{"product_id":"via-negativa-isbn-9780593081006","title":"Via Negativa","description":"\u003cb\u003eA heartfelt, daring, divinely hilarious debut novel about a priest who embarks on a fateful journey with a pistol in his pocket and an injured coyote in his backseat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"A beautiful and meditative exploration of shattered faith.\" \u003cb\u003e—Brit Bennett, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Vanishing Half\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFather Dan is homeless. Dismissed by his conservative diocese for eccentricity and insubordination, he’s made his exile into a kind of pilgrimage, transforming his Toyota Camry into a mobile monk’s cell. Then he sees a minivan sideswipe a coyote. Unable to suppress his Franciscan impulses, he takes the injured animal in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith his unexpected canine companion in the backseat, Dan makes his way west, encountering other offbeat travelers and stopping to take in the occasional roadside novelty (MARTIN'S HOLE TO HELL, WORLD-FAMOUS BOTTOMLESS PIT NEXT EXIT!). But the coyote is far from the only oddity fate has delivered into this churchless priest’s care: it has also given him a bone-handled pistol, a box of bullets, and a letter from an estranged friend. By the time Dan gets to where he’s going, he’ll be forced to reckon once and for all with the great mistakes of his past, and he will have to decide: is penance better paid with revenge, or with redemption?\"A beautiful and meditative exploration of shattered faith. Daniel Hornsby follows a damaged priest's journey through the American heartland after a disturbing discovery shakes his belief in the church to which he has devoted his life. A quietly devastating book from an exciting new voice.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Brit Bennett, author of\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Vanishing Half\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hornsby's ruminative and God-haunted road trip novel is a hidden gem.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBuzzfeed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A wonderful novel . . . [with] a great voice that is funny and sharp and compassionate and sometimes quite weird and beautiful.\" \u003cb\u003e—Phil Klay, National Book Award-winning author \u003ci\u003eRedeployment\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMissionaries\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[An] unorthodox road-trip novel. . . . Subtly and movingly, the novel teases out the uneasy relationship between loneliness and godliness. . . . The reckoning brings to the fore themes of guilt, grief, shame and trauma. . . . \u003ci\u003eVia Negativa\u003c\/i\u003e takes some wonderfully mysterious byways.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A relevant, funny, earnest, eloquent book. . . . Full of theological insight. . . . It is also very funny.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eAmerica Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] promising, energetic debut.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What a terrific setup: a retired priest with more than enough on his mind—and heart—heads out on the road with a hurt coyote in the back seat. I was drawn in right away by the layered tones of this new voice, which was at once ruminative, and earnest, and sly.  And by Hornsby’s courage in taking on an iconic American genre. The novel reminded me again that the only true way home is by the longest and most wayward route.” \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Peter Heller, author of\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eRiver\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“[A] novel of troubled faith and unlikely connection.’” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Engrossing. . . . [A] funny debut novel about guilt. . . . [Charles] Portis' dry humor and the spirit of his eccentric and endearing idiot-protagonists feel very much alive in Father Dan. . . . His voice is what draws you in and wins you over. It's the heart and the motor of the book.”  \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNational Catholic Reporter\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Masterful. . . . Hornsby’s vivid description . . . would make Hemingway smile.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe New York Journal of Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eVia Negativa\u003c\/i\u003e . . . resembles Marilynne Robinson’s \u003ci\u003eGilead\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . Hornsby balances the dark moments with good-spirited comedy. . . . \u003ci\u003eVia Negativa\u003c\/i\u003e is a remarkable performance in narrative voice, a convincing rendition of late-life wisdom captured in evocative sentences.” \u003cb\u003e—Sean Kinch, \u003ci\u003eChapter 16\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Daniel Hornsby's \u003ci\u003eVia Negativa\u003c\/i\u003e is a novel of daring possibilities. As brief as it is, its scope is as large as an epic as it tackles questions of theology, spirituality, and modernity, amongst others, in prose shot through with humor and grace. It is an assured novel waiting patiently to be noticed.