Joyce Carol Oates

Goodness sakes can this woman write a novel! My heavens. I'm on page 22 of "Missing Mom", the third novel of hers I've read, and I am just so thrilled to be there! Nothing like being at the beginning of what you know will be an intensely good read. She crafts such interesting characters, and is so perfectly descriptive.

As a girl, already a model of efficiency and frugality for whom sentiment was a secondary matter, Clare had solved the gift problem by buying items with a festive twist on quantity: boxes of gaily colored tissues, mouthwash and toothpaste in unusual flavors, giant boxes of Dad's favorite cereal Wheaties and a full case of Mom's most-used Campbell's soup cream of celery; without any irony or a wish to be cruel, Clare had given me such birthday gifts as flea collars for our cats, a bag of scented Kitty litter, deodorant, a "giant economy" box of Junior Miss Sani-Pads.

and:

After Dad's death, which had been abrupt and unexpected, Mom had lapsed into a phase of showering frequently, washing her hands compulsively until the skin began to wear out, brushing her teeth until the gums bled. She'd dusted herself obsessively with the fragrant talcum powder Dad had given her, even the soles of her feet, so that, when Clare and I dropped by the house we'd be startled by ghostly white powder footprints on the floor outside the bathroom.

Oh, and here's a bit about the narrator:

My slender purple-silk legs were crossed, my waxy-white naked left foot (toenails painted magenta, to match fingernails and mouth) was jiggling in the gold-spangled high-heeled sandal. I'd spoken as if whimsically. I had a way of saying what was serious in a bold-innocent fashion to elicit startled laughs.


it's just delicious. Very good stuff.