Winter in the Blood [Mass Market Paperback]

The prose is earthy, gritty in style. I found it to be the best, most enjoyable part of the novel. The style is simple in a very matter-of-fact way - it can be funny, crude, or emotionally stirring, but it is like this simply as a matter of relating things as they strike the protagonist (for instance, there is a part where he says that once he shot his neighbor's dog because he "was drunk and it was moving"); the prose manages to be evocative without demonstrating that the author knows how to use a thesaurus, exhibiting a skillful expressiveness executed with an economy of means. What's appealing about this novel is no so much what the protagonist does as it is the gripping means with which the scenes are conveyed.

The main character, however, is not well developed; most of the secondary characters are more fleshed out and more compelling than the protagonist himself. (True enough, though, this novel is more about the environment the central character is in than about the protagonist himself.) The dialogue can be confusing, at times you can lose track of which lines of dialogue belong to which character. It is difficult to say exactly what this novel is about; the protagonist makes a few cracks about being in a white man's world and about this "greedy stupid country", but none of this forms into any coherent political diatribe, nor do the actions the protagonist takes or the events that occur to him gain any significance in this light. He merely does stuff, which can be either funny or picturesque, but which has little meaning apart from the actions themselves.

This is not to say that Winter in the Blood is not on the whole enjoyable, for I found it so. It has enough virtues to make it a worthy read. It paints an eye-catching snap-shot of modern American Indian life.

The story concerns a few days in the life of a 32-year-old man, descendant of Indians and living in two worlds, his mother's home on the reservation and the dreary bars and hotels of nearby Havre and Malta, Montana. His days and nights blending together in an alcoholic haze, he meets a deranged white man, picks up women and gets punched in the nose. Meanwhile, he is haunted by a past that includes the death of an older brother and an injury to his knee that multiple operations have not remedied. Out of these unpromising circumstances, Welch finds the beginnings of a kind of personal salvation. By reaching back through the memory of a blind old man's act of charity, he restores the younger man's vision of himself.

Among the ranks of modern Native American writers, such as Louise Erdrich, Welch opens up a world for non-Indian readers that goes well beyond the usual stereotypes. His Indians are strikingly individual, absorbed in the everyday, motivated as much by self-interest and cock-eyed notions as their white counterparts. In Welch's hands, a conversation among five of them can be as comic and absurd as Ionesco. Meanwhile, the Native American past is there to ground a person with a sense of purpose and identity. For all its sorrows, Welch's story is finally a joy to read.