Poverty does not ask for pity. Not always. And not without intent. But it certainly doesn’t ask for pity in the works of Sherman Alexie. It merely asks for your time and your emotion, just like any other book.
I ended up almost crying a half an hour into this book, listening to it on the subway. It never got quite as painful and pure as that again, but it stayed just as good.
I love books that blur the lines between what is fiction and what is real. Fantasies that make you doubt the real world for a moment–and fictions that make you wonder “how much of this actually happened? how much of this is actually happening?” This is a book like that. And at this book’s core is a soul, which feels genuine in a way that most authors only dream of.