I fell right into it; I read a quarter of the book on Monday and kept up that pace until I finished it this evening. The language was as good as I remembered, the descriptions as vivid. The book opens with an observation of the gusty weather and the dramatic sky and the lively birds on a February day in northern California and I thought, yes: this is what I remember. (I also thought how appropriate that I was reading this in the month during which it's set. I love it when that happens by chance – though it's only the present day of the book that's set in February.) The book jumps back and forth between a few days in February 1974 (or so) in California and a few months in the spring and summer of 1954 in Denmark. Stegner's narrator is the adult son of a Danish immigrant, nearing age 70 in the present day of the book. In the 1950s, he goes with his wife to Denmark to try and connect – more figuratively than actually – with his family history.
I enjoyed reading this book quite a lot, particularly the elements I mentioned above, but there was one central plot point that turned up near the end that really made me bristle, almost to the point of ruining the book for me. I don't really feel like doing spoilers and focusing on this bit only, so I"ll just say that I'm left uncertain how I feel about the book.