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Chigozie Obioma, author of\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Fishermen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eand\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eAn Orchestra of Minorities\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A truly transcendent road novel.” \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Millions\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Father Dan’s regrets and doubts about his impact as a priest come through amid acerbic humor, and the kinetic prose keeps the melancholic, slow burn kindled throughout. Hornsby has got the goods, and his stirring tale of self-reflection, revenge, and theological insight isn’t one to miss.”  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Publishers Weekly \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A beautifully crafted story. . . . Dealing with the scandals in the Catholic church, lifelong friendship, and regrets, \u003ci\u003eVia Negativa\u003c\/i\u003e is a striking debut that forces readers to consider what holds us back from action.”  \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eBooklist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eDaniel Hornsby was born in Muncie, Indiana. He holds an MFA in fiction from the University of Michigan, and an MTS from Harvard Divinity School. His stories and essays have appeared in the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eElectric Literature\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Missouri Review\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eJoyland\u003c\/i\u003e. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee.\u003cp\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomebody hit a coyote and I pulled over to the shoulder to take a look at it.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI’d watched it bounce off a minivan twenty yards ahead of me. A gold smudge. At first I thought it might have been a paper bag tossed out the window, or maybe an old T‐shirt, until I saw its big yellow eyes and tail flop‐ ping around as it skittered onto the gravel, rolling like a stuntman on fire.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBy the time I walked up to it on the shoulder, it was lying on its side, taking quick, shallow breaths and staring up past my head. One of its legs looked like it had an extra joint.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI reached out to touch it, and it didn’t bite. I ran my finger along its hind leg, and it didn’t move.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWith a spare blanket from the trunk, I wrapped him up (I could now see he was male, for whatever that’s worth), then stuck him in the back seat, next to the bucket, the books, and my duffel bag.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI grabbed two of the books and shoved the rest into the footwell so they wouldn’t shift onto him. I set the coyote’s head on the selected writings of Origen of Alexandria and wedged my collection of the Venerable Bede’s homilies between the seat belt and the blanket to brace the animal’s ribs and diffuse the pressure of the strap when I buckled him in. He was panting hard, so I poured some water into his mouth and, after I’d made sure his tongue had drawn it in, poured a little more on the blanket for him to suck on if he got thirsty soon. Before I drove off, I stuck half a Niravam in his mouth and heard it fizzle on his tongue.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOrigen, that spiritual genius of the second and third centuries, says we can go up or down from age to age. Someone could be a monk, and then, after a snobby life of chastity and starvation, come back as an angel. Or you could go backward—you might come to as an animal (a pigeon, a rat, a coyote), and then drop to demon, or go down to whatever is below that. The idea behind this being that at the beginning of time we were all made of fire and turned toward God in constant, sizzling contemplation, burning up His divine fumes. Most minds (with the sole exception of Jesus, he says) turned from Him, became distracted, and cooled, and from then on we were stuck with our husky bodies. Now we can go up or down. But eventually even those at the bottom will climb their way back up to God, when time calls it quits.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI haven’t read Origen in a while, admittedly, but I’m pretty sure that’s the gist of his cosmic scheme. Which he would say is somewhat metaphorical anyhow.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThanks to a couple first‐millennium controversies among the monasteries of Lower Egypt, Origen was never canonized. There are pictures of him standing at the pulpit, preaching to a congregation of saints (Augustine, Ambrose), a haloed crowd in which he’s the only one with no light shooting out of his head.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSomewhere in Illinois, I changed the blanket. The coyote had pissed and shit in it. A good sign, I figured, but the car was beginning to smell. He left a foamy stripe of puke on Origen, and some of it smeared onto Bede.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI wrapped him in one of my towels at a rest stop. He was as light as a throw pillow. He didn’t move at all.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe back leg looked pretty bad, bent slightly the wrong way. When I touched it, he jerked out of his daze and snapped his jaws. I’d need to set the bone.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA woman stepped out of the van parked next to me.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Got yourself a little buddy there, Father?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe walked over, and before I could stop her she stroked his nose.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Doesn’t like to travel. I gave him one of those pills. He’s a little out of it.