I don't even know where to start on this one. I read it almost 24 hours ago and it has played on a loop in my brain since then.
Another reviewer used the word 'bereft' when describing how this book made them feel. I think that's a pretty accurate emotional description.

Proulx's writing is sublime. I'm certain I don't have enough words in my vocabulary to describe how intensely, eerily beautiful her prose is. From the first paragraph I couldn't look away. I kept re-reading sections because her writing had meaning on so many levels. At times wordy and verbose, other times understated and simply implied.

I physically reacted to this book. I felt tense and depressed. It was utterly humorless. I felt like my chest was in a vice at times (when they saw each other after 4 years apart; each time Jack begged Ennis to leave his life and stay with him; when Ennis visits Jack's parents to name a few. The shirts in the cupboard scene pretty much undid me. I couldn't even keep reading, I just put the kindle down and cried. Big, sloppy, silent tears.

How can you feel so despairingly for fictional characters? How is it possible to feel like this has just happened to you? I felt furious with Jack, livid with the society they inhabited, disgusted with the homophobia.

But mostly I just felt/feel bereft. Feel like screaming out at the waste of what could have been in a different time/different place.

This book is a real class act. It stands so far ahead of most if what I've read not only in this genre, but what I've read per se.

It took me less than an hour to read this book and yet it has had such a deep, guttural effect.

Spectacular.

|| 3.5 stars ||

This is such a tragic story, but so beautifully written.
It’s a story that many queer people used to live through in the past, which makes it all the more heartbreaking to read…
There’s not much focus here on the build-up of their love connection, but instead it tells the story of how sad and lonely and angry and impossible their lives were because of that love.

Wow, this was beautiful, really beautiful. This is not counted as "gay parade" story. This is a heartbreaking love story. And the writing was impressive. I was getting goosebumps while reading.

n  He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and salty sweet stink of Jack, but there was no real scent, only the memory of it, the imagined power of Brokeback Mountain of which nothing was left but what he held in his hands.
...
There was some open space between what he knew and what he tried to believe, but nothing could be done about it, and if you can’t fix it you’ve got to stand it.n

I've never seen the movie of this, so I went in with no preconceptions, and I loved it. It was beautiful, tender and oh-so heartbreaking, and the writing was exquisite.

I listened to the audiobook, narrated by Campbell Scott, and would thoroughly recommend it.

I enjoyed reading the short story two weeks ago and finally had the opportunity to see the movie. I was concerned about the film staying true to the short story in terms of characterization and atmosphere. The reading was enjoyable; I didn’t want to sour the memory of it by an unfulfilling movie. I was pleasantly surprised. Director Ang Lee and screen writers Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana did a brilliant job of interpreting and synchronizing the original text into a script. I honestly feel that I got a better understanding of the story by watching the film because so much is expressed visually—panoramic, mountainous and remote natural setting, and in human eye contact and body language; this is especially true with the intense, wistful facial expressions of actor Heