The Only Good Indians, Jones’s most recent novel, is the story of a hunting trip gone awry-and of how the sins of youth come knocking, literally, on the door of adulthood-and settler-colonial violence coming full-circle. Jones’s prose is vivid and vernacular, pulls you in, makes you wish you were wherever his characters find themselves-even though there’s rarely a good reason why you want to be. His fiction is a barroom of sordid characters-deadbeats, local legends, hustlers, wannabes, passers-through that one guy who swears this place has the best mozzarella sticks in town, typical and atypical drunks, teens with whiskers on their chins who think they’re fooling everyone some folks you wouldn’t want to come across out there in the dark, but on the whole folks granny would call Good People. He soon swerved into the hardcore genre world with a string of beat-you-with-a-rusty-pipe-and-leave-you-for-dead horror stories. Stephen Graham Jones (SGJ to his fans and acolytes) is a beautiful writer, who first emerged in the early 2000s as an avant-garde literary fiction type.
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