One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow

“It was Nettie Mae who staked a claim on sorrow, but weeping never did a bit of good. Cora had even stolen Nettie Mae’s tears. What could God have in store next?”

As she watches Cora approach her house, Nettie Mae’s internal narration reveals the depth of her feeling of violation. The metaphor of sorrow as a territory to be claimed and tears as objects that can be stolen illustrates that her grievance extends beyond the affair into a feeling of personal theft. This perspective establishes the immense emotional barrier that must be overcome for reconciliation, highlighting the novel’s exploration of The Necessity of Forgiveness in the Wake of Tragedy.

“The corn patch was his natural place, for he was tall among tall stalks and browned by the sun as the plants were browned. The cornstalks called to him. They beckoned him to the harvest because he was their kin, grown to maturity, on the point of harvest himself.”

Through Beulah’s distinct narrative voice, this passage uses an extended metaphor to connect Clyde directly to the natural world. The personification of the cornstalks, which “called to him,” removes human agency and reframes Clyde’s coming-of-age as a seasonal, cyclical event rather than a purely personal one. This perspective is foundational to the theme of The Breakdown of Traditional Roles and Binaries, suggesting a worldview where humans are inseparable from their environment.

“Lanolin was the smell of Substance Webber, whose hands never touched but seized and took and held in an inescapable fist. The wool of frightened sheep clutched in Substance’s fingers […] He had thought, If I am ever a father someday, I won’t be a father like you.”

This passage uses olfactory imagery to link a mundane substance, lanolin, with the pervasive violence of Clyde’s father. The memory triggered by the smell encapsulates Substance’s predatory nature, contrasting the gentle act of raising sheep with his brutal “inescapable fist.” Clyde’s subsequent internal vow marks a definitive moment in his character arc, signifying his conscious rejection of his father’s legacy of domination.

“The angles were like scars, she realized—marks of agonies long gone by, the tree’s flinch carried out over months and years of growth, a memory of pain set permanently in the body of the living plant.”

While picking apples from trees her husband planted, Nettie Mae uses figurative language that projects her own experience of trauma onto the natural world. By interpreting the branches’ twisted shapes as “scars” and a “memory of pain,” she articulates the lasting, physically altering impact of past suffering. This moment of transference reveals her own scarred psyche and deepens the novel’s exploration of nature as a reflection of human emotional states.

“But Substance Webber refused to do what other spirits did. He would not be dissolved. He would permit no other life to touch him, to take him, to use him. He didn’t yet know that we can’t remain whole forever, but he would learn the truth soon enough. No one escapes the great unraveling; no thread is unspooled and escapes the weaver’s hand.”

This passage establishes a central conflict between two worldviews through the personification of Substance’s spirit. His refusal to “be dissolved” represents a masculine ideal rooted in control and individuality, which directly opposes Beulah’s understanding of a collective, cyclical existence. The metaphor of life as a weaving from which “no thread is unspooled” introduces the theme of the breakdown of traditional roles and binaries, framing Substance’s struggle over both gender roles and life and death as a futile defiance of natural law.

“Four graves behind her. Four graves at four different farms, faded marks on the map of her life, tracing the route of her forced march out into this bleak wilderness. From Wisconsin to Minnesota to Nebraska, then to the eastern plains of Wyoming and finally here, under the merciless eye of the Bighorns.”

Nettie Mae’s past is rendered here as a bleak emotional and physical landscape. The metaphor of graves as “marks on the map of her life” illustrates how loss has defined her identity and her journey westward, framing her existence as a “forced march” rather than a hopeful migration. This catalog of locations and losses provides crucial context for her hardened demeanor, revealing that her present bitterness is the culmination of a long history of unresolved trauma.

“There were three rabbits; Clyde was certain of that. Yet he could count only three ears. […] Every jackrabbit in the circle sported two long ears, after the usual fashion, but as each ear tapered to its point, that point merged with the skull of the next rabbit, so that every animal shared its body with the others.”

Occurring within Clyde’s fever dream, this surreal vision serves as a symbol of interconnection. The impossible image of the three rabbits sharing three ears functions as an allegory for the novel’s argument that seemingly separate lives are inextricably linked. This moment marks a significant psychological shift for Clyde, presenting him with a model of community and mutual dependence that directly counters the violent and isolating masculinity his father embodied.

“I said, ‘It ain’t love to rage and lash out like a rabid dog. You didn’t really love your wife, nor Clyde, either. You made them to worship you, same as they worship God, with fear and trembling. What love you had was all for yourself, not for anyone else.’”

In a posthumous confrontation with Substance’s spirit, Beulah deconstructs his legacy of abuse, articulating a key argument of the theme the redefinition of masculinity beyond patriarchal violence. The simile comparing his anger to a “rabid dog” and the metaphor of demanding worship “with fear and trembling” define his behavior not as strength but as a destructive pathology rooted in selfishness. This also betrays the conflict between a patriarchal, traditional Christian notion of God as a masculine power to be worshipped and Beulah’s more equitable and pantheistic view of God in all living things. Beulah acts as a moral arbiter, explicitly naming the toxic nature of Substance’s power and its devastating effect on his family.

