Which is brilliant, but not always pleasant for the reader. The language, though, is incredible.
“Mother, I remember, in the Rapunzel shirt. Late May and the breeze made the garden blowzy—this way, that way—enthusiastic, and I could see straight-ahead to the pleasure of July, the cut-grass green days of dewy midsummer. My mother could see it, too, days of it, from where we were sitting on the stoop together, she ruffled up in the Rapunzel shirt and the breeze that was blowing along Main, Lawn, School, White—our streets in the leafy splatter of late May noon light. I was happy, and it seemed to me that Mother was happy, too, in a purely quiet way—no talking.”
I heard Schutt read from her new book last month and it seems to me the style—the fragmentation, the choppy narrative—is the same.