I met Joe Brown when we were both signing books at a sadly defunct bookstore in Tucson. I had brought a copy of his Forests of the Night, which could give Cormac McCarthy a run for his money, for him to sign.
Here is what he wrote:
And what he looked like when he wrote the book:
He regaled us with tales that could have come out of the old west but for the fact that they took place in the Sixties, of border cattle smuggling and Mexican bordellos (including one about a prominent local rancher we knew).
I am delighted that UNM Press has published an autobiography of his childhood, and will soon be releasing a new novel. Among other things, he just plain deserves it. And it gives me hope.
I am delighted that UNM Press has published an autobiography of his childhood, and will soon be releasing a new novel. Among other things, he just plain deserves it. And it gives me hope.
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"Soon, I was doing nothing but writing," Brown says. "I never liked it, but I couldn't stop. It was more of an obsession than an enjoyment."
"...But it never found a significant readership, and epitomized his position as a writer--too literary to appeal to genre Western readers, too Western to excite Eastern literary types."
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