"In the popular imagination, pigs simply exist to consume and to be consumed. We revile them because they are seen as gluttonous animals, indiscriminate in their pursuit for satiation, and because they are dirty, wallowing happily in their own filth. Johanna Stoberock’s novel Pigs uses these stereotypes—the rapacious, prosaic nature of these beasts—to amplify the grotesque impulse of want and greed inherent in both animal and man." —The Rumpus
"Pigs reads like a parable or a Greek tragedy… Pithy, earthy language conveys complex truths… Devastating and hopeful, the book champions reform from the inside out." —Mari Carlson, Foreword Reviews
"Johanna Stoberock's second novel is a grotesque and luminous thriller with a big, swashbuckling allegory at its core, and Stoberock's own magic trick is to populate the island with characters sufficiently rich to elevate the novel far beyond parable or admonition. It's a beautiful book that I can't wait to reread." —Ted Scheinman, Pacific Standard
"A lyrical, enthralling, and dark-inflected allegory, equal parts Italo Calvino, Angela Carter, and Lord of the Flies." —Jonathan Lethem, author of A Gambler’s Anatomy and The Feral Detective
"Powerful, metaphorical, as fantastical as it is true, Johanna Stoberock’s Pigs is a masterpiece. Stoberock scrutinizes mankind’s failure to tend to our planet, our children, and our fellow man, and the result is a terrifying, tremendous book, its darkness lit in unpredictable ways by campfires of compassion and hope. What a wise, searing novel for the twenty-first century." —Sharma Shields, author of The Cassandra and The Sasquatch Hunter’s Almanac
"Pigs looks unflinchingly at some of the scariest parts of our world—a changing climate, an ocean full of garbage, and us, the fragile animals. Yet within this, there is tremendous beauty and grace—Johanna Stoberock has written a kind of love song to survival, to life itself." —Ramona Ausubel, author of Awayland and Sons and Daughters of Ease and Plenty
"This is the writing of a woman who considers the breaking and the growth of beings. I am always struck with her ability to describe uncomfortable beauty. She explores unquestioned roles and rules, the pain we stifle and the pain we commit, and the process of change and release and giving as sacrifice." — Augusta Sparks Farnum
"A superbly crafted and thoroughly reader absorbing novel by an author with a genuine flair for originality..." —Midwest Book Review
"In the popular imagination, pigs simply exist to consume and to be consumed. We revile them because they are seen as gluttonous animals, indiscriminate in their pursuit for satiation, and because they are dirty, wallowing happily in their own filth. Johanna Stoberock’s novel Pigs uses these stereotypes—the rapacious, prosaic nature of these beasts—to amplify the grotesque impulse of want and greed inherent in both animal and man." —The Rumpus
Pigs reads like a parable or a Greek tragedy… Pithy, earthy language conveys complex truths… Devastating and hopeful, the book champions reform from the inside out.
—Mari Carlson, Foreword Reviews
Johanna Stoberock's second novel is a grotesque and luminous thriller with a big, swashbuckling allegory at its core, and Stoberock's own magic trick is to populate the island with characters sufficiently rich to elevate the novel far beyond parable or admonition. It's a beautiful book that I can't wait to reread.
—Ted Scheinman, Pacific Standard
A lyrical, enthralling, and dark-inflected allegory, equal parts Italo Calvino, Angela Carter, and Lord of the Flies.
—Jonathan Lethem, author of A Gambler’s Anatomy and The Feral Detective
Powerful, metaphorical, as fantastical as it is true, Johanna Stoberock’s Pigs is a masterpiece. Stoberock scrutinizes mankind’s failure to tend to our planet, our children, and our fellow man, and the result is a terrifying, tremendous book, its darkness lit in unpredictable ways by campfires of compassion and hope. What a wise, searing novel for the twenty-first century.
—Sharma Shields, author of The Cassandra and The Sasquatch Hunter’s Almanac
Pigs looks unflinchingly at some of the scariest parts of our world—a changing climate, an ocean full of garbage, and us, the fragile animals. Yet within this, there is tremendous beauty and grace—Johanna Stoberock has written a kind of love song to survival, to life itself.