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I can tell. Well, I hope he gets there safe. You too. God bless.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI buckled him back in and threw the blanket into the trash.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBede joined the monastery of Monkwearmouth when he was seven. As an oblate. A \u003ci\u003epuer oblatus. \u003c\/i\u003eLiterally, a “child offered,” part of a practice of dedicating prepubescent boys to monastic life\u003ci\u003e. \u003c\/i\u003eIt probably wasn’t the best for child development, but the monks who did this moved through scripture like fish in water, my theology professor used to say.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI went to the minor seminary at fourteen. St. John Bosco’s. This was in Indiana, in the sixties, but there are still a few places like that. It’s the closest thing to being an oblate you can get in recent memory. There were a lot of oblates in the Middle Ages—it simplified inheritance to send off a second‐born son (or ninth‐born, in my case) to a monastery before he reached puberty. Many of the best medieval scholars were oblates. William of Ockham was an oblate. So was St. Boniface, I think.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI roomed with three other boys, and we were far from little Bedes or Ockhams. We found the room where the older priests kept their whiskey, gin, and cartons of cigarettes and broke into it all the time. Sometimes we’d hitchhike into Indianapolis and try to meet girls. More than once a couple of us brought some back to the seminary and made out in the grounds’ charitable shadows. The priests didn’t object to this as much as you might think. The boys were trying to get one last look at what they’d be giving up, should they graduate to the major seminary and go through with ordination. I don’t know what the girls were trying to get. The seminary was not a romantic place. Everywhere you looked, a saint or an angel was there watching you—staring up and to the side, the way they always do.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLast night, a couple hours after I picked up the coyote, I stopped at a campground off the highway. I parked the car near a tree inscribed with the message “jb was here fuuck ron!” I almost stepped on a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket. Some animal had torn it apart. The colonel’s face stared back at me, mutilated and sinister, like a zombie’s.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI unloaded my supplies from the Camry. They’d given me two weeks to move out of the rectory, and in that time I ran a number of tests. I took a bucket and one of those circular cushions they make you wear when you break your tailbone, and with these I’d made a kind of chamber pot. I soldered together a foldable grill. I have a master’s in art, and I’ve always been pretty good at making things. Over the years, I kept picking up new crafts. I’ve worked with pewter, clay, wood, PVC pipe, and (in one disastrous project) human hair. So it was fun for me to put these things together.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSomething in my knee popped when I reached in to grab my tent. It was so loud even the coyote turned his head to see what was going on. But it didn’t hurt too bad. I’d be all right as long as I didn’t fully extend my leg.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDespite his curiosity about my knee, the coyote was still pretty dazed. I put on a pair of leather driving gloves and bound him up in the towel, leaving his broken leg sticking out like a kettle’s spout. I buckled him back in so he couldn’t turn and bite me. And then I took some plaster gauze from my first aid kit and started wrapping the broken leg with it. The coyote didn’t like this and started wriggling, but then he passed out—because of the pain, I think. With him lying still, I managed to get the leg set pretty straight, and used up most of the gauze, because it seemed likely he’d chew through it if there wasn’t enough. I drizzled water on the wraps so they would hold and then turned up the air so the plaster would set faster. Once he came to, I gave him the other half of the pill.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhen I was done, he looked like one of those mummified cats you see pictures of in \u003ci\u003eNational Geographic\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWith the coyote bundled up, I pitched my tent. Lying there in the dark, I thought I heard something or someone moving through the trees about fifty yards away. I pulled out my flashlight and shined it into the brush, but there wasn’t anything. If you’re alone long enough, your mind begins to populate the world. I think that’s why the Desert Fathers—St. Antony, Arsenius—were always battling demons. I’m not saying those demons weren’t real; I just think you have to be alone for a long time if your brain is going to be able to see anything special.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI grabbed one of the books from the car and tried to read it by flashlight. After mindlessly skimming a few pages, I felt something sticky on the spine. Some of the coyote’s bile had caked onto it. I wiped it off on the side of the tent.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI fell asleep about an hour after that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305136115941,"sku":"NP9780593081006","price":15.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593081006.jpg?v=1767743432","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/via-negativa-isbn-9780593081006","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}