My feelings about Joshua Dolezal's first book, a memoir called DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAINTOP, are mixed. My most immediate reaction was one of profound irritation at the way he tries way too hard to be the tragic hero of his own story, about a life which has not really been all that extraordinary. Boy grows up poor (but probably not terribly), the son of fundamentalist zealots in the mountains of northwestern Montana. Plays baseball, picks berries, plants gardens. In high school his right-wing beliefs make him feel isolated and 'different.' Can't get a date. Goes off to a private college in Tennessee, determined to be a lawyer. Experiments with alcohol and drugs, loses his religion. (Yawn) Doesn't find pre-law all that interesting and tests poorly in government and poli sci. Likes to read, so changes his major to English. Still can't get a date. Works summers clearing brush and fighting fires in the forested mountains of Idaho. Calls this his "Forest Service career" and attempts (unsuccessfully) to make high drama out of lousy bosses, co-workers and subordinates. Enamored of the works of Willa Cather, goes to grad school in Nebraska. (Oddly, he says almost nothing of those years.) Sappily follows a girl to Uruguay where he spends part of a year teaching bratty sixth graders and is mostly miserable. Girl ignores him, goes off with a sugar daddy. Still can't get a date. Finally lands a teaching job in the flat farmlands of central Iowa. Pines for the mountains of Montana, but plants some roots (and a garden) and, probably most importantly, FINALLY gets a date. Gets married in fact, and proceeds, we assume, to live "happily ever after." The End.

There is an air of martyrdom and pretentiousness in Dolezal's story, which all too often turns into over-the-top exasperating melodrama that left me talking to myself in frustration. Because here's the thing: Dolezal is a very good writer, one who has obviously read voluminously. He understands and uses well the rich rhythms of the language. There are many sentences in here that are a pleasure to read aloud. Here are just a couple examples -

"Pelicans spiral over the spillway, skating to a stop on the water ..."

"I can still feel the hum of the wheels, the dance of my feet, sprockets spinning and spinning, their teeth tugging the links of the chain."

So yeah, in regard to language itself, Dolezal displays the sensibilities of a poet. Poetry, in fact, may well turn out to be his métier. This story? Like I said, mixed feelings. Largely frustrating and exasperating, but with some good stuff here and there. A very promising writer trying too hard to make opera from an ordinary life. Maybe he wrote his own story a little too soon. Some years and seasoning will, I think, make a world of difference, and the next book - whether poetry or prose - is bound to be better. I'll watch for it. ( )