Joanna Ruocco’s Dan begins with Melba Zuzzo standing in her yard chewing tiredly on several pieces of gum. It is hard to say precisely what happens next. Why? Because Dan is a dreamlike quagmire of beautiful prose that follows Melba’s wandering attention as it moves from topic to topic, recollecting various subjects in rich and pleasurable detail in an attempt to explain, well, anything.

The town doctor pretends not to recognize Melba, yet nonetheless leaves her empty gel caps as gifts. People die from helium poisoning while filling campaign balloons for the local elections. The existence of horses is denied. Small barrel fires stoked by tube socks burn brightly in the unprofitable hosiery district at night.

The flow of storytelling is both mirthful and merciless, absurd yet mundane. Just as Melba cannot escape the hamlet of Dan, the reader cannot escape the relentlessly shifting prose. But then again, why would anyone want to? With subtle-yet-hardworking underlying structure, Dan is in our estimation perhaps the finest piece of literature written since the turn of the century. c/o The enduringly lovely Dorothy Publishing Project.

Perfect for: Lovers of rhythmic storytelling who suspect that life might be conspiring against them.

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