An old man lies in his bed surrounded by family and his memories as his life winds down like the clocks he used to fix. He once drove a horse-drawn cart of household items to sell to rural, early-nineteenth century, New England homesteads. The book won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction and somehow I missed the point. The book was half plot and half romantic depictions of people in nature in a part of American history that probably only ever existed in the minds of contemporary American fiction writers. The poetry of Harding’s language didn’t hold my interest and it opened gaps in the narrative that became too long before returning to story. Obviously, the critics and most readers loved this book. Feh.