Rudy Wilson’s The Red Truck. From the book:
Teddianne ran out of the house from the backdoor and up over the front yard hill. Parked on the street was Christ. It looked like a red truck.
It sat, facing down the hill.
“It’s too big!” she cried. “I can’t get in it. It hurts; the truck, it’s too big for my heart.”
She pressed her hand to her chest.
But then Teddianne fit in it. She got in it. She opened up and got in it.
In the South, in the wintertime, the ground sometimes sparkles with the morning frost. It didn’t snow very often and the thin white would be gone by noon. They shot off firecrackers and Roman candles around Christmastime.
One year Teddianne got the flying bird, with the painted face. One winter she got a tattoo put on. It would be there forever. One year she tied a long red ribbon to the wooden gate in the back, down by the shed. And one day, in the winter, when she came outside, she saw a red truck.
From the 1987 Kirkus review:
Here’s a short first novel that demands, and merits, rereading–one of those dense and difficult books you grow to admire as its complex structure slowly reveals its purpose and meaning… Wilson’s hypersensitivity to primary colors, his aberrant Biblical imagery, and his unyieldingly terse prose brilliantly serve his mournful tale.
From Peter Markus’ recommendation:
For me it’s a novel that is pure hallucination and is the kind of book that I return to again and again in order to recapture that initial rush that language in its purest, most musical form can offer to us.
From an essay in The Missouri Review:
Rudy Wilson’s writing is tangible. It’s big and bright, and fever-like. I don’t exactly put The Red Truck down; it’s more like I wake up from it.
From Rudy Wilson’s interview with Alec Niedenthal:
The book, well, once it was about something more and then became more like a flash of senses, and some pain and love maybe… it’s an odd story about sick misfits, but maybe they could love.
First posted: Wednesday, January 30th, 2013.