Literal, Metaphorical, or Both?
A philosophical contemplation comparing the habits of animals and humans at first seems entirely literal. Closer scrutiny reveals it may be intended as metaphorical. Ultimately, it winds up seeming to possess qualities of both intentions:
“Animals can tear your heart out. They can maim you. They can kill you dead on instinct alone and saunter into the next minute like it was nothing. But at least you know the ground rules with animals. You can count the cost of breaking the rules. You never know with people. Even the good can hurt you bad, and the bad, well, they’re going to hurt you but good.”
Turning a Metaphor on Its Head
The narrator himself is given to philosophical contemplation as well. Especially when the subject turns to time. But that is probably only to be expected when you live to be 105 years old:
“Time heals all wounds, they say. I’m here to tell you that time can wound you all on its own.”
The Gates/Bezos/Buffett/Zuckerberg of His Day
Used to be that a metaphor based on understanding the relevance of John D. Rockefeller was a no-brainer. John D. was the patriarch of the clan and probably the most rich American ever until Howard Hughes came along. It has been said that in terms of sheer buying power relative to the economics of their time, Rockefeller remains the richest American ever. Whether that can actually be proven true or not, one thing is for sure: by the time period covered in the novel, the name John D. Rockefeller was synonymous with obscenely inequitable wealth:
“If the gold coin looked like John D. Rockefeller to my orphan eyes, then that roll of bills looked like Fort Knox.”
A Panoply of Similes
Over the course of three sentences, the author engages the full metaphorical power of the comparison offered by the simile. One after another come at the reader like bullets from a Thompson submachine gun, spattering literal description with figurative imagery:
“The gash on his head had stopped bleeding but still looked as angry as the Old Man felt about it being there. Watching, I felt the full weight of Mr. Percival T. Bowles on my chest, the gold piece in my pocket burning like sin, because I hadn’t warned him. If I didn’t tell him now, I’d keep feeling like a Panhandle Judas.”
Road Trip
Basically, when all is said and done, this novel belongs just as much the genre of road trip fiction as it does to historical fiction or animal stories. Of course, it goes without saying that it all those things at once. But without the historical truth of the road trip as its foundation, it is just a wild ride into fantasy:
“Being on the road’s no song, though. Not if you’re a stray. There’s nothing more pitiful than a wandering creature who was never meant to be wild.”
