#sensory-imagery

#sensory-imagery

Grainier, an orphan sent to Idaho by train at the age of 6 or 7 with a destination pinned to his coat, is an ordinary person-a laborer who makes a living building railroads, joining seasonal logging crews, and, as an older man, hauling freight with a wagon. "He'd had one lover-his wife, Gladys-owned one acre of property, two horses, and a wagon," Johnson sums up Grainier's life, near the end of the novella, in a catalog of experience that neatly pins him as a creature of his time, class, and place:

Forget about apples and oranges nothing rhymes with orange anyway. Never mind those plums that William Carlos Williams sneaked from the icebox. The most poetic fruit of all is the blackberry. Not the mushy sugar bombs packed into plastic clamshells at the supermarket. Those are insipid, bland, prosaic. I mean the ragged, spicy volunteers that grow untended at the edge of a meadow or the side of a road. The kind you go out and pick in late summer or early fall. You'd be amazed at how many of those end up in poems.