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.