So Brave, Young and Handsome by Leif Enger

From Barnes & Noble

If Monte Becket nurtured dreams of being the Great American Novelist, those hopes crumbled soon after his first book was published. Now, five years later, it's 1915, and he is about to formalize his defeat by reclaiming his gloomy job at remote Minnesota post office. Before he bites that sour bullet, however, he accepts a vague invitation to travel overland to Mexico with an aging, decrepit outlaw. Becket might be just following the strongest current, but old train robber Glendon Hale is on a feverish mission: He wants to erase mistakes that he made 20 years before. As this unlikely pair travels deeper and deeper into the West, they move further and further from any tranquil certainties.

From the Publisher

One of Time magazine’s top-five novels of the year and a New York Times bestseller, Leif Enger’s first novel, Peace Like a River, captured readers’ hearts around the nation. His new novel is a stunning successor–a touching, nimble, and rugged story of an aging train robber on a quest to reconcile the claims of love and judgment on his life, and the failed writer who goes with him.

In 1915 Minnesota, Monte Becket has lost his sense of purpose. His only success long behind him, Monte lives a simple life with his loving wife and whipsmart son. But when he befriends outlaw Glendon Hale, a new world of opportunity and experience presents itself.

Glendon has spent years in obscurity, but the guilt he harbors for abandoning his wife, Blue, over two decades ago, has finally lured him from hiding. As the modern age marches swiftly forward, Glendon aims to travel back into his past–heading to California to seek Blue’s forgiveness. Beguiled and inspired, Monte soon finds himself leaving behind his own family to embark for the unruly West with his fugitive guide–a journey that will test the depth of his loyalties, the inviolability of his morals, and the strength of his resolve. As they flee from the relentless Charles Siringo, an ex-Pinkerton who’s been hunting Glendon for years, Monte falls ever further from his family and the law, to be tempered by a fiery adventure from which he may never get home.

The Washington Post - Carrie Brown

So Brave, Young, and Handsome is an adventure of the heart and mind as much as of the body. This second novel from Enger will not move you as deeply as Peace Like a River did, but it is far more than just a hectically plotted cowboy adventure story. A famous literary editor once said, "Never be sincere. Sincerity is the death of writing." But Enger proves him wrong. His new novel is romantic but not silly. It belongs to a golden time at the edge of our collective memory of what life—and stories—were like when the West was young and a tale was something to read aloud at night under the lamplight. The world Enger writes about here is a vanished one, but Enger has brought it back to life by the force of his belief.

Publishers Weekly

Enger's second novel is a marvelous tale of an unsuccessful writer and an elderly train robber on a cross-country journey to confront past demons. Dan Woren's narration is steadfast and resolute throughout, offering two unique characters each with his own colorful view of the ever-encroaching modern world. While there is little in the way of varying dialects and tones at work, Woren offers believable and realistic protagonists that immediately capture the listener's imagination and holds it until the end. Simultaneous release with the Atlantic Monthly Press hardcover (Reviews, Jan. 28). (May)

Publishers Weekly

An inviting voice guides readers through this expansive saga of redemption in the early 20th-century West and gives a teeming vitality to a period often represented with stock phrases and stock characters. Novelist Monte Becket isn't a terribly distinguished figure; his first and only published work hit five years before the story's start and he is about to reclaim his job at a smalltown Minnesota post office when he meets Glendon Hale, a former outlaw who is traveling to Mexico to find his estranged wife. He persuades Becket to join him, and the two set off on a long journey peopled with sharply carved characters (among them a Pinkerton thug tracking down Glendon) and splendid surprises. As Monte's narration continues, the tale veers away from Monte's artistic struggle and becomes an adventure story. The progress has its listless moments, but Enger crafts scenes so rich you can smell the spilled whiskey and feel the grit. (May)

Bruce Olds - Chicago Tribune

[Leif Enger is] a formidably gifted writer, one whose fictions are steeped in the American grain. . . . [He] is-like Ron Hansen-a child-friendly, contemporary American heartland novelist, a writer unafraid to concoct and couch his stories in such terms as faith, miracle, sin and grace, repentance and redemption, atonement and absolution. . . . Enger is a masterful storyteller . . . possessed of a seemingly effortless facility for the stiletto-sharp drawing of wholly believable characters [and] a pitch-perfect ear for the cadences and syntax of Midwest and Great Plains vernacular. His Amishly carpentered prose smacks of plow work, prairie, flapjacks and cider, butter churns, denim and calico. . . . At times reminiscent of the sinew and gristle in the craggier work of Annie Proulx, and at other times aspiring to a Jean Shepherdesque folk poetry . . . So Brave, Young, and Handsome is affable and human as all get out, homespun and sophisticated at once, wise and knowing about the ubiquity of the human condition and the vagaries of the human heart.

