous devotee who has vowed to leave him if he drinks a single beer. Nothing much happens on the night Art falls off the wagon and heads to the sewage lagoon to sleep it off, but the episode shows off Briggs' terse lyricism at its best. This portrait of a man so deep in loserdom he can only be an optimist -- who wakes in his car after the binge relieved that he has gotten "an early start for once" -- is compassionate without being sentimental.

For most of The Remains of River Names, however, we bounce from the precocious, compulsively neat Dillon to the uncommunicative, dangerously moody Milton. Rejected by Janice, Milton runs away to live in an abandoned house with his girlfriend and turn tricks on the Seattle streets. The less socially adept Dillon stays home and essentially becomes his mother's keeper. Briggs captures both boys wonderfully as children, but he renders Milton's (unhappily plausible) progress into a violent, misogynistic adult too sketchily for it to be entirely convincing.

Briggs has quite consciously (I think) endowed both these characters with improbably graceful interior voices. Milton looks at a table of women on the make in a smoky bar and notices "the fancy glasses, the kind that looked like upside-down bells, the tall, skinny kind that opened toward the top like stretched flowers." Watching his girlfriend sleep, the adult Dillon muses: "I want you to know I will see you awake again.I will not let you wander some forgotten vocabulary question. You are not just a word or a name." Although Briggs isn't fully in control of this device yet, it can produce some striking results, most notably our sense that Dillon -- despite being deep in debt and trapped in the working class -- is the Graham clan's real hope for the future. Whatever the balance may be between imagination and autobiography in The Remains of River Names, Briggs' career holds great hope, too.

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
The countercultural excesses of the 1960s and 1970s cast a long shadow on the family at the heart of Briggs's keenly intuitive debut effort--a collection of 11 linked stories--in which narrators alternate between four members of a doomed and unnamed family. As the book opens in the early 1980s, middle-schooler Milton and grade-schooler Dillon have just been ditched by their parents, Art and Janice, who fled their Seattle-area house when the police closed in on Art's pot-growing operation. Mom and Dad eventually return, but their misadventures repeatedly throw the family into chaos just as the two boys enter adolescence. Art serves jail time, Janice takes the kids and leaves him, then lives with a succession of boyfriends and finally kicks Milton out at age 16. Desperate for some form of stability, Milton pursues exercise and violence, growing into a powerful weight-lifter and a would-be rapist, while little brother Dillon becomes bookish and defiant. Sweetly, and unexpectedly, the adult brothers cling to each other with a bond forged from their dysfunctional childhood--but one senses that nothing can really save them, not even romantic love, which Milton finds in a bar and Dillon finds in a waitress like his mother. The book's bleak outlook is reflected in its title, which stems from one of Janice's friends, Joe, who tells Dillon that nothing has value but "the old names of places... they are the only spoken thing that is not a lie." Briggs exhibits an impressive gift for conveying dark situations and murky motives with illuminating clarity. His multivalenced prose frequently spotlights his characters' befuddled, soulful searches for greater meaning, capturing the atmosphere of ambivalence, despair and stifled hope around a family painfully unraveling as two boys roughly, uncertainly, become men. (Oct.) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.

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Product Details

Black Heron Press
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
5.40(w) x 8.60(h) x 0.90(d)

What People are saying about this

William Kittredge
Matt Briggs understands that life in the far West is not all cowboys and tourists and timbering and nighthawks and blooming sage. It's mostly people trying to love themselves and each other in little underclass towns and in city neighborhoods. The Remains of River Names is an emotionally accurate and vividly compelling journey into actuality. Both breaks your heart and elevates the soul.
William Kittredge, author of Hole in the Sky
Rebecca Brown
The narrators of the linked chapters of The Remains of River Names -- an aging pothead; a woman whose most attractive quality, her sex, is losing its appeal; and their two sons forced to grow up too fast -- tell the story of hippie culture and its aftermath in the Northwest. This smart, lucid fiction reminds us that the folks who work at the Millionaire Club, the drunks who inhabit the run-down shacks at the foot of a mountain, the waitresses and guys who work dead-end jobs in Renton or Federal Way, the kids who try to get someone older to buy them a case have been a part of our social landscape longer than latt� swillers, software geniuses or arty pants rock stars. By telling stories of people with broken cars and tattered carpets and not enough dishes to have a diner party for four, Matt Briggs has given voice to important parts of our Northwest culture.
Rebecca Brown, author of The Gifts of the Body
Chris Offutt
Matt Briggs is a young writer of remarkable promise and skill. He clearly understands the pain of being an outsider in a world that rewards toeing the line.
Chris Offutt, author of Kentucky Straight.

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