British playwright Rachel Joyce's first novel, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, seems an unlikely sort of book to jump across the Atlantic. The story of a retired brewery salesman, his wife, absent son, and a note from a dying friend he hasn't seen for years unfolds in a world marked by a particularly British kind of reticence about feelings, a very specifically English way of living together in polite, yet sometimes bitter chill.
But American readers are embracing it, possibly because its arc of revelation, a physical and psychological journey to a sort of enlightenment, is so American and possibly because the prose is so effortless. Although one never forgets one is reading a British novel, the reader is never brought up short by glaring Britishisms, Commonwealth-style spelling or punctuation, or unfamiliar vocabulary. The book itself went on a bit of a pilgrimage, and it has emerged splendidly.
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