Ravaged

Perhaps it made a certain sense that, in a week in which the last two cities in which I've lived witnessed a slaying by samurai sword and a murder victim stuffed in a wall, I picked up my first Richard Price novel. I've heard good things about Price's writing for years: set in gritty, violent urban environments, his work (he wrote Clockers, and several episodes for The Wire, among other things) is relentlessly forceful, but also involves a nuanced attention to contemporary dialogue and life on the margins of society and the law. So, last Monday, I put Cleo in the stroller and wandered into the public library to grab their copy of Samaritan.

A good read, indeed: I steamed through it, from initial assault to final bittersweet irony, in a few days. As advertised, it was taut, intelligent, tough. But there was also a significant surprise awaiting me, as one of the book's primary themes centered about the relationship between a dad and his 12-year-old daughter.

Price is a father of two daughters himself, and he's fully alert to the incredibly complex network of expectations, glances, reluctances, resentments, and joys that can often characterize family relationships. Rather than turn this into an essay on Price's attitudes towards parenting, though, I thought I'd let you off easy, by simply quoting one of my favorite passages. So here you are, on page 101:

"Ray sat in his living room pretending to watch the tape of Buffy the Vampire Slayer that he had made the night before, but really just studying his daughter, cat-curled in front of the TV, the girl a graceful swirl. From her folded-under legs to the long sweep of her spine to the swan arc of her neck to the slope of her profile and the smallish features there, her eyes both mournful and attentive."

Yes, yes: as a father, goals temporarily evaporate or recede in importance. You try to watch one thing, but your eyes and your thoughts consistently return to a new polestar. You try to blog as she sleeps, but you end up watching her sleep.