An Unfinished Life

An Unfinished Life

4.3 26
by Mark Spragg

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In an extraordinary tale of love and forgiveness, Mark Spragg brings us this novel of a complex, prodigal homecoming. After escaping the last of a long string of abusive boyfriends, Jean Gilkyson and her ten-year-old daughter Griff have nowhere left to go. Nowhere except Ishawooa, Wyoming, where Jean's estranged father-in-law, Einar, still blames her for the death

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In an extraordinary tale of love and forgiveness, Mark Spragg brings us this novel of a complex, prodigal homecoming. After escaping the last of a long string of abusive boyfriends, Jean Gilkyson and her ten-year-old daughter Griff have nowhere left to go. Nowhere except Ishawooa, Wyoming, where Jean's estranged father-in-law, Einar, still blames her for the death of his son. Though Einar isn’t glad to see either of them, Griff falls in love with his sprawling ranch and quiet way of life, as she slowly gets to know his crippled old friend Mitch, the cats that lurk in the barn at milking time, and finally the grandfather she had lost for so many years. An emotionally charged story of hard-won friendship and reconciliation, An Unfinished Life shows a novelist of extraordinary talents in the fullness of his powers.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Reviews of Mark Spragg's An Unfinished Life"Ever since I became the books editor at The Kansas City Star in March 2000, folks have been asking me to recommend a reading experience as clean and sharp as Kent Haruf's Plainsong. . . . Finally, I have an answer. His name is Mark Spragg, his new novel is An Unfinished Life." –John Mark Eberhart, The Kansas City Star"Spragg writes in the man's man literary school of Hemingway and Tom McGuane, where valor, brevity and minor epiphanies still count for something, yet An Unfinished Life's strength lies in its characters. It's best one is the irrepressible little girl, Griff, barely beating out the two old coots, bitter Einar and handicapped Mitch, who talk with winning honesty while struggling through their ablutions and medical ministrations. . . . An Unfinished Life makes you yearn for more of these characters and their prescient talk." –The Oregonian
"Wyoming, its winds and distances, never quits. What a pleasure it is to watch a few of its hard-forged citizens stay with the task of forgiving, cherishing and caring for one another. Mark Spragg has got the territory dead right in this moving testimony to seeing things through." –William Kittredge"Spragg, with consummate skill, uses people and places we don't know to teach us something about ourselves. He explores human bonds, the difficulty of core change and ultimately the need for forgiveness if a person is to be emotionally whole. . . . An Unfinished Life is a deft contemplation of completion, of change and of coming home." –The Denver Post"Intensely human, gently probing the longing for family and the inescapable grip of the past. Swiftly shifting perspectives lend the novel a pleasing dynamism." –The Christian Science Monitor"Rich with ancillary characters worked into his elaborate plots. . . . When all the scattered elements of the story coalesce in strange and wondrous ways, so logical yet so unexpected, we are tempted to use a western idiom and state that Mark Spragg has put his brand on realistic Western novels in our time." –St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“I can’t get more than a few pages into a novel unless the prose is good. In Mark Spragg’s An Unfinished Life the writing is of considerable grace and beauty, plus there’s a compelling tale of the New West which at times is an uncomfortable page turner where you are standing on the sidelines rooting for your heartbreaking favorites.” –Jim Harrison"Spragg has the remarkable ability to establish voices that feel indelibly genuine and true, yet belong to characters as different from each other as a sensitive and adventurous pre-pubescent girl, two aging ranchers ravaged by different kinds of pain, a confused and self-protective young mother and a man with a hair-trigger anger and a dangerously twisted concept of love, entitlement and family." –Santa Fe New Mexican"The tension lies in the interior life Spragg creates for his characters. They are believably raw and wounded. And, above all, redeemable." –New York Daily News"Mark Spragg invents characters that are as richly drawn and lovingly rendered as the landscape in which he sets them down. An Unfinished Life is honest, engaged, deeply satisfying, and full of an uncanny grace that resides both in the beauty of the language and in these valuable lives." –Pam Houston"An Unfinished Life has dysfunction and menace and clipped, big-sky dialogue that's as spare as Cormac McCarthy's work but with a warmer patina. The carefully placed story hides surprising flashes of humor inside telling detail." –USA Today"Packed with descriptive detail that pays tribute to Wyoming's harsh splendor, An Unfinished Life shows the power of place to save us." –The Boston Phoenix
