Miss Kansas City

Joan Frank's first novel, Miss Kansas City (a wonderfully ironic title), is a masterpiece. I read her award-winning short story collection, Boys Keep Being Born, and loved her writing so much that I've been waiting for another book from her. Now, with this one, I am even more awed at her range. Along with the drama of love and loss and resilience (that quality - that almost infinite adaptability - which, uniquely, makes us human), she leaves us with a wealth of insight and of wisdom. She's wonderfully good at delineating what she calls the "unconscious male" (in spite of her love for those pesky trouble-makers). Yet she allows us into the inner spaces of both her male and female characters, each caught up in love (or obsession) and yearning. She opens us up to the gulf of loneliness within each isolated sex. She keeps us on our toes, surprises us. Then, reaching beyond the personal, she gives us wholly believable scenes of California's takeoff into its heady new computerized world, along with, already, intimations of its collapse. She's the true chronicler of our twentieth-century nation-state and of the human soul.