The Dog of the South
I felt queasy. I took two of the orange pills. I can't say I was really sick, unless you count narcolepsy and mild xenophobia, but I was a little queasy.
Charles Portis. The Dog of the South. I can't believe (a) this book exists and (b) I've never heard of it before. Granted, I've been reading it for ages (surely the library will want it back soon) and I have read some Charles Portis before—only True Grit, which is famous enough to not need introduction.
But: the dialogue. The patter. I can't imagine writing it. I recognize some of it—at least the way that people talk past and through each other. I'm from the middle of nowhere, not really from the South, but some of the same tendencies are there. We're not the same people, but we're not that far away. All of the ridiculous dialogue... it's alien, but familiar. I've got maybe 50 pages left to go, and I'm not even sure there's a plot, but I'm keenly plugged into the dialogue. Just give me some more Arkansan babbling, however it comes.