Hollingshead has a hand of mixing different levels of weirdness together in a way that fascinate me but are even to an extent retraceable. Notice for instance how the protagonist of one of the short stories is under the influence of hallucinogenic mushrooms and then tries to leave his front door. This scene is brilliantly described. These different levels of weirdness create a very strong atmosphere that is defining the unfolding story. I very much liked the mood of the gas station in "The Roaring Girl" or the strange people who come and show some slides to the protagonist family. Hollingshead is almost unique - the only other writer, and also a short story writer at that, is Rick Bass ("The Watch").

Greg Hollingshead writes with the same measured and crafty precision of Raymond Carver, but with a great blindsiding sense of humour that is patently Canadian. The first two stories especially blew me away and had me laughing out loud because they were so good. Get on the bandwagon for Hollingshead now. He's a good one.

Holding the book in your hand, or as closely as you can, you are suddenly, unexplicably aware of how close you can be and yet still be separated from the physicality of its existence, the glossy surface through which appears the cover design and the words, the chemical compunds which make up the ink, the paper itself produced by methods of which those outside the industry know little more than the shadow-remembrances from their social studies classes and discussions of manufacturing, the great trees cut and mulched and pulped, the paper wound onto enormous rolls and shipped to the printers, cut to size and prepared for the presses, stamped mechanically and mercilessly with the ink, bound and fitted and trimmed and glued and wrapped and boxed, the product it has become touted and promoted and sold and shipped and sold again.

I could go on...

Holligshead's style is -- how shall I say -- a BIT overly decriptive. When I read one of the editorial reviews of this novel, I thought the writer's complaint about the detailed description of the breakfast plate was a little picky. Upon reading this book, I relaize that this example was only the tip of the iceberg.

Still, it's a good story, and the main characters are interesting, if not necessarily admirable. Caroline Troyer, the healer of the title, is extraordinary -- and Tim Wakelin, the recently-widowed reporter who has come to the small town on the Canadian Shield to meet and write about her, is very believable as a man searching blindly for a way to get over the loss of his wife and find some meaning in his life. Ross Troyer, Caroline's father, is both despicable and pitiable -- he is a classic case of someone who is so ignorant of the forces that move him through life that he hasn't a clue about the damage he does. Several of the other characters seem to be little more than excuses for intermittent interaction.

I had to force myself through this novel -- although I'll admit that it got easier about 2/3 of the way through it. I suppose in the end it was worth it to follow these characters' story through to its conclusion, but I don't know how heatily I can recommend this book. The author's verbosely overburdened style made it the literary equivalent of slogging through ankle-deep mud, uphill -- reading it actually made me tired.

I've read plenty of books in my life in which sentences (and descriptions) went on for pages and pages -- Garbiel Garcia Marquez comes to mind. In the case of Garcia Marquez's writing, the passages were absolutely alive with light. In the case of THE HEALER, it only added to my ability to share with the characters the hopelessness of being lost in the Canadian woods, trudging forward out of instinct, not knowing where or when I would come out of it.

If you're appreciative of writing that can do absolute wonders with an amazing economy of words, read William Trevor or Mark Salzman.

I've got to rest now...