Richard ford canada review new york times

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    Canada, by Richard Ford

    The former newspaper reporter in me demands I begin my thought here on Richard Ford’s new novel Canada(Ecco) with a bit of full-disclosure: Ford lives here in my native state of Maine and is a friend.

    More full-disclosure: that last sentence seems so wonderfully odd to me, as I am a thirty-seven-year-old man still very in touch with his seventeen-year-old self who read Ford and his pals Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff and believed they were the giants of contemporary American fiction.

    Two decades and many books later, I can’t say my opinion has changed much: Ford’s Canada is only further validation that I was right about at least one thing when I was seventeen.

    Ford’s new novel—his first since closing the Frank Bascombe trilogy that began with The Sportswriter (1986), earned the Pulitzer and PEN/Faulkner for Independence Day (1995), and wrapped with The Lay of the Land (2006)—finds the author returning to the landscapes and themes that made me fa