Peter Moore - Minneapolis Star Tribune

A superbly written, utterly compelling story of self-discovery and redemption disguised as a cracking good adventure tale . . . Enger has created a work of great humanity and huge heart, a riveting piece of fiction that while highly accessible is never shallow. This story of an ordinary man's discovery of who he is and his place in the world is exciting, admirable and ultimately very affecting. . ..After reading the final page, don't be surprised if you find yourself shaking your head and murmuring, "Wow. What a good book.

Gail Pennington - St. Louis Post-Dispatch

So Brave, Young, and Handsome is an almost perfect novel, lively and engrossing, full of surprises, funny, touching, and a great read. . . .

[This novel] will appeal to fans of Larry McMurty's Western epics, but also to those who enjoy the magical realism of Isabel Allende and Alice Hoffman. The straightforward narrative, recounted in a single voice, keeps us turning the pages, faster and faster, and by the time the story comes full circle, Enger will have plenty of new fans hoping he gets to work soon on his next book.

Amy Ford - Library Journal

Enger's (Peace Like a River) sophomore effort is at once engaging and curiously flat, somewhat like its Midwestern setting. In 1915 Minnesota, Monte Beckett, a writer trying to follow up a runaway best seller (like Enger himself), leaves his incomplete novels, his wife, and his son to go on a quest. Glendon Hale, a boat builder with a checkered past, takes Monte with him on his journey to apologize to the wife he abandoned 20 years previously. Their trip takes many unexpected detours while they try to avoid the ex-detective who has pursued Glendon for several decades. What awaits them at the end of their journey surprises both men. This is a particularly American tale, with many elements from both penny Westerns and Mark Twain; the plot is improbable, but the writing is absorbing. Libraries where Enger's first novel was popular will want this book as well. [See Prepub Alert, LJ1/08.]

Kirkus Reviews

A belated follow-up to a popular debut finds the Midwestern novelist in fine storytelling form, as he spins a picaresque tale of redemption and renewal amid the fading glories of the Old West. Some readers will undoubtedly find autobiographical implications in the protagonist conjured by Enger (Peace Like a River, 2001). In his second novel, a Minnesota writer who has enjoyed his own out-of-the-blue success with a popular novel struggles in vain to produce a suitable successor. In the opening pages of this first-person narrative, Monte Becket introduces himself as a nothing-special Everyman, a former postman who quit his job after his novel Martin Bligh reached a readership beyond the wildest expectations of both the part-time author and his publisher. Yet Becket has since suffered a crisis of confidence, starting and abandoning seven different manuscripts over a four-year period until he fears that his success was just a fluke. This story has its start in 1915, just as Becket abandons his final manuscript, when a mysterious geezer in a rowboat passes his Minnesota riverfront home (with a nod toward Enger's earlier novel, rivers run through this one) and ultimately entices Becket to join him on an adventure that will change both of their lives. The mysterious man's name may or may not be Glendon Hale; he may or may not be an outlaw on the run; and he most certainly is a boat-building alcoholic. With the encouragement of his painter wife, Becket leaves behind a comfortable home and a loving family to accompany Hale on a pilgrimage, one that will find Becket learning more about his companion's identity while assuming an alias of his own. As they head south toward Mexico and then west toCalifornia, they find their travels enlivened by a young accomplice who joins them and a pursuer who trails them, a former Pinkerton detective who has also enjoyed some literary success. Revelations abound, for both Becket and the reader. Though Becket laments that he "can't write a(nother) book that anyone will want to read," Enger has. Agent: Paul Cirone/The Friedrich Agency

Product Details

• ISBN: 0871139855
  
• ISBN-13: 9780871139856
• Format: Hardcover, 287pp
• Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
• Pub. Date: April 2008
• Sales Rank: 1,402

• Read a Sample Chapter

Read a Sample Chapter

Copyright © 2008 Leif Enger
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-87113-985-6

Not to disappoint you, but my troubles are nothing-not for an author, at least. Common blots aside, I have none of the usual Big Artillery: I am not penniless, brilliant, or an orphan; have never been to war, suffered starvation or lashed myself to a mast. My health is adequate, my wife steadfast, my son decent and promising. I am not surrounded by people who don't understand me! In fact most understand me straightaway, for I am and always was an amiable fellow and reliably polite. You, a curious stranger, could walk in this moment; I would offer you coffee and set you at ease. Would we talk pleasantly? Indeed we would, though you'd soon be bored-here on Page One I don't even live in interesting surroundings, such as in a hospital for the insane, or on a tramp steamer, or in Madrid. Later in the proceedings I do promise a tense chase or two and the tang of gunpowder, but here at the outset it's flat old Minnesota and I am sitting on the porch of my comfortable farmhouse, composing the flaccid middle of my seventh novel in five years.

