Like all Steve Cartwright's books, a bigger truth is drawn from them.
One day he's whimsical, the other, dead serious. He explores the polarities in his books.
If he's not illustrating his book he's scaring the bejesus out of us with his taut style -- yep, it's a real tightrope walk, just don't look down, the dizzying heights are enough to kick in vertigo - not a word is wasted.
Hemingway attempted a book of short stories. They were short, very short. For the life of me, I can't remember its name. But Steve's doing his thing with this book. None of it forms a connective narrative, per sa, but all of it helps complete a picture, each story a puzzle to be put together. The outcome is Steve's world, intimate, real, heartbreaking, nerve-wracking but always with a triumphant chord that overcomes the odds and shortfalls of life.
Shortfalls, is that the word I'm looking for? The loss of his mother, the fear of 'fear', heck, I've been looking over my shoulders for years and jumping at my shadow. It's evil incarnate, brought on by other humans. Steve was no doubt bullied as a kid. But when he grew up, he wasn't going to take it anymore. A badge and a gun, he was going to right a few wrongs. But within the parameters of the law, of course.
In Our Time. I was having a senior citizen's moment. By Jeeves, I'm sure that was the book I was referring to.
