A world of endless possibilities might seem full of light and promise to some, but for the lonely, grief-stricken characters in Universal Harvester, Heaven might be more like, as David Byrne once put it, “a place where nothing ever happens.” Such a territory, Darnielle suggests, could have its own kind of beauty, something only those who live “within its boundaries” are capable of recognizing. Yet as different versions of the story we’re reading gradually come to light, some hinging on small, admittedly disputable details, the effect isn’t eerie so much as somber and reflective. (Please take a moment here to imagine John Darnielle out on a camping trip, packing away his acoustic guitar and surplus s’mores ingredients by the light of a low-burning flame, readying himself to tell a scary story of his own invention.) The narrator’s exhibition of both uncanny omniscience and a personal stake - or, perhaps, a presence - in the action is especially chilling. Because of this, the book often comes off kind of like an extended campfire story. While the novel is largely told from a third-person omniscient perspective, Darnielle periodically injects a digressive narrative voice that offers personal anecdotes and commentary.
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