"Mark Spragg's An Unfinished Life is a tremendously accomplished, elegantly written and paced tale of love and loss, the bonds of grief and blood, and the complex turnings of the human heart. This is a heartbreaking yet uplifting novel that is most deeply satisfying. These characters, these people, will remain with me a long, long time." –Jeffrey Lent"One of those once-in-a-blue-moon type novels that takes convention and stands it on its head. . . . Filled with often poetic meditations about the love we hold for those who have died—what sort of role their memories play in our lives—and the importance of laying the past to rest while moving into the future." –St. Petersburg Times "Masterly . . . Highly recommended."—Bette-Lee Fox, Library Journal, starred review
Jackie Pray
An Unfinished Life has dysfunction and menace and clipped, big-sky dialogue that's as spare as Cormac McCarthy's work but with a warmer patina. The carefully paced story hides surprising flashes of humor inside telling detail.
— USA Today
Publishers Weekly
A sober reading by Amendola and Marx fits the slow pacing of Spragg's newest offering (following The Fruit of Stone), which uses spare, beautiful language to tell a tale of hardship, resentment and reconciliation in smalltown Wyoming. Both veteran narrators give strong performances, though Amendola does a better job than Marx in personifying the book's more idiosyncratic characters-such as the crippled cowboy, Mitch, or the spunky, nine-year-old Griff Gilkyson. A few aspects of the production seem out of sync, however. For one, the ominous music that introduces and concludes each disc is too heavy for the subject matter. It conveys a sense of impeding doom that would be more appropriate in a thriller or even a tale of imminent tragedy, rather than this ultimately hopeful story of tried but tender human relationships. The decision to use two readers also seems unnecessary, as the unpredictable shifts between narrators at chapter breaks shake the listener out of the story. Overall, the recording would have benefited from a simpler approach, but it still offers a stirring look at the importance of individual conflicts and emotions. Simultaneous release with the Knopf hardcover (Forecasts, Aug. 9). (Sept.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
This novel has been called a modern Western, but it is far more than that. When Jean, a 30-year-old widow with a 10-year-old daughter, Grif, is once again forced to leave a battering boyfriend, they set out to the only place they can go after their money runs out and their car breaks down—back to her husband's father's ranch. Her father-in-law still believes that Jean was responsible for the car crash that killed his son, but he slowly warms to the granddaughter he didn't know he had. Grif, forever longing for a place to belong, finds solace in her quiet, reticent grandfather and his best friend Mitch, a black man he served with in the war and who now lies in pain after a brutal bear attack. Grif wheedles her way into their hearts and the story climaxes in a made-for-the-movies ending. Grif is the strong young girl character who seems to take care of her mother as much as her mother takes care of her, but the story is not sentimental or stereotypical. Some strong language and semi-graphic scenes make this unsuitable for the youngest middle schoolers, but high school students will appreciate this story. KLIATT Codes: SA—Recommended for senior high school students, advanced students, and adults. 2004, Random House, Vintage, 257p., Ages 15 to adult.
—Nola Theiss
Library Journal
"An unfinished life" adorns the gravestone of Griffin Gilkyson (1972-93). We never meet Griffin, but his life-or, to be more accurate, his death-infuses every page of Spragg's masterly second novel (after The Fruit of Stone). If Griffin had not died, his wife, Jean, wouldn't be jumping from man to man to man and finally running away from No. 4. With nowhere else to go, Jean and her nine-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Griff, make their way to Ishawooa, WY, home of her father-in-law, Einar. If Griffin were alive, maybe Einar wouldn't hate Jean and maybe his best friend, Mitch, wouldn't have been mauled by a grizzly bear. (Now Einar must inject Mitch each morning with morphine.) And if Griffin were alive, Griff would have known she had a grandfather. Spragg draws wonderful portraits, particularly of the old men and of this strong, young girl who doesn't want to make too much noise and anger the adults. Griff becomes the salve, the linchpin that secures her mother and grandfather to a place of acceptance and in so doing discovers her own place in the world. A film from Miramax is scheduled for December. Highly recommended for general fiction collections. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 5/1/04.]-Bette-Lee Fox, Library Journal Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

