Stegner's last novel is suitably garrisoned to hold its ultimate position, armed with subject matter ranging from family, to career, to love, to friendship, to art, to death--in precis, with the memorable stuff of human life. And then there is that even deeper matter, the one that evades explicit mention, and would almost escape notice entirely (as it so often does) were it not for the title and its prefatory source, a stanza from Stegner's good friend Robert Frost: I could give all to Time except--except What I myself have held. But why declare The things forbidden that while Customs slept I have crossed to Safety with? For I am There And what I would not part with, I have kept. And what are these "things forbidden"? Stegner, I believe, could have laid out an easy answer for us, drawn from natural gifts, gifts conditioned by years of pain-love-experience. That is the common precedent, and one not forsaken by many great men. Tell 'em, old man, tell 'em. You...
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