This is an odd and depressing book. Far from Frank Norris or Jack London or Sinclair Lewis or authors intent to describe the homesteading life; there is no manifesto here. There is no bright definition between the good and evil, nor an epic struggle against the land and climate, nor a guerrilla war of one class against another. All the folks here get on rather well considering that two of the three women characters are murders and all of the men are but domesticated farm animals. More (or less) the book lacks even the basic description that would link the reader to the land; no colorful seasonal changes, no waves of migrating birds, no surf on the shore, no simple enjoyment of the earth as the day begins. No Steinbeck here. No Barry Lopez, no Ted Morgan. We have here the novel of the ruminants; grubbing, rutting, and wondering what it is all about. Put this book up in your medicine cabinet; try to read 20 pages whenever you cannot sleep.