The sometimes third-person hero who gives the title to [Ray], usually told by him in first person, is an alcoholic medical doctor and veteran jet fighter pilot alive and troublemaking right now. He flew from a carrier over Vietnam from 1967 to 1969, and now he has children, his second marriage has gone to hell, he teaches American civilization at the local college, has enjoyed love and lust with Sister Hooch, who has been shot dead by a religious fanatic. Ray steals a Learjet and it crashes, and he survives. Oh, the thing begins to sound a dime a dozen, another low-budget extravaganza, one of those country tent-shows of modernist fiction that camp on the back pages of the book review sections on their way down the road to Marboro Country.
Ray is nothing like that. Like Hannah's previous book of stories, Airships, it has energy, acuity of observation, stamina, formal beauty, wit, a [bold signature with unsettling transitions]…. The book also, for all the seemingly reflexive (even conventional) bizarrerie of its plot, plunders (with a few misbegotten indulgences, abuse of license) felt and experienced life. (p. 31)
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