i am a student of english, used to be at least. i appreciate and respect the written word, always have and quite likely forever will. and while i revel in the technical capabilities of our language's writers the first and foremost requirement in this craft for me is the story beneath the text. now granted a story told in a ingenious and innovative way offers a literary thrill to a word-dork like me, but the story cannot get lost in the science. t.s. elliot for instance, considered by many to have written some of the most eloquent and skilled prose ever seen, in my eyes loses the reader in morass of language and style therefore rendering his wasteland and other efforts impotent to move most humans. this is tragic. painted house is not. and because of this it resides on the opposite end of the spectrum. it is raw, uncut storytelling whose delivery is so brazenly simple, it reminds one of listening to an aged relative rocking in a chair, sitting on a porch, staring up at a tree as they talk about their youth. hat tipped.