And so now I come to the end of my Richard Brautigan journey; in 13 years I've read all of his books -- poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. Loved it. Hated it. Was so-so about it. But I read it.

In one of the last novels before his own death at the age of 49, by suicide, Brautigan ruminates on death through a coming-of-age tale about a boy living in poverty in post-World War II rural Oregon who accidentally kills his only friend. Simultaneously he reflects back on this, as well as the peculiar couple who visited his town every year and fished out by the same pond in an outdoor living room suite they would bring and rig up themselves [this is what the cover of the book is based on].

It is often difficult for an adult to write a book from the perspective of a child but Brautigan had a secret weapon: his disjointed, non-linear style of writing allowed for absent-minded characters to flourish, and, speaking as a former child, children are often absent-minded, curious, exploration but cautious -- disjointed and non-linear. Brautigan takes this advantage and runs with it.

A great bookend to my Brautigan journey. After all these years he has remained a consistent enjoyable writer for me to read. And its worth reiterating how unfortunate it always will be that we were robbed of his gift far too soon.

Really quick and enjoyable read. I really liked Brautigan's writing style so I will definitely keep an eye out for his other works and eventually check them out!

Typically tight and amusing Brautigan novella with a whiff of profundity.

Hilarious, nostalgic, and devastatingly sad. It will stick with me for a long time.

What an interesting little book. I didn't expect it to like it that much.

A melancholy book that has most of the charm Brautigan always displays, but not as much of the humor that I love in much of Brautigan's work. I wonder the extent to which Brautigan's declining mental health contributed to the darker nature of the book- he committed suicide two years after this was published.

I had become so quiet and so small in the grass by the pond that I was barely noticeable, hardly there. I think they had forgotten all about me. I sat there watching their living room shining out of the dark beside the pond. It looked like a fairy tale functioning happily in the post-World War II gothic of America before television crippled the imagination of America and turned people indoors and away from living out their own fantasies with dignity.

An interesting side-note- I picked this up after reading that Brautigan was one of [a:Haruki Murakami|3354|Haruki Murakami|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1285812707p2/3354.jpg]'s favorite authors- that inspired me to find a Brautigan novel I hadn't read.