“I was walking home from church one Sunday. […] There was a young man working in the back field, harvesting potatoes. […] He fell on his knees in the dirt before me. He was only jesting, but he said, ‘You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Won’t you take pity on my ailing heart and marry me?’ […] ‘Marry me,’ I said. ‘You told me you would, now make good and do it.’”

This anecdote reveals the impulsive and desperate foundation of Cora’s marriage to Ernest. The scene’s situational irony—a formal proposal made in jest by a dirt-covered farm boy—is upended by Cora’s stark command, which transforms her from a scorned object of pity into a decisive, if reckless, agent in her own life. This backstory adds complexity to her character, showing that her union was an escape from social ruin rather than a romantic ideal, a fact that informs her subsequent actions and feelings of guilt.

“The rooster still lived, and yet it didn’t struggle. It had already surrendered to its fate. With her other hand, the girl stroked the glossy mane of feathers, the ruff around the creature’s neck. Her lips moved in prayer or in words of gratitude […] And then in a heartbeat, with the flick of her wrist, the child snapped the rooster’s neck.”

This scene, observed through Nettie Mae’s unnerved perspective, characterizes Beulah’s preternatural connection to the natural world. The rooster’s calm acceptance of its death is presented not as a defeat but as a surrender to a natural process, which Beulah facilitates with a ritualistic reverence that includes both affection and gratitude. The author uses precise, dispassionate description to highlight death as an inevitable transition rather than a violent end.

“Since she couldn’t have the sounds of the city, Cora would have given almost anything for silence. […] The rains had ceased after nine long days, but wind was still howling from the dark throat of her kitchen hearth, and the panes of her windows ticked now and then as the prairie hurled sage twigs and grains of dust against the glass.”

This passage employs auditory imagery and personification to articulate Cora’s profound alienation from her environment. The wind is not a neutral force but an aggressive entity with a “dark throat” that “howled” and “hurled” debris, framing the prairie as a malevolent antagonist in Cora’s mind. Her longing for the sounds of the city underscores her inability to adapt to the wilderness, a perspective that contrasts sharply with her daughter Beulah’s harmonious relationship with the same landscape.

“I guess that’s the privilege of the young. Age roots a person, grounds a body to its habits. Our mothers had each learned to hate or fear the other, depending on which woman you asked. […] I have learned one scrap of wisdom, at least: whatever a body expects their life to be, that’s what they’ll make of it in the end.”

Here, Beulah’s narration offers a moment of direct philosophical reflection, distinguishing the ingrained animosity of the older generation from the developing bond she shares with Clyde. The aphoristic final sentence articulates a core idea of the narrative: that perception shapes reality. This insight positions Beulah not merely as a participant in the events but as a source of wisdom who understands that overcoming tragedy requires a conscious choice to change one’s expectations.

“He hadn’t killed anything since his father’s death. The mere thought of taking the young sheep’s lives […] filled him with a nauseous tension, a restless stirring of dread. […] He couldn’t be the one to dole out death now. He had touched death too intimately for it to remain ordinary and isolated, a thing beyond himself.”

Clyde’s internal monologue reveals a significant psychological shift, directly linking his trauma from burying his father to a newfound aversion to violence. This moment marks a crucial step in his character arc, as he emotionally rejects the dispassionate, brutal masculinity embodied by Substance. His struggle illustrates the theme of the redefinition of masculinity beyond patriarchal violence, framing empathy and sensitivity not as weaknesses, but as the consequences of confronting mortality. From this, Beulah can show him how to move forward and embrace death not as an act of violence, but as a natural transition.

“That was why my ma refused to love the land on which she depended for her very survival: because the land never allowed my ma to deny her insignificance.”

Narrated from Beulah’s perspective, this quote establishes a fundamental conflict between humanity and the natural world as experienced by her mother, Cora. Because of her illegitimate parentage, her youth was defined by a lack of identity and the need for validation, and this impulse continues to motivate her in adulthood. The frontier is vast and largely untamed, an environment wherein she cannot feel important or in control, making it the exact opposite of what she desires. This characterization contrasts her worldview with Beulah’s pantheistic reverence, framing Cora’s struggle as an inability to accept her small place within an indifferent ecosystem.

“Between one beat of her heart and the next, she felt herself standing upon the horn, felt it grow to an unfathomable size […] The spiral grew wider every season, but death was always at its center.”

During a moment of quiet contemplation after the traumatic flood, Nettie Mae experiences an involuntary vision inspired by a ram’s horn. This passage directly introduces the recurring motif of the spiral, representing the theme of the breakdown of traditional roles and binaries. For Nettie Mae, a character defined by rigid certainty, this surreal, intuitive insight into life’s regenerative pattern is an unsettling disruption to her worldview.

“He would never again look at a crow and see only black. I felt certain of that.”

