Téa Obreht’s latest novel is no easy read. Its lyrical, dense prose forced me to read carefully and slowly. I found myself able to concentrate only in short, intense bursts, after which I had to put it aside each time until I was ready to tackle it again.  Needless to say, it took me quite some time to complete. Was it worth the effort? Yes, I think so.

Inland is set in the Arizona Territory of 1893, a harsh, drought-choked place. The novel re-imagines the classic myth of the American West from two perspectives: the first a tough, haunted frontierswoman called Nora and the other an immigrant outlaw by the name of Lurie. Not a great deal happens.  This isn’t a novel you read for the plot, but what little plot there is serves as a necessary reminder of something that’s forgotten too easily and too frequently today: that America was crafted by a multitude of people born in every corner of the world, and by women just as much as by men.  America is as much an idea as it is a country. Obreht’s novel testifies powerfully to how the country was made from hard, unforgiving materials and the idea realized because of the sacrifices of tough and determined people, women and men whose descendants find themselves too often disparaged and overlooked today.

America is a place that tells and re-tells a small number of stories about itself constantly.  Those stories are what help to unite hundreds of millions of people who have little else to bond them.  Much of the time it doesn’t seem to matter whether the stories are true or not. That’s not the point; it’s the telling and re-telling that matters, the effect not the truth. The stories have been distorted by politicians since the country was founded. Stories and myths matter.  They have consequences. Obreht understands that.