I’m not sure why, but I had Annie Proulx set firmly in the anti-memoir crowd. Maybe it’s because looking back on one’s life is a luxury that her hard-working, taciturn characters would either not have time for, or sneer at. Maybe it’s because she is so private that she (politely) insisted that her 2002 interview with us be conducted by email. Whatever the reason for my impression, it was a false one: Proulx is set to publish a memoir, Bird Cloud, with Scribner in January.
“Part autobiography, part natural history, Bird Cloud is the glorious story of Annie Proulx’s piece of the Wyoming landscape and her home there.”
Early reviews make the book sound like more of a family history and cultural exploration than a memoir, so maybe my initial impression wasn’t too far off the mark after all. Billed as a book for anyone who loves the West, it includes stories about the building of her home near the North Platte River and about her great-great-grandfather, who worked on a riverboat and met the likes of Mark Twain.
Read more about Annie Proulx at BookPage.com.
This Annie Proulx goes around telling everyone she comes from native American ancestry when, as is perfectly obvious, she comes from no such ancestry. America never had either the gay crap or transoceanic shipping of her dreams that she dictates, and the gay crap isn’t coming into fruition. She’s another of the shrinking citizenry of America who needs to quit pretending during her stay here. If you portray Americans as such, they will set you straight.