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Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Vintage Contemporaries Series
Edition description:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
5.19(w) x 7.96(h) x 0.56(d)

Read an Excerpt

The sapwood snaps and shifts in the low-bellied stove, and the heat swells up against the roofboards and weathered fir planking, and the whole small building seems to groan.

It's the first cool night of the fall-a good night for a sweat-and Einar adjusts his wet back and ass in the webbing of the lawn chair. He feels the full weight of his seventy years and wishes he'd thought to bring a towel to drape over the webbing, but he was in here just this spring and hadn't remembered one then either. He scoops a dipper of water from the pail beside the chair and casts it across the stovetop where it sizzles and steams.

He wishes he'd have known this was the way it was going to be.

"Some old son of a bitch should've explained getting old to me," he says aloud and then bows his head against the wet pulse of heat. "Some old son of a bitch probably did and I wasn't listening."

The sweat drips from his nose and chin.

He reaches his denim shirt from where he hung it on a nail, soaks it in the bucket and then stands to wring it and mop his face and chest.

He spreads the shirt over the chair and sits back down, staring at the chair that stands empty before him, both chairs raised up on this platform into the heat.

Through the west window he watches the amber moonlight on the pasture and remembers the fall they skidded in the fieldstones and mortared them into the foundation under this board floor. The building was Griffin's idea. He'd said: "Dad, I need it. I really do."
"You need a sauna?" Einar had asked.
"I'm a Viking," the boy said. "It's what the Vikings did."

All of this twenty years ago, Mitch helping them frame the walls and the headers for the door and windows, and Griffin just a boy, but already used to working with the diligence of a man. And not a boy who'd ever asked for much.

They put in a south-facing window, this one to the west, and a square of double-pane glass in the slanting roof so they could see the stars. And a smaller pane low in the east wall for the benefit of the boy's dog, so Karl could lie on the porch and stare in at them.

When they were finished, Griffin took each man by a hand, standing between them, and bowed his head. "God bless this place," he said. He was serious, original, not just repeating something he'd heard.

"Is there anything else you need?" Mitch had asked.

The boy shaded his eyes, looking up at the man. "You could sit in here with us." Mitch's face shone even blacker in the sun, like wet obsidian. "Even though I'm no Viking?" He bent down over the boy. "Even though my great-granddad was an African man?"
"Does that mean no?" Griffin asked.

Mitch shoved him away playfully, the way men roughhouse with boys. "I guess I won't," he said. "I believe I've sweated enough in this life already."

Einar smiles at the clarity of the memory. He works his jaw, and his ears pop as if he were descending from a great height. The old dog fidgets on the porch, then settles its grayed jowls on its crossed forepaws and stares in through the little window. His name's Karl, but it's not the original Karl, just another dog taken from the town shelter, worked and fed and given a place to rest and grow lame. The first Karl lies buried behind the barn. Dead and buried like his son, Griffin, and his wife, Ella.

He straightens in the chair and wonders if the dog wishes it had a boy for company. Not his boy, just some other kid. He wonders what it is that dogs long for, or if they long. Maybe they just wait patiently for some improvement in their lives. He thinks he's a man who knows something of waiting, but the heat's gotten to him and he feels his stomach come up and shorten his breath. He cracks a window and sucks at the draft of night air. He drops his head back and stares through the window in the roof.

Pegasus has risen in the dark sky, poised as if for a run of magic, or that's what he used to think. Now he looks at the stars and sees only a silent, uncaring witness, and tonight feels this press of steam-thick heat, smells the odor of living wood reduced to ash. No magic.

