Have you ever read a book which sort of sneaks inside your mind and stays there, in a subtle way that makes you want to wheel around and say “hey now,” but you get the sense that if you do, the book’s elusive power will have vanished? That’s kind of how I felt reading The Power of the Dog. It was a subtle, quiet sort of book, and at first it seemed to meander in no particular direction, but then suddenly everything started to pull together, and I was compelled to finish it.

The author actually grew up in the environment he wrote about, which lends an air of truth to the book. I loved the language, which was often stark and sparse, yet extremely descriptive. Savage brought the characters together with just a few strokes of the pen, provided a background which almost seemed to speak through omissions. It’s a showing sort of book, not a telling kind of book, and that, I suspect, is why it packs such a punch.

It’s a book about arbitrary evil, and the depths of bitterness which can skulk in someone’s heart. It was also kind of a sobering lesson about what happens when you hold grudges and anger so long that you’ve almost forgotten your original reasoning. The Power of the Dog may just be my favourite book this month, and I suspect that I will be reading it again in the reasonably near future.

Demographics:

The Power of the Dog, by Thomas Savage. Published 1967, 276 pages. Fiction.