Deliver Me From Nowhere

Finished this book, Deliver Me From Nowhere by Tennessee Jones. I enjoyed its slow ploddingness, its colors, its desperation and lack of redemption. When I found it in an indy bookstore in LA, I had to buy it. And I don't buy books often. But ever since Tijuana (already the city has become a time and an occurence, something of the past), I have been on a book buying binge. Something about wanting to see the books physically, to have them, to be able to lend them to friends. To remember them spacially as mine.

Jones is trans and queer but largely in his stories writes around these facts, writes the space around our lives and thereby exposes what is at the core even more clearly. In my humble opinion. Also, he is from Eastern Tennessee, where he was raised, but now lives and writes from Brooklyn, where he works at Soft Skull Press. A rockin press, by the way. But the settings of the stories in this book are always Southern or Midwestern rural settings, steeped in country talk and walk. So, his literary moving around and going back compelled me to read them just from the cover. And the stories held me close to them—about poor white folk, about trouble and conflict, violence, hiding class and ridding yourself of heavy baggage. The stories moved me. They stay with me. Get a copy. Or email me (or leave a comment) and I can put you on the list of people to lend the book to. Since I own it now.

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