I LOVE YOU BUT I'VE CHOSEN DARKNESS

Reckless and defiantly intelligent, Watkins detonates the ties that bind.

An almost hallucinatory craft propels Watkins' fiction, starting with her ear for titles. Midbook, the reader learns that the narrator’s (doomed) teenage beau tattooed I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness across his collarbones, “with a period, as in end of discussion.” The narrator, named Claire Vaye Watkins, starts off in a garden of “mostly rock and dirt,” addressing four naked dolls. Awash in postpartum depression, she has bolted the Midwest for Nevada, leaving an infant daughter and a husband in her wake. She might be directing the title to her daughter, but it works equally well as a signoff from her own handsome, notorious father, Paul Watkins, “Charles Manson’s number one procurer of young girls.” Or from her mother, Martha, “an artist, a naturalist, a writer” who died alone, addicted to OxyContin. Watkins’ reckoning with her mother is breathtaking. “I went from being raised by a pack of coyotes,” she writes, “to a fellowship at Princeton where I sat next to John McPhee at a dinner and we talked about rocks and he wasn’t at all afraid of me.” Dark humor marbles these pages, and whether a reader finds it bracing or bratty may be a matter of temperament, or generation. Watkins breaks the rule of her open marriage by falling in love and, thinking of her husband, tells herself, “Do not say I just have to get this out of my system because I do not want it out.” Along this jagged way, Watkins spins a remarkable set piece as she gives a literary reading at a Reno high school. Mostly, she sifts the remnants of her desert family of origin, making it impossible to look away. Less successful are long excerpts of Martha’s teenage letters to a cousin, a wanly parallel coming-of-age. Still, when Watkins thanks both dead parents in her acknowledgements, the sincerity is a measure of rare storytelling capable of lifting them all from the wreckage.

Incandescent writing illuminates one woman’s life in flames.