This was my companion at the coop bank today, and it made me think Kerima Polotan and Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo were the better fictionists. They told more with less, and their best storytelling always left an impression of taut abundance tenuously contained, of meaning simmering just below the clarity of imagery, the unsaid but is there threatening to boil and break the precise net of words giving them shape.
Though this after all is her first published book of stories from 1962 and earlier. I should probably reread A Wilderness of Sweets, which came out in 1973. It swept me off my feet when I read it for a creative writing class, and I wonder now if it will still hold that same power, now that I am a much older reader with a better ear for tightness of language.