Seven novels, you exclaim-quite right, but then I didn't finish any of them. I'm grateful for that, and you should be too. Number Seven featured a handsome but increasingly bilious ranch hand named Dan Roscoe. A right enough pard to begin with, he becamemore arrogant page by page. No laconic wit for Dan! It was himself I was writing about, with many low sighs, the morning I first saw Glendon Hale rowing upstream through the ropy mists of the Cannon River. What a cool spring morning that was-birdsong, dew on the blossoms-I yearned to be on the river myself, but Dan Roscoe had rustlers to catch and a girl to win. Neither seemed likely. How often I sighed in those days! I needed a revelation but you know how it is. I would have settled for a nice surprise.

Hearing the groan of oarlocks I peered downriver. A white-headed fellow was rowing up out of the haze.

He rowed standing, facing forward, a tottery business; twice as I watched, one of his narrow sweeps missed the water completely and he lurched like old Quixote, hooting to himself. The truth is he appeared a bit elevated, early though it was. As I say, he was white-haired with a white mustache and he wore white shirtsleeves and his boat too was white above the waterline, so that he had a spectral or angelic quality only somewhat reduced by his tipsy aspect.

Forth he came through the parting mists. To this day I don't know what took hold of me as he approached. I stood from my work and called hello.

"Hello back," said he, not pausing in his strokes.

"Pretty vessel," I called.

"Pretty river," he said, a simple reply that made me ache to be afloat. But he wasn't slowing, as you might expect a polite person to do, and I stepped off the porch and jogged down to the stubby dock my son had built for fishing.

"Can you stop a minute? There's coffee," I said-sounding pushy, I suspect, though I am no extrovert; ask Susannah.

"Maybe," he said, yet he was already well past me and in fact the haze was closing round him again. I had a last glimpse of his boat-its graceful sheer and backswept transom. Then it disappeared, though I could hear in the fog the dip of the old man's oars, his screeling oarlocks, and what might have been a laugh of delight, as though he'd vanished by some mystic capacity that tickled him every time.

I went heavily back to the porch. My boy Redstart was there grinning-he was eleven, Redstart, catching up with his papa in all kinds of ways.

"Who was that man?" he inquired.

"I don't know."

"Was he drunk, do you think?"

"Anything's possible."

"He rows standing up," said Redstart. "I never saw that before. Did you talk to him?"

"No, I didn't." I couldn't look at the boy for a moment or two. I was embarrassed at how much I'd wanted to visit with the man in the boat, and how unaccountably sorry I was that he'd just rowed away. I sat in my chair and lifted pages into my lap. Dan Roscoe was waiting for me in those pages-boy, he was morose. Who could face it?

"I can still hear him," Redstart said, "out in the mist. Can you hear him rowing, Papa?"

I looked at my son, the lover of mysteries. You could never guess what Redstart might say, for his mind was made of stories; he'd gathered all manner of splendid facts about gunpowder and deserts of the world and the anchoring of lighthouses against the furious sea; he knew which members of the James gang had once ridden into our town to knock over a bank and been shot to moist rags for their trouble; and about me he knew some things not even his mother knew, such as the exact number of novels I had abandoned on that porch. He whispered, "How many words today, Papa?"

I made a quick and not altogether honest guess. "Two hundred or so."

"It's early still, that's pretty good," he replied, then sat and shut his eyes and leaned awhile. I knew he should go take the horses to pasture or mulch the tomatoes but I didn't want to lose his company. I picked up my pen and wrote: As Dan Roscoe branded each bawling calf with the Moon Ranch insignia, he recalled how Belle had clung to the arm of his hated rival-a moribund sentence that announced the death of my seventh novel. It didn't surprise me. I had the grim yet satisfactory thought that it wouldn't surprise Dan Roscoe, either. Well, let him moan! I was sick of Dan and his myriad problems.

"Red," said I, "here's an idea. Why don't you go in the house and lay hands on a few of your mother's orange rolls. Let's climb in the boat and head upstream."

"Hmm," said Redstart. He dawdled to his feet; he said "Well" a couple of times.

"Well, nothing," I said. "We don't even need the rolls. Let's catch up with that old man. I want to talk to him."

Redstart went to the door. Poor reluctant boy; long my joyous accomplice in distraction, he had lately been run to ground by his efficient and lovely and desperate mother. He didn't want to shame me, but what choice did I give him?

