Wroblewski happens to have borrowed, here and there, from Rudyard Kipling, William Shakespeare, Richard Russo, Stephen King and the 1934 dog-breeding book “Working Dogs.” And he writes as if he grew up in a library well stocked with great novels of the prairie. Absent the few dates and pop-cultural references that place the book somewhere in the post-Eisenhower 20th century, its unmannered style, emotional heft and sweeping ambition would keep it timeless. Written over a decade by the heretofore unknown David Wroblewski and arriving as a bolt from the blue, this is a great, big, mesmerizing read, audaciously envisioned as classic Americana. It’s an even better way to get acquainted with the most enchanting debut novel of the summer. That’s a good way for a boy to meet a dog. Between the honey-colored slats of the crib a whiskery muzzle slides forward until its cheeks pull back and a row of dainty front teeth bare themselves in a ridiculous grin.” “This will be his earliest memory,” “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle” says about its title character.
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