"It’s a wonderful novel, and deserves an American readership. Very few writers these days seem to be working this kind of ground.” – James Wood, author of The Book Against God
"I loved Canadian author Christine Pountney's book Sweet Jesus... As well as being a beautifully written character study, it also captures the emptiness and longing at the heart of America." – Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting
"Christine Pountney's prose is stunning, but Sweet Jesus is more than a beautifully written book - it's a guide to being human in an ungodly world. Her characters are unforgettable." – Miriam Toews, author of All My Puny Sorrows
"I fell madly in love with Sweet Jesus. It is everything I look for in a novel. It is my book of the year." – Barbara Gowdy, author of The Romantic
"Few books make fiction feel this real." – Chad Pelley, Behind the Book
I like doing stuff and writing about it. Do stuff: write about it. I like it when people take time to observe the world. I like emotional observations, or observations about emotion. I like making a bizarre connection, or realizing how serendipitous life is. I like spiritual adventures, not having a plan, and not knowing where I'll end up.
"A swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads that one can't see - that's my idea of happiness." – Henry James, Portrait of a Lady
If something's expected of me, I don't want to do it. I like choice and being baffled, and trying to figure out what to do without expert advice, like a maverick, or a pioneer. I get overwhelmed easily, but recover quickly. I try to be brave, even when, most of the time, I'm not.
"There are things unbearable. One can evade them a long time. Then you die." – Anne Carson
This collection, The Dirt Bike Paintings, I did in and around Western Bay, Newfoundland. The coastline is dramatic and rocky, the sea wild at times, crashing against the shore in spews of green and white, or calm as a granite table stretched to the horizon.
I would head out on my 1977 Honda XL dirt bike. When I finished a painting, I'd wedge it between the brake line and the handle bars and let it air-dry as I rode home. My six year-old son accompanied me on some of these outings. Then he’d be the one to hold the wet painting, sitting between my legs, as we bumped and skidded our way over rocky paths, back to the little pink summer-house we have in Western Bay.