—Ramona Ausubel, author of Awayland and Sons and Daughters of Ease and Plenty
This is the writing of a woman who considers the breaking and the growth of beings. I am always struck with her ability to describe uncomfortable beauty. She explores unquestioned roles and rules, the pain we stifle and the pain we commit, and the process of change and release and giving as sacrifice.
— Augusta Sparks Farnum
A superbly crafted and thoroughly reader absorbing novel by an author with a genuine flair for originality...
—Midwest Book Review
In the popular imagination, pigs simply exist to consume and to be consumed. We revile them because they are seen as gluttonous animals, indiscriminate in their pursuit for satiation, and because they are dirty, wallowing happily in their own filth. Johanna Stoberock’s novel Pigs uses these stereotypes—the rapacious, prosaic nature of these beasts—to amplify the grotesque impulse of want and greed inherent in both animal and man.
—The Rumpus
About the Author
Johanna Stoberock is the author of the novel City of Ghosts. Her honors include the James W. Hall Prize for Fiction, an Artist Trust GAP award, and a Jack Straw Fellowship. In 2016 she was named Runner Up for the Italo Calvino Prize for Fiction. Her work has appeared in the New York Times,the Best of the Net Anthology, and Catamaran, among others. She lives in Walla Walla, Washington, where she teaches at Whitman College.
www.johannastoberock.com
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Excerpt One
The pigs ate everything. Kitchen scraps. Bitter lettuce from the garden. The stale and sticky contents of lunch boxes kids brought home from school. Toenail clippings. Hairballs pulled up from the drain. After the pigs were done, there weren’t even any teeth left over, not even any metal from cavities filled long ago.
They lived in a pen out back. The land was rocky but spacious, and the pen had been tucked in a corner out of sight for more years than any of the children could remember. It was made out of wood, gray, splintered boards nailed together in a haphazard way. Every five feet, the wood was anchored by posts. When you stood by the fence, the pigs lumbered over, grunting, and stuck their snouts out between the rickety slats. It wasn’t always that they expected food. Sometimes they just wanted their snouts scratched. Sometimes they just grunted happily and settled back down in the shade. There were six of them. They never fought. They seemed to smile when you approached. But you had to be quick. If you brought a bucket of slop for them and poured it out too slowly without moving your hand away, you never knew what could happen.
Luisa was missing a finger. Not an important one. Just her left-hand pinky, where she hadn’t moved away quickly enough one hot summer afternoon when she was feeding them shoes. It was summer every afternoon there. Soft and lazy and slow. The pinky came off in one clean bite before she even realized what was happening. She left with a feeling of shame, like it had been her fault the pig grabbed her finger. She wrapped her hand in her skirt and kept her mouth shut, and the stub didn’t start hurting until she lay down for the night.
Excerpt Two
From a distance, the island looked so small that ocean liners moving past described it to their passengers as nothing but an unnamed, uncharted outcropping of rock. Cruise directors announced over loudspeakers that some people said it was the island where the sirens tried to lure sailors to their death. Listen closely, they said, and you’ll hear something that sounds like a song. From time to time, a half-drunk divorcee jumped into the water and required rescue from irritated sailors. From time to time, passengers gathered on deck to sigh at the dark outline the island made against the orange setting sun. But nobody noticed the trails of refuse that formed a path over the water as the ship steamed on. It was official policy never to look back. It was official policy to believe the world stopped once it could no longer be seen.
Excerpt Three
The spotted pig woke up and heaved herself to standing. She shambled over, sleepy but ready for a snack. The shipment of nuclear waste had been harder to finish than expected, and the pigs had stayed up late eating the last of it. Her sides bulged out, and she had a peculiar glow about her as she shuffled through the brush. The rest of the pigs kept sleeping. It was just about midnight, and the moon sent shadows through the leaves onto her back. On the island in the dry heat of day, shadows were what the pigs had to stay cool instead of mud. But shadows gave them something else, too. They gave them the beauty of dappled light, of its patterns through the leaves. Some people say that humans are the only beasts moved by beauty, but the pigs proved them wrong on a daily basis. The pigs never failed to stop to appreciate the lacework of light through leaves. They appreciated the perfection of a beehive. The smooth gold of honey moved them just as much as the sweetness of its flavor. The pigs admired beauty as much as any of us do.