He pops a wooden match with his thumbnail and lights a candle on the shelf by his elbow. He shakes the match out and looks down at his shriveled thighs and worn knees. His legs are white as summer cloud, blue-veined. At least his arms and shoulders are still strong, and he tightens his chest, the muscles in his neck. To the empty chair he says, "I've always been puny through the hindquarters, from the get-go. That's not news."

He scoots forward on the chair and takes the quart Mason jar from the shelf, holds it below him and pisses it half full before setting it down by the water bucket. He thumbs the sweat from his eyebrows and blinks at the walls and shelves, at the fist-size chunks of agate and quartz, the petrified wood and half a dozen of the boy's favorite books. There're the hawk feathers he'd hung on the walls. The skull of a black baldy bull. A map of Norway cut out of a National Geographic, carefully, with a razor blade. One of Iceland. The picture of a bearded man in a horned helmet, and another of a tall black man with a spear, balanced on a single leg. Both from National Geographic, the Norseman and the Senegalese hunter. The boy saw himself as dangerous, raised as he was by the descendants of warriors.

Einar stares down at the dog again and thinks it would be a fine thing to have that kind of focus. To have a small window, with something to stare at on the other side. He wishes for his own window and wonders what he might see. He wonders if Mitch has gone to sleep for the night.

He pushes out of his chair and opens the door. He carries the jar at his side and steps to the edge of the porchboards and sloshes the piss out into the darkness. He stands steaming in the cool air. The dog shifts but doesn't rise, its hips so brittle with arthritis that it moves only when it must. Einar turns back to the doorway and says, "Just like old times."

The dog blinks its clouded eyes and yawns, and Einar thinks this is an animal that should be called out into the tall weeds and shot in the head and buried next to its namesake. But he knows Mitch would never stand for it. Mitch believes in suffering as a right, a burden, even sacred, for both man and beast.


She sits on the side of her bed and reaches back to run the flat of her hand over the sheet. She'd slept on her back, legs straight, arms at her sides. She can feel where the fabric's cool and where it's warm, just there, where her fingertips edge into the outline her sleeping body has made. She imagines the warmth whispering softly that she was here, but in a minute or two there'll be no proof she was ever in this bed, or even this trailer house, like she's invisible. She likes thinking that she can't be seen. It makes her smile.

She listens. There's the noise of her mother in the kitchen, the gurgle of the coffeemaker, water running at the sink. She stands and smooths the wrinkles on the bottom sheet, pulls up the top sheet and cotton blanket and tucks them tight, then fluffs the pillow at the head of the bed, her small hands working in the dim light. She climbs onto the bed and edges a fingernail under the heads of the thumbtacks pressed into the wallboard above the window. The tacks hold the brown bath towel she puts up every evening for a curtain, and they've worn divots in the wallboard, and little particles always fall out when she removes them, like sawdust, but she doesn't think the wallboards are made of wood. She doesn't fool herself about much. She knows everything in this trailer's fake, that it just tricks you into thinking it's real.

The window faces west, and she started putting the towel up in the summer so the setting sun wouldn't overheat her bed. But now it's the end of September, and she's grown used to sleeping in the darkened room. She folds the towel and places it on her pillow. Outside, a tractor is pulling a machine along the edge of a field, the cornstalks falling as it passes. She thinks she might ask Roy what this machine is called, not today, but sometime later. Roy puts guardrails up along the county roads, and since he needs machines to do that she thinks he might know what this one is called.

On the north side of the cornfield there's the interstate, with the cars and big trucks heading east and west filled with people who know nothing about her. She wonders if anyone ever looks her way, or imagines what it's like to live here. If they even notice the three crooked rows of old trailer houses, whose trees aren't big enough yet to climb or to shade the flat metal roofs. The dog next door barks, and she remembers it's Thursday and the garbage truck has turned in off the lane. She's never heard the neighbor dog's name.

She kneels by the bed and pulls out her suitcase and lifts it up on the blanket. Its clasp is rusted, its corners scuffed and peeling.

