![]() ![]() ![]() High-toned Salter strides into the roadhouse of “Dirty Realism”-ranch hands nursing beers, waitresses with kids the few and eloquent belongings of itinerants the spare sayings of old men worked to the bone-and emerges with a story that Andre Dubus would envy. ![]() I turned to the final story, “Dirt,” last night, expecting it to do no more than elegantly divert that last half hour of consciousness, dance in the remaining half inch of my nightcap. “The Cinema” was a disappointment and most of the rest merely ok. I wouldn’t want a woman who hadn’t already lived a few lives, and so the title story “Dusk,” and “Foreign Shores,” stories of durable divorcees, autumn roses, seemed to me the most effective (affective is what I mean). Where Town is a gleaming oak bar, Country a superb yet forsaken woman who drinks a little too much (and has a good chance of dying in a riding accident), and Europa a precocious gamine who is really down for anything, you just have to ask. ![]()
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