Nieson does something else extremely well, however. He opens himself to the reader, inviting a level of personal examination rarely offered in memoirs. Whether he is describing his morbid fascination with dead animals, or his fear of comforting a friend dying of AIDS, Nieson is courageous in his willingness to share the darkest elements of his soul. And for this he should be commended.
But the story itself, about the aftermath of a love affair with a woman named Sybil, hardly touches the reader. Primarily because Nieson fails to establish the passion of their relationship, which is briefly described, rather than shown. Thus we can’t become invested in his emotional pain, as he doesn’t build the limbic resonance necessary to justify it.
Instead, the storyline rushes forward inexplicably, then flashes back, then forward again, repeatedly — like a cat playing with the DVR remote.
Perhaps most disconcerting is Nieson’s use of language. From the first sentence, “Sometimes it is like a dream,” the book is riddled with so many clichés and hackneyed phrases that we have to wonder: Where is his own voice?
Other problems abound. Words are often carelessly repeated in consecutive sentences or the same paragraph. The contorted syntax feels like the result of a beginner yoga class, not an advanced writing workshop. And Peter Piper would be jealous of the myriad gratuitous alliterations, like “panorama of my precious pond and pasture. …”
School House does provide some insightful lessons, however, which the author gleans from meditations on his grandfather’s suicide, and the eternal predator-prey life cycle that he observes in the Iowa woods. But the art of writing, unfortunately, is not one of them.