From Publishers Weekly
In this uneven essay collection, writers living mostly in the Pacific Northwest and the wide open spaces of Colorado, Wyoming and Montana chronicle their personal experiences of gleaning—living, partially or completely, off the things others have thrown away. Far from merely going green, the contributors are proud dumpster divers, yard sale fanatics and foragers for road kill who ably defend gleaning as a rejection of consumerism. The writers pose provocative questions about the taboo against reusing castoff goods in Western societies and why environmental consciousness is so closely linked with buying green products rather than reusing castoff goods; this practice many Americans dismiss as unseemly, unhygienic, even white trash, as the editor notes, opens a much needed discussion on the environmental movement's class issues that is unfortunately never satisfyingly explored. While heartfelt and sincere, the essays vary in quality; several are too raw to make a compelling argument. And the contributors' mix of sanctimony and guilt (some even feel guilty about sanctimoniousness) might be more off-putting than inspiring.
(May) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
When readers are weary or leery of environmental books full of data and doom, they can turn to novelist Pritchett’s spiky collection of personal essays about going green the old-fashioned way. Thrift used to be the guiding principle in nearly every household. Clothes, jars, bags, string—everything had multiple lives. But with the rise of consumerism, household ecology was largely abandoned. Not so for Pritchett, who, from childhood, has been an avid alley cruiser and Dumpster diver, finding treasures in trash. Proud of her gleaning ways, and certain that reclamation and recycling are essential practices in this time of bursting landfills and oceanic trash islands, she invited fellow garbage-pickers to share their views of the waste-not, want-not life, and the result is a lively and provocative assemblage. Kathy Lynn Harris pays tribute to her tough rancher grandmother, the queen of reuse. Eliza Murphy’s beachcombing essay reveals the terrible truth about the marine plastic plague.Others share stories of flea markets, garage sales, and roadkill. These tales from the scavenging front are unexpectedly philosophical, confiding, funny, and affecting. --Donna Seaman