An Incomplete Science

It’s funny, one minute I’m cleaning slugs from a tractor tire, the next I’m here at the Post, musing over things that nobody thought I’d be capable of. Things like the future of our community; the way our children are being brought up; the ills of smoking versus chemical pollution. And then this, An Incomplete Science of the Soul: the latest book by our very own Riddy Hansen, from down by the stadium; local boy through and through.

What a title I thought. Being used to the lettuce and slugs, and suddenly, because of the staff-shortage here at the Post, thrust and lured into the treacherous terrain of literary criticism. What should I make of it? True, I’m no complete stranger to fiction, but this, such a title, such a cryptic one too. I spent the whole night reading it, lying on top of the barn, the one I don’t use anymore, and I struggled, I really did. No use lying about it.

But then, at page 300, close to the end, I fell off the roof, metaphorically speaking, and straight into the story. Wow. What an experience. After so much work (paid, mind you), I finally got something back. I started seeing the connections; I recognized a pattern hovering above the words, the fabric; the grid. Me, a simple farmer, smitten and sucked into a story. An Incomplete Science of the Soul, you bet. I stared shaking. I swear I flipped the last page and started crying. Alone. On top of my old derelict barn, miles and miles from anyone.