What do You think about Rust And Bone: Stories (2006)?
As a collection, Rust & Bone is problematic. Davidson is deft with a phrase and has his finger on the truth. But this collection of stories featuring washed up boxers, drunks, repo men, amputees and sex addicts begins to strains its credibility. It becomes simply too much.Any of these stories stands well on its own. The characters are memorable and their stories contain brilliant flashes of humour. But mid-way through the collection, one can't help but feel that Davidson is piling it on too thick. You imagine him sequencing the stories: think that protagonist was degraded, do ya? How about this, then: an exploding penile prosthesis. How'd ya like them apples? Some of it is unmistakably gratuitous, an attempt to stake out a position as a writer who can shock. And that is Davidson's weakness.Richard Ford's early novels contain bouts of violence that are utterly absent from his later novels and his acclaimed short stories. Thomas McGuane's early novels are full of smart-aleck wordplay and wild, larger than life situations that over time became more muted. Young writers rely on bold strokes and bright colours; with skill and maturity their pallette becomes more muted, their brush strokes more subtle. You have to hope the same process will temper Davidson's penchant for depravity. Notably, the final story of the collection is a break from the rest. "The Apprentice's Guide to Modern Magic" is the most emotionally complex story of the collection. It's also the only one written in the third person, where Davidson's prose is less assured.Whatever the numbing effect of these stories as a whole, though, individually they are very good. "Rust & Bone," "The Rifleman," "On Sleepless Roads" and "Life in the Flesh," in particular, stand out.
—A.J.
I cannot give a decent review (or start rating) as I was unable to read the last two stories :( My bag was stolen with this book in it... honestly :( In a way this is actually quite fitting because the world described in all of the short stories is gritty and tough. My life is pretty nice so the theft was a little bit of life imitating art!The people and situations in the book are very dark. Imagine a sliding scale for fiction... with fairy-tales (all sweetness and light) on the left, reality (self-explanatory for most) in the middle and nightmares (burning fries of hell) on the right... then this book is halfway between reality and nightmare. It's gritty and violent and at times very difficult to read. It is realistic and believable but most of the time the really bad thing that you hope won't happen, happens. Yet, I wanted to read on. I wanted to find out what happened to the characters because you cannot help but care about them. I do suspect that this engendered empathy could be due to the similarities between ALL of the men in the book. They were all the same type of person with only the subtlest of differences. So from one story to the next you don't have to grapple with introductions to a new protagonist, you can simply carry over your assumptions and prejudice. The author never really portrayed any gritty women; this was a major disappointment for me. Also though I enjoyed all of this similarity in the character it suggests that maybe the author isn't as good at creating/understanding other personality types. This is a major failing because the world has nice people in it too... people who (view spoiler)[ don't need to be paraplegic to question the fact that they did nothing while the suspected a woman was being raped (hide spoiler)]
—Katie Mcsweeney
Overall it was an enjoyable read. There are moments when Davidsons use of language is simply brilliant, others where he falls back on old metaphors. I found his detailed descriptions of the processes of violence unerving and slightly disturbing, and this I feel is his strength. He is able to make me recoil, to make me feel uncomfortable but at the same time compelled to read on, perhaps even to finish the paragraph and find calmer section later on. Perhaps because it stirs feelings of my own brutish humanity.
—Jonathan
