A Thousand Acres

By Jane Smiley

ALL POSTS CONTAIN SPOILERS

I would like to make a very specific recommendation this week. I would like to recommend reading ‘A Thousand Acres’, by Jane Smiley, and I would like to recommend reading it while high.

Normally, I don’t read when I’m high. I’m not super-functional high, not one of those people who can smoke and then do activities, cleaning or writing or whatever. For me, getting high is an activity; so is reading. The latter uses my whole brain; the former basically powers my brain down. I don’t do them both at the same time.

But the other evening, I took an edible and then decided to read ‘A Thousand Acres’ while I waited for it to kick in. I got sucked into the book and didn’t notice the effect of the edible until I was very high. But the experience was working for me, so I just kept reading. It worked for me so well, in fact, that I am now recommending the experience to you.

Jane Smiley published ‘A Thousand Acres’ in 1991; it won the Pulitzer Prize. It is ‘King Lear’, set in Iowa in the 1970’s. The Cooks have farmed their piece of land for four generations now, growing and prospering until theirs is the largest farm in Zebulon County. One day, Larry, the dominating patriarch of the family, decides to form a corporation with his three daughters, Ginny, Rose, and Caroline, effectively turning the farm over to them. When Caroline objects to the arrangement, the bonds holding the family together begin to dissolve.

Maybe it’s stupid for me to have been surprised that a re-telling of ‘King Lear’ is interesting, but I’ll be frank: ‘intergenerational trauma in Iowa farming family’ is not a description that gets my motor running. It just sounds like it will be grim and boring.

Grim it surely is, but not boring. ‘A Thousand Acres’ is told from Ginny’s perspective. Ginny, if we accept Shakespeare’s moral axis, is one of the two wicked daughters. But Smiley does not accept it, and Ginny and Rose aren’t simple villains in any sense. In fact, nothing in ‘A Thousand Acres’ is simple, but if there is a villain, it is Larry Cook, our Lear, who looms over the novel, frightening, unpredictable, unknowable, and mad.

‘King Lear’ has always been a sinister story, but its menace was designed for the grand gestures of the stage. ‘A Thousand Acres’ is sinister in the way of domestic dramas, where the same weaknesses and malevolences of the great tragedies are played out in the spaces where we live, in confinement and in privacy.

That confinement, that concentration, makes them more dreadful, more creepy, and Smiley uses that to great effect. ‘A Thousand Acres’ is stiflingly suspenseful. It is a story of the many ways that a terrible father can mutilate the psyches of his loving daughters, of the effect of domestic terror and control on a family. As Larry descends into madness, so do Rose and Ginny: the suffering that they have endured erupts into their own madness. Because Ginny is our narrator, her unraveling interrupts the flow of our experience: terrible things are discussed as though they were of no consequence. The reader is never allowed to achieve balance.

And this is where being high comes in. I can’t think of the last piece of culture I consumed that meshed as well with being high*. Everything about this book is conducive to high-reading. The suspense, the slow unfurling, the layered brutality of the Cook family, these would be absorbing if you weren’t high. When you are, it’s impossible to look away from: your complete attention is drawn to the narrative. I am a focused reader in general, but when I was reading ‘A Thousand Acres’, I managed to forget anything outside the book. I inhabited the story.

Jane Smiley

*Actually, I can: ‘Apocalypse Now’.

As Ginny slowly becomes unhinged, her behavior becomes more extreme. Meanwhile her narrative quality remains the same. This contrast, the divergence of tone and action, was magnificent for me when I was high. Deep, marijuana-fueled focus made these leaps in narrative stakes seem even more discontinuous. It became, through its non-linearity, a recapitulation of the experience of other people’s madness.

I’m making two recommendations, and I am making them both strongly. ‘A Thousand Acres’ is a great novel under any reading conditions. Don’t be put-off by the setting: this is not a farm story, and it’s not boring. It has none of the traditional drawbacks of midwestern family dramas: the endless simmering, the unresolvable mesh of implication.

Quite the contrary: ‘A Thousand Acres’ is a beautifully dark re-imagining of ‘King Lear’ (not source material lacking for darkness anyway), and it is true to its origin story. It is Shakespearean: the gestures are grand; so is the scope. The violence is brutal and real, not implied.

As for reading it high, think about it this way:

Most of the time, when people talk about being moved by Shakespeare, they are talking about the language. Even when they are talking about the stories, they mean the stories told in the language. But the stories are also terrible and powerful, and it is worth taking a chance to access the stories themselves. Re-tellings, like ‘A Thousand Acres’, can do that: they can allow you to access the story without getting lost in language.

Imagine encountering the great, violent Shakespearean tragedies (‘Lear’, ‘Macbeth’, ‘Hamlet’) for the first time. Imagine that their language was as familiar to you as your own. And imagine being stoned out of your gourd while seeing them. Think how much more terrifying, how much more moving, they would be. Marijuana gives you focus and access: think about living, briefly, inside those plays instead of merely thinking about them.

That’s what reading ‘A Thousand Acres’ high is like. It’s like living in ‘King Lear’, just for a night. It’s a mind-fuck: brutal, frightening, moving, memorable.

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