After Beulah shows Clyde the iridescent colors in a crow’s feather, she reflects on the impact of this small revelation. The simple declarative statement from Beulah’s point of view functions as a significant marker in Clyde’s character arc, signifying his developing ability to perceive complexity and beauty where he previously saw only monochrome simplicity. This shift in perception, guided by Beulah, is a key step in his journey away from a more common, reductive worldview toward a more nuanced understanding of nature.

“‘It’s a monster.’ Clyde turned his shotgun toward the creature, but Beulah pushed the muzzle aside. ‘Don’t you dare shoot that lamb, Clyde Webber. You’re blessed by a miracle, something no one has seen before, and all you can think to do is kill it?’”

This exchange occurs immediately after the discovery of the two-headed lamb, a symbol in the novel. The starkly contrasting diction—Clyde’s “monster” versus Beulah’s “miracle”—encapsulates their opposing worldviews and a central thematic tension. Clyde’s violent, fearful reaction represents an inherited patriarchal impulse to destroy what is abnormal, while Beulah’s response frames the lamb as a sacred, unique life form, challenging him to replace judgment with reverence.

“Relentless in his rage, shamed by his helplessness—by the damned softness he felt for that disgusting monster, that freak of a lamb—Clyde held the rope taut.”

After mistakenly believing a coyote killed the two-headed lamb, Clyde is overcome by a violent fury inherited from his father. This quote captures the climax of his internal conflict, juxtaposing his violent action (“relentless in his rage”) with its source: shame over his own empathy (“damned softness”) for the lamb. The author uses charged diction like “disgusting monster” and “freak” to convey the self-loathing Clyde feels for his own compassion. While a pivotal moment in his development, this act also shines light on Substance’s past, as he is noted by Nettie Mae as turning increasingly violent only after he watched several of his children die. This highlights how masculine violence can arise from the desire for control, but also the fear of helplessness in the face of the world’s unpredictability.

“The two creatures lay chest to chest. Both heads of the lamb—that brief-burning miracle—nestled below the coyote’s jaw.”

During a ritualistic burial guided by Beulah, the two-headed lamb and the coyote Clyde killed are placed in the same grave. The author uses visual imagery to create a symbolic tableau of reconciliation, uniting predator and prey, violence and innocence. The epithet “brief-burning miracle” for the lamb reinforces its symbolic weight as a catalyst for Clyde’s transformation. This act of burying the two together represents a break from a more traditional, binary perspective or power structure. Instead, they are shown as interconnected, not a villain and victim but two parts of a balanced whole.

“It’s winter that raises the apple from the earth. The bitter cold, the ice like knives, the crystals of ice underground that cut into the hard coat and breach the soft, pale place inside where root and stem and leaf are one. The apple won’t be coddled. Until it knows true suffering, the seed won’t sprout at all.”

Beulah opens this chapter with an extended metaphor that serves as the novel’s central philosophical statement, directly linking suffering to growth. The simile comparing ice to “knives” and the personification of the seed that “won’t be coddled” frame hardship as a necessary, even generative, force of nature. This passage articulates the thematic argument of the necessity of forgiveness in the wake of tragedy by suggesting that the “winter” of grief the families have endured was essential for their eventual healing and renewal.

“‘My life has been hard,’ Nettie Mae managed at last. ‘I’m a woman who has lost much—practically everything I’ve ever held dear. Losing Substance, too, made me…more bitter than I ought to have been.’”

Following the shared crisis of the chimney fire, Nettie Mae confesses her deep-seated pain and bitterness to Cora. This admission marks the culmination of her character arc, as she displays a vulnerability that contrasts sharply with her previously hardened demeanor. Her faltering speech and acknowledgment of her own bitterness signal an internal shift, allowing for the final reconciliation between the two women. This moment supports the theme that forgiveness requires acknowledging shared humanity and one’s own part in perpetuating conflict.

“Our parents’ hold over the earth was weakening, their grip falling loose. A new world unfolded around us, welcoming our youth, our quiet and subtle power—ushering us to our rightful place as the stewards of our land.”

Narrated from Beulah’s perspective, this passage uses personification to portray the land as an active agent that is “welcoming” a new generation. The diction of “weakening” and “falling loose” contrasts with the “quiet and subtle power” of Beulah and Clyde, marking a thematic transition of stewardship. This moment signifies a natural, cyclical shift in authority, moving from the destructive conflict of the parents to the collaborative harmony of the children.

“I ain’t what you tried to make me, Clyde said to his father’s shade. […] I won’t be you. I’ll make myself into a different man, a better husband and father—good and useful and kind.”

In this moment of direct address to his deceased father’s “shade,” Clyde vocalizes the central argument of the theme of the redefinition of masculinity beyond patriarchal violence. The quote marks the climax of his internal conflict, moving from fear of his father’s legacy to a definitive choice of a different path. The declarative statements signal a clear and final rejection of Substance’s violent worldview in favor of one defined by kindness and care.