"I guess we better not, Papa. You got to get your work done. Remember what Mama said?"

Chapter Two

What Susannah said was, approximately, If you don't soon finish that book of yours, we'll have to start selling the furniture. Lest you read in her words a tone of panic, let me assure you there was none. She was only letting me know where things stood. The end of money didn't mean the end of much-the end of our marriage, say, or even of Susannah's obstinate confidence in me. At worst it meant the end of pretense. The end of my little run at distinction. To say it truly: the end of pride.

I was the one who panicked.

Here's how I came to this sorry pass. In the fall of 1910 I published a short novel called Martin Bligh, which became so popular I quit being a postman and started calling myself an author. Who knows how these things happen? The book was just an adventure tale. Nothing ambitious. I only wrote it for entertainment and to gratify a sort of wistful ache-Martin Bligh was a postman too, though as a Pony Express rider he had a better shot at glory and peril than I in my tinctured cell at the Northfield P.O. It was a story to make a boy lean forward; it had Indians and great ships and the buried gold of Coronado and two separate duels, including one with sabers. I also added a black-haired senõrita because my own Susannah loves a romance, yet Bligh was reviewed in a Chicago newspaper as "disturbingly real," no doubt because some of the Indians adorned their pintos with bloody blond scalps. That the haggard and venerated Buffalo Bill Cody read my story and praised it in newspaper interviews did not hurt the book at all, though it hardly explains why the first printing of three thousand copies disappeared in two weeks. My publisher, Hackle & Banks, New York, was startled enough to wire me congratulations and print another four thousand, which sped from the warehouse in exactly twelve days. At this I received a second telegram: BLIGH OUR FASTEST SELLER. THANK YOU. GRACE. I was ignorant at the time that Grace was Grace Hackle, the generous and canny widow of Dixon Hackle, who had founded the publishing firm twenty years before.

Then letters began to arrive. I was still employed at the P.O. and was startled in the sorting room when envelopes bearing my name began crossing the desk. I rarely received mail-when I did it was apt to be from my mother, whose letters were straightforward offerings of gained wisdom. These on the other hand were praise from strangers who had read my little tale. To call these readers charitable doesn't touch it. They were lavish and interpretive; they were "stirred." The daunting and completely unforeseen fact was this: They had mistaken me for a person of substance! I blushed but kept the letters. When I did hear from my mother, sometime later, she suggested I cling to my place at the post office and not let publication make me biggity. Fine advice, you will agree, yet vanity is a devious monkey. While some labeled my story naïve or my diction purple, I clove to a review calling it "an enchanting and violent yarn spun in the brave hues of history." A famous ladies' journal claimed I'd crafted "the ideal popular tale." By the time Mama wrote I was miles past her advice. By then Grace Hackle had sent me several elegant personal notes. She had paid for Susannah and me to ride the Great Northern from St. Paul to New York City, where she registered us in a hotel with frescoes and high ceilings. She had accompanied us to a stage play, then to a restaurant lighted the amber of sunsets, where we ate fresh sea bass and talked of books and authors.

"It is destined timing," Grace declared. "You have dared paint a romance on the sterile canvas of our age." She was a perfectly beautiful tidy small woman with the metropolitan habit of placing events in the big picture. She believed romance was no mere ingredient but the very stone floor on which all life makes its fretful dance. Having traveled once as far west as the Black Hills she still awoke from dreams of rock and prairie. She confessed to a fascination with the architecture of tepees. William Howard Taft might be president, Grace noted, but who did not miss Teddy Roosevelt? "The strenuous life," she sighed.

Looking back, I have to laugh. You know why Martin Bligh was strenuous? Whenever I didn't know what to write next, I put a swift river in front of his horse and sent the two of them across!

"And now," Grace added, "tell me you plan to write another book."

I looked at Susannah, who was squeezing my hand under the table. I had never thought about another book.

Grace sipped tea. "You have some ideas, I suppose."

"Why, yes," I said, though my lone idea at the moment was the fragile sweetheart Grace herself had just planted: that I was an Author now, that I had new Business upon the Earth, that the tedium of sorting mail might be exchanged for something more expansive or-dare I say it?-Swashbuckling.

"Can you write another book?" she asked, rather baldly.

I thought about it. Martin Bligh had not been difficult to write; whatever I wanted to do, that's what Martin did. He rode in all weathers, flouting night and blizzard; he defied the wicked; he kissed the pretty girl. How hard could it be to do something similar again? I said, "Indeed I can."

Grace's eyes were unconvinced. Perhaps she saw what I could not.

Wanting to please her I made a hasty claim. "I shall write one thousand words a day until another book is finished."

"You dear man," said Grace Hackle. In memory she blanches at my naïve pledge, but maybe not.

"Jack London sets down a thousand a day before breakfast," said I. Why do the foolish insist? But I was thinking of the modest dimensions a thousand words actually describe-a tiny essay, a fragment of conversation. "How hard can it be?" concluded your idiot narrator, lifting his glass to the future.

Chapter Three

We didn't see our tipsy oarsman for weeks-I'd have forgotten him entirely if Redstart hadn't kept bringing him up. "I bet he's a vagabond. Clive says they get a vagabond at the door every week."

Clive Hawkins was Redstart's most stalwart friend. The two of them would spit on their hands and shake. They were presently in agreement that vagabonds were the most alluring terror locally available.

"Vagabonds don't have rowboats," I pointed out.

"He might be a new strain," Redstart said. "He might've stole that boat just before we saw him. He was laughing about something, remember?"

"Maybe he recalled a good joke," I said-I am one of those people who can never remember a joke, on the rare occasion I feel like telling one.

"That wasn't a joke laugh. It was a pleased laugh. He was pleased by something clever he'd done. He probably stole that boat. Any vagabond would be happy to have a boat, after walking for weeks and weeks."

"Well, Red," said I, but on he plunged into the imagined joys and dangers of the life unfettered. What could I do but watch him talk? We'd named him for the vigorous passerines so plentiful in the yard the day he was born, but there was never a songbird as energetic as Redstart.

One evening he returned from a long ride on Chief, his oversized gelding. He'd been gone since morning-not unusual for that boy. He strolled into the house hungry and self-important with a whippy weal on one cheek from galloping through the trees.

"Well, I found the old boatman," he announced, as though it had been Livingstone. "I went down to the river so Chief could drink and I could swim, and here he came rowing. Standing up like before. He almost fell over. His name is Glendon and he lives in a barn."

"You talked to him?"

"Yes sir I did."

"Was Glendon sober?" asked Susannah. She was at work on a painting-we never thought she was listening while standing intent at her easel, but she always was.

"He might of been," said Redstart, in a vague way.

His mother looked at him. "You kept your distance, I expect."

I said, "Well, let's have it. Is he a tramp, as you believed?"

"No. He makes boats. He made that boat he's always standing up in. He lived in Texas and Oklahoma and Kansas and in Mexico by the Sea of Cortez. He's coming here for breakfast tomorrow."

It was a fair haul of information. I was proud of Redstart.

"Breakfast?" said Susannah.

"That's right," said Redstart, "so you both get to meet him. I guess it's a good thing I went riding today!"

Susannah set down her brush and came around the easel. She had a little stab of burgundy on one cheek like a warning. "Did he agree to come for breakfast, Red? Did he say he's coming?"

"No," said Redstart, who ignored warnings of all kinds. "But I told him to come, so I expect he will."

"Unless he resists being ordered about by fractious infants," I suggested.

But Redstart was adamant. "He told me his name. He didn't want to say it, but I tricked him and out it came. You know what happens, once you get a person's name."

"Nope," I replied. "You'll have to tell me."

"Why, then you have power over him," said Redstart.

Chapter Four

It's an old business, it turns out, this notion that learning a person's true name gives you leverage; I have since found it in Indian and Nordic tales and I suppose it goes back like so many good ideas all the way to the Tigris and Euphrates. Nothing is new under the sun. Anyhow Glendon appeared in his white dory next morning about an hour past sunup. Our pug Bert saw him first and stood on the dock barking and slobbering. Bert doesn't truly bark but says oof, oof, like a disappointed farmer. Glendon drifted up, putting his oars to rights while I went down to greet him.

"Monte Becket," I said, holding out my hand. He grasped it and stepped up out of his dory and immediately let go like a nervous child. He was a short one, trim as a leprechaun and not as old as his white hair had led me to assume. He wore a long split-back jacket such as dressy horsemen used to wear, and he had vivid green eyes that might believe anything at all. I'd rather not say I smelled whiskey so early in the morning; nevertheless, there was an evaporating haze around our visitor. He nodded to me but said nothing and kept glancing toward the house as though it were a place of dread.

I said, "I'm glad you've come, and I surely beg your pardon if Redstart overstepped his bounds-he can be bossy. Come on up. Susannah's made rolls."

Glendon said, "What did you call that son of yours?"

"Redstart."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from SO BRAVE, YOUNG, and HANDSOME by LEIF ENGER Copyright © 2008 by Leif Enger. Excerpted by permission.
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