By Tom McNeal
On the age of 17, Randall Hunsacker shoots his mother's boyfriend, steals a motor vehicle and springs just about killing himself. His moment probability lies in a small Nebraska farm city, the place the landmarks contain McKibben's Mobil Station, Frmka's Superette, and an indication that claims The Wages of Sin is Hell. this is often Goodnight, a spot so ingrown and provincial that Randall calls it "Sludgeville"-until he begins taking into account it as domestic.
In this pitch-perfect novel, Tom McNeal explores the currents of wish, ardour, and cruelty underneath the outside of the yankee heartland. In Randall, McNeal creates an outcast whose redemption lies in Goodnight, an odd, small, yet finally embracing neighborhood the place Randall will motivate worry and adulation, win the affection of an attractive woman and approximately throw all of it away.
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Extra resources for Goodnight, Nebraska
The attraction of such a figure never palls, but becomes greater the more you look at it, for you always wonder what this energy would become were it un leashed: a whirlwind perhaps, or thunder and lightning. Thus it is that Greek art has continued to hold a wealth of meaning for generation after generation down through the centuries. Were the figure to move, all the great dignity of mankind which is dormant in the enormous potential force would be expressed. In the course of expressing this, how ever, the figure would be forced to change to some other position in which a different set of conditions prevailed.
Presently, as I sat there beside the mountain path, beneath a sky already dimmed by the early evening of spring, the gentle and soothing sound of a packhorse driver’s song broke through into my reverie. It was a song full of tender ness and compassion, yet somewhere locked in the depths there pulsed an irrepressible light-heartedness. I could not get it out of my head that the voice was coming from a figure in a painting. I scrawled the following lines slantwise across the page. Swifter than the deer, a song comes on ahead through the spring rain.
40 stairs. In front of me all the time were that same red obi and that same taper, and it seemed as though we were going along the same passage and down the same staircase again and again. Already I had the feeling of being a painted figure moving about on a canvas. When she had come to serve supper, she had apologised for putting me in one of the family rooms, but had said that since nobody had been there recently, the guest rooms had not been dusted. Now, having made my bed, she wished me good night, and went out of the room.
Goodnight, Nebraska by Tom McNeal