Like Annie Proulx and Cormac McCarthy, T.C. Boyle hasn't just invented a fictional universe. His books have become an ecosystem, and in each new work, that landscape is the ultimate character.
If a Boyle story takes place in a desert, there's bound to be a violent death; if in a futuristic world, a dystopian perversion. In Boyle's universe, Mother Nature always gets the last laugh.
So when "San Miguel," his latest historical novel, opens on a sea-swept island off the coast of California, there is little doubt that the people who find themselves there will have little choice about how they got there.
Marantha Waters, twice married, childless and dying of consumption, didn't want to come -- her grasping, sheep-farming husband took her to San Miguel. And he's determined to remain until their shearing operation has made some headway.
Boyle is one of the most stylish, electric writers alive. Here, though, he puts away all the razzle-dazzle of his toolkit to write his way into the heart and mind of a woman with diminishing horizons.
The chapters of this book are short, the events each one portrays consist of small gradations of the same -- a traveler passes, a meal is taken, more blood is coughed up. Boyle's sentences have a woolen solidity. A feeling of claustrophobia sets in.
Just when the reader's patience has run thin, though, things begin to happen, events born from boredom. An affair upends the balance of the house. One day Marantha runs out into the relentless rain and collapses.
"By the time Ida found her -- 'Mrs Waters, Ma'am? Are you out there?' -- she was sprawled in the grass like a broken umbrella, chilled through and coughing so violently it felt as if her lungs had been turned inside out."