Stones for Ibarra: National Book Award Winner

I found Stones for Ibarra to be excellent. Previous reviews have picked it apart in ways I consider missing the forest for the trees or perhaps the mine for the ore, to stretch a metaphor. I loved Doerr's poetic prose, her lack of need to explain everything to death, her desire to not be wed to stuctures imposed by others. It was simply a sweet though somewhat dark, and compelling memoir of a woman who was just on the edge of understanding, and Doerr puts us as the reader right there with her, "feeling the place" not understanding it totally. I do understand the concerns voiced about stereotyping Mexicans, but don't agree with the reveiwer from Miami. People everywhere kill, die, whore, and suffer in their lives. But there are also priests and nuns, storekeepers and miners who sacrifice for the good of others. The reveiwer sees what he/she wants. What I saw was in spirit consistent with my experience of Mexico- that there is a certain acceptance of fate, a certain reluctance to fight the tides of life which can lead to occasional disaster, or as Sara Everton says "an accident." I think few closing lines can match "Bring stones." (Maybe Norman Maclean's "I am haunted by waters") I found myself reliving the accidents of my life, and asking myself over and over to bring stones.

I came online to order this book for the book club I'm in in Grand Coulee, Washington (Quite a Motley Crew living along the Columbia River). I read Stones for Ibarra a year ago. It simply was one of those books that I couldn't put down. I have reflected on content in this book several times since that read. Thank goodness Harriet Doerr weaves her tale in a reasonable number of pages without submitting to the temptation to overtell or persuade. I wasn't bored and distracted like usual with many contemporary novels. This book is written beautifully. What I didn't understand intrigues me more about this book than what I did think I understood. This book merits discussion with the gals and guys of all races and creeds that read.

The comments by some of the reviewers are instructive more about themselves than about the work they review. The reviewer from Miami states that the narrative is exactly what one would one expect from such a character recounting her experiences to,let us say, her daughter. That is exactly the point of the book. The main character is not a sociologist. She simply received impressions, as most of us do, when we travel to Mexico or Greece or Italy, without either wholesale condemnation of people who live differently from middle-class Americans, nor extensive exoneration of their behavior by recourse to sociological explication of the effects of the history of exploitation and oppression. Let us understand plainly: the narrator is not the author, but a narrative voice (a character in the story) whose observations must correspond to the limitations of her concerns and her remembrances. The narrator plainly does not have any deep understanding of Mexico (she is no Octavio Paz), but that is much of the point of the story. Much of the value of the book is precisely the revelation of the disconnect between the Americans and the Mexicans - the inability to comprehend each other. If the narrator were truly to understand the Mexicans, or they her, the whole point of the book would have been lost. The reader from Seattle, on the other hand, has taken too many literature courses: she insists on a central character and a motif - preferably some kind of symbolic motif. The narrator in the story is not apt to construct her reminiscences in such a way as to revolve them about some central motif. She herself is the central character - everything is seen through her eyes and takes significance in terms of her own fate - culminating in the death of her husband and her departure from Mexico. Mexico remains unchanged. She has not the capacity, the inclination, or the will to change Mexico, or to change herself. To insist that she be different is to demand a different book. Finally, the Miami reader says that John Steinbeck was only joking: perhaps she may recall the tale of the young Mexican woman with many children who could afford only beans for her children: the American servicemen in California took pity on her and provided meat for her children. They all took deathly sick at the change in diet, and when they recovered, she found herself pregnant again. There is humor in his work, as well as in Stones for Ibarra, but it is the kind of humor that leads to redemption: the very counterpoint of mockery and denigration. Revelation of the disconnect between cultures can lead to thoughtfulness, which is the precursor of sympathetic understanding. Let us not confuse the characters with the authors, and let us pray that Steinbeck and Doerr find the readers they deserve.

How could a person NOT love this book? By the novel's end we can almost feel, smell, and taste the isolated town of Ibarra. Intelligent and beautifully written, Doerr's tale is at times hysterical, enigmatic, poignant, heartbreaking, and beautiful. To read this story is a captivating experience, and when Sara Everton takes the final look at her empty home, one cannot help but join in her tearful plea: "Bring, stones!"

This is so much more than a love story, more than a memoir, more than an armchair tour of Mexico. The depth of the characters and the beauty of the narrative make this one of the best books I've every read (and I've read a bunch!) As you read the book, you know that fate is inevitable, yet you enjoy every step of the way. Living among native Mexicans, the American couple try to fit in, yet stand out. However over time they claim their own unique place in the town's community. Every minor character contributes to the novel, creating a setting that is unforgetable. The plot seems secondary to the characters and setting, yet it takes you in and sticks with you. A must read