Jesus Out to Sea

Not given to reading collections of short stories as a rule, I decided to give "Jesus Out to Sea" by James Lee Burke a chance as the positive reviews were luring. I was deeply rewarded for taking the bait. Each story, written with powerful, lyrical, penetrating prose, reached inside of my psyche and touched me so deeply that I am still reeling hours after finishing. Tales of childhoods spent in New Iberia, Louisiana recollect the harshness of poverty, school bullies, disappearing parents, and crime balmed only by sense of community, patriotism, and hard held friendships. Raw reflections of wars fought on battlefields and inside the soul bleed truth of one's fragility. The final story, an embittered homage to Katrina, shines a seething spotlight on this horrific event. Not since reading "A Tidewater Morning" by William Stryon have I been so profoundly moved by genuine writing. "Jesus Out to Sea" will be a permanent fixture on my bookshelves. A brilliant piece of literature and an author as gifted as James Lee Burke deserves to be read and praised by the generations.

Many authors of yesteryear sharpened their teeth on the art of short stories. Although we don't see as many collections these days, the art is still alive and James Lee Burke is a consummate pro. "Jesus Out to Sea" sticks mostly to the haunts we've come to know and love through Burke's writing: New Orleans, Montana, and memories of Vietnam. Some of the characters are ones we've brushed past in his novels. Others give glimpses into what I can only suspect are Burke's growing-up years. Burke, as usual, explores themes of abuse, , retribution and revenge, as well as hope and redemption. He gives us multifaceted people, rarely using strict black and white for characterizations. The details are rich and vibrant, sometimes gritty and painful. From the open-ended conclusion of "Winter Light" to the poetic justice in "A Season of Regret," we read of tension-filled situations. We discover childhood hardships in "Texas City, 1947" and "The Molester," then move to recent horrors of Hurricane Katrina in "Jesus Out to Sea." Throughout, I knew I was in the hands of a master craftsman, a writer who refuses to candy-coat or misrepresent the world around us, yet also stands steadfastly in his belief that life is worth living.

Burke's latest collection belongs with Hemingway's story collection, or The Dubliners, or any "serious" collection of short stories. Burke's "The Molester," "Why Bugsy Siegel Was My Friend," and "The Burning Of The Flag" are as stark, eerie, and important as the stuff I read in college as an Engligh major. "Jesus Out To Sea" adds a disturbing insider's view of post-Katrina New Olreans. "The Night Johnny Ace Died" is maybe as close as Burke has come to writing a "romantic" story steeped in his musical roadhouse South. Even the stories taken from characters in several Dave Robicheaux novels and renamed (for the most part) stand alone well outside of the book format. I enjoy all of Burkes novels, and I enjoyed this collection more than The Convict collection. Burke seems to get better and better, and I anxiously await the next Dave Robicheaux and Billy Bob Holland book.

Yeah, I don't like short story collections, I don't buy short story collections. I don't read short story collections even when I find them lying around for free at my doctor's office. But, heck, this one was from James Lee Burke, so I though...well okay, maybe just this once. And that turned out to be one of my better recent calls. I'm still not going to start buying short story collections, but this one was a delight, a pure and perfect joy to read. These stories showcase Burke's evocative, lyrical prose in its purest, most distilled form. Characters that dig their way straight into your heart, images that could make you cry, dialogue you could dance to. This is the antedote to the quick-frozen, assembly-line prose apparently so beloved by most mainsteam publishers these days. Buy a copy. Buy two copies and give one to someone else who loves language as much as you do. They don't write 'em like this anymore.