If there’s anything redemptive about this book, and believe me, it isn’t the writing, it’s that Caro Claire Burke is able to point out the illusions under which our society now lives.
Let me go back, for a minute, to the annoying writing. First we’re in a contrived setting perfectly marketed for Instagram. Then, we’re in Natalie’s youth, wearing prairie dresses and long braided hair. Then we’re back in Instagram heaven, followed by her days as a college student at Harvard, and suddenly…bam! Where are we, exactly? Natalie doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know the children who call her Mama. The narrative is so disjointed it feels awkward and surreal.
Natalie herself is unreliable. She proclaims to be a Christian, yet scattered throughout the mental dialogue she discloses are untold passages like these, found within the first 28 pages:
…that stupid little bitch.
Sorry, Lord. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
and
Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold.
Then: Sorry, Lord.
I’m all for forgiveness for a profane mouth. But, at some point, this “Sorry, Lord,” loses its sincerity.
The further I read, the more distraught I became. Her husband will find no job; they go to live with his parents. He spends his days practicing yoga and watching porn. He eventually sleeps with the woman who films Natalie’s content. Content, you know, carefully staged to present a facade of what life is like on the farm. Where it ought to be natural and wholesome, if not downright dirty and difficult.
Is there nothing of value in this book which is being applauded on too many feeds, news articles, and bestseller lists? Is this what our society is able to relate to, and even call a good book: a cheating, lazy husband; a college where education is not valued; a home where nurture is an illusion created for content; a scornful slant on faith?
I am baffled by its popularity, and I am disgusted I read as much as I did.