Four Seasons

Fiction "A kind of calculation of loss, Michael Forstrom's lines are rigorously plain, compressed by discretion rather than withholding; that is, he's choosing what not to say, and the cesurae speak volumes. An impressively controlled and deliberate sequence of views—life taken apart by time—patient, taut, elliptical."—Matthew Stadler "When I first read Michael Forstrom's FOUR SEASONS, it was just Winter, a cancer tale—an empty swing, the arc of a...
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Fiction "A kind of calculation of loss, Michael Forstrom's lines are rigorously plain, compressed by discretion rather than withholding; that is, he's choosing what not to say, and the cesurae speak volumes. An impressively controlled and deliberate sequence of views—life taken apart by time—patient, taut, elliptical."—Matthew Stadler

"When I first read Michael Forstrom's FOUR SEASONS, it was just Winter, a cancer tale—an empty swing, the arc of a combative ghost. I wanted to offer an ebony bell—a carved ibis with a low, subtle tone to appease the late poverella. Immersed now in the full cycle of this love story, the passing seems reconciled, almost peaceful. Forstrom's calm clarity ushers readers through a body's complex desire: red lips wanting to be painted (spring), naked calf in a flustered undressing (summer), a dying mouth repeating what the children say (autumn). This novella's pacing mesmerizes. The betrayed widower, as caregiver, is in control but not controlling; he is an enduring witness, offering just enough. Elegant justice. FOUR SEASONS is a sanctuary, a carillon carved from stone by hand."—Lori Anderson Moseman