The first Thursday morning she saw the garbage truck she thought it looked a lot safer than the trailer houses, and all summer she prayed that if a tornado came it would be on a Thursday morning when she could hide in the garbage truck. Then the tornado could crumple this fakey trailer and suck Roy right up from the broken trailer parts and put him down somewhere else. She knows there's no use in killing the man who lives in the trailer. Dead or alive, her mother would just replace him. Before Roy in this trailer in Iowa there was Hank in the trailer in Florida, and before Hank there was Johnny in the little house that smelled like cat pee, and before Johnny there was Bobby. She can't remember Bobby very well, but there've been four. Everybody's mother is good at something. Her mother's good at finding the same man, no matter where she lives.

Her mother tells her that children are a calendar. She says it at least once a month, like it's some new idea she thought up all by herself. Her mother says that if she, Griff Evans Gilkyson, had never been born, never learned to walk, dress herself and speak, then she herself could still think she was a young woman. Griff thinks her very own calendar is her mother's men. Four men. About a year and a half for each one, and before that she was too little to keep track. She shrugs and whispers, "So, I'm nine and a half."

She strips off the T-shirt she slept in and folds it and lays it in the bottom of the suitcase. The suitcase smelled of mothballs and mildew when her mother bought it at the John 3:16 thrift shop, and it still does. She opens her hands flat and presses down against her chest. No titties, she thinks. She's still safe. She thinks that one morning she'll wake up with breasts, maybe the start of hair between her legs, and everything will begin to go wrong. Just like things have gone wrong for her mother. Breasts attract trailer houses and pickup trucks and lots and lots of tears. She wishes her father were still alive. If he weren't dead it would be safe to let her titties grow.

She puts on a pair of tan corduroy pants, a ribbed cotton chemise and a striped polo shirt. She laces her tennis shoes and opens the bottom drawer of her dresser. The dresser and the desk are made of the same pressed particleboard, and she likes them because they don't even try to look like wood. The drawers stick, so she has to be careful to keep them quiet.

She empties all the dresser drawers into the suitcase, every piece of clothing she owns. When she gets a bigger suitcase she'll get more clothes. No sense in owning something she'd need to leave behind. That wouldn't make any sense at all.

She slips her schoolbooks and notebooks into a small backpack. The backpack is orange, with zippered pockets on its sides for her pencils, pens and Magic Markers. Roy bought it for her. He told her orange was a good color for Iowa. "You'll be easy to spot whether there's snow or not," he'd said. "Some hunter won't think you're just a little brown rabbit and shoot you for dinner." She hates the backpack. She prays the tornado will get that too.

She kneels beside her bed and slips her hand between the mattress and box spring. When she feels the coolness of her diary she stops and listens. There's still just the sounds her mother's making in the kitchen, so she slides it out. The cover is lavender patent leather, so shiny she can see her reflection in it. She sits at her desk and opens the diary to its last page: THINGS I HATE ABOUT MY MOTHER.

1. I hate that she's pretty.
2. I hate that she thinks she's not pretty.
3. I hate that she works at the dry cleaners. (But I like Kitty, her boss.)
4. I hate that she doesn't know karate.
5. I hate that she likes the same music Roy likes.
6. I hate that she doesn't believe in God or angels.
7. I HATE that she makes us live in Iowa.

And this morning she adds:

8. I hate it that she's not really, really hairy. So hairy that only kangaroos would fall in love with her.

She's always especially liked that kangaroos travel with their own little pouches, like luggage.

She closes the diary and puts it in her suitcase and cracks her door open, then steps into the hallway and holds her breath. She listens. Her mother shuts off the water in the kitchen. Her mother and Roy's bedroom is at the end of the hallway and the door's closed. The bathroom is the next room toward the kitchen.

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Unfinished Life 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 26 reviews.
MrsO More than 1 year ago
I usually pass books on that I've read to a thrift shop, but think I will keep this one on my bookshelf just in case I want to read it a second time. Einar and Mitch and Griff were instantly admirable and believable and the story was a little bit of everything from sad to funny to suspenseful. Each person was so well described that I could picture them in my mind as I read and didn't want the story to end because I don't know when I will find another story that I've enjoyed so much.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I loved this novel, if you want a broken woman who needed something in her life and a man who needed healing then this is the book for you. I has almost everything you could have always wanted sex, violence, true love (not in a relationship kind of way), and family. I would strongly recommend this book for everyone who enjoys a good laugh and cry (I loved the movie also)... Pick up this book and read it you will fall in love with it as much as I have,
Guest More than 1 year ago
Mark Spragg's An Unfinished Life is an absolute treasure! Without a doubt one of the best novels of recent years. Exquisite! Highly recommended.
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AZ_Jim More than 1 year ago
Wow. Mark Spragg manages to do more with a sentence than most writers do with a chapter. The spare, beautiful language reminds me very much of Kent Haruf, who is evidently a friend of Spragg's. He creates characters that you care about and root for. Several times, I would stop reading to make sure that I took time to savor what I just read. I think that the best Spragg book that I've read is "Where Rivers Change Directiions," but this one comes in second.
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words917 More than 1 year ago
As a student of literature and fiction writing, to say I read a lot is an understatement. However, I rarely get to immerse myself in a book without seeing it through my rather brutal, analytical lens. Fortunately, Spragg's beautifully rendered narrative just wouldn't have it. The raw humanity of each character and the compassion with which their stories are unfolded is stunning, and there is much to be learned from the tenderness and forgiveness, the open-hearted approach to life's most wounded, and the blessing of lasting love and friendship that Spragg mines to bring this story to the page. I can't say nearly enough of this generous novel, or share it with as many people as ought to experience it. I've already added Spragg's other work to my shelf. I can't wait.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
Mark Spragg's books should be bound in leather. They are classics. An Unfinished Life about ordinary people in Montana is lyrical, insightful, deep with emotion. I will keep it on my shelf to read again.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is one of the most perfectly constructed, lovingly rendered novels I have ever read. Each character is portrayed with equal depth and we are able to see the humanity in each of them. I am an avid reader and, although I read many good books, the journey I took with this patchwork family was one of the best I've ever taken. Each character is rawly real and develops through the book. This is one of those books where the characters live on in your head long after the last page. The really great thing is that the author is able to zero in on the pain and the joy that each of us feels, until we are led to ah-ha moments, and this book is full of them. READ THIS BOOK!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I like this book. It has it all, friendship, romance, family, and conflict. My only critisism was that it ended too soon.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I read a lot of books and this is the only one so far this year to knock me off my feet. The characters were real individuals with very authentic scenarios. I felt like I was a part of their lives and wanted the story to continue long after I finished the book. I generally rent all my books from the library but would consider purchasing this book to add to my collection. A great read for any book lover out there.
harstan More than 1 year ago
Ten years have passed since Griffin Gilkyson died in an accident at the age of twenty-one. His ¿An unfinished life', as etched on his gravestone, has impacted everyone who loved him. His wife Jean has leaped in and out of the beds of four abusive males since she lost her spouse. His daughter Griff never knew him as she is only nine and a half. His father Einar blames his daughter-in-law for Griffin¿s death, has never met his granddaughter, and wants to die but not before Jean is dead. Finally his best friend, Korean War buddy Mitch would not have been nearly killed by a bear......................... Living in a trailer with a nasty SOB, Jean worries about Griff and decides she needs to regain control of her life. Her only hope is for her and her daughter to buy time at Einar¿s home in Ishawooa, Wyoming though she knows her in-law detests her. She believes it is time for Griff and Einar to meet and for everyone to move on though keep the fond memories of the beloved link that ties all of them together. However, can Einar forgive even though he desperately wants to hug his granddaughter, Griffin¿s only meaningful memory?............................ Though this intriguing family drama is a five tissue box tearjerker that plays on the readers¿ emotions, Mark Spragg does it so well that fans will call him a virtuoso. The story line is obviously character driven with the quartet containing different personalities. There is a suspense laden twist adds tension which takes away from the real action of four people trying to exist together without relating.................... Harriet Klausner
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Guest More than 1 year ago
This book had no surprises. I could 'see' where the book was going at every turn.