Also, Jack is not only defined by his relationships with these five women, but more expansively, so that readers can fully understand his choices, his complexity, his motivation, his apart-ness, and his relationship with his surroundings.
“Since the Ojibwe part of Jack was inaccessible, he was a German with a trapdoor in his soul, an inner life still hidden to him. Both men saw money when they looked at land. It was just that they saw the fields delivering the wealth in different ways, as dead, as alive, as more and as less autonomous or powerful.”
In the hands of less-experienced writer, this cast could become overwhelming, but readers are immersed into the narrative slowly, meeting each character as an individual.
Then, something happens. “Every so often, whiteness blew up in a scarf, shedding particles of diamond dust that hung glittering in the air.” (What happens is not as mystical as it sounds, with my use of this particular quote, which is actually just a snippet of her lyricism which I love.)
And after it happens, the women keep each other company in close quarters for an indeterminate amount of time. There is nothing left to do but tell stories.
Which makes it sound like an innocent pastime. But as Louise Erdrich readers know, stories are life blood. They are powerful and transformative. The tales – their telling and their acceptance – change the landscape of these women’s lives.
Just as wife leads to wife, in Jack’s experience anyway, themes of continuity and change also arise in the context of motherhood and family, be that a blood-bound group or a group rooted in another kind of community.
Be it a lover’s love or a mother’s love, Tales of Burning Love pulls taut the strings that bind us: dynamic and exhaustive, immersive and wild.
“She craved him. She loved him with the secret, wild, despairing love that mothers bear their boy children, an ardor bound up in loss and foreignness and fury. She adored him and could erase him. Just at the instant he entirely surrendered to sleep he saw her once again, swooping down, his earliest memory. She was the shadow of a bending tree that springs up, snaps toward heaven, and you in the branches, curled against the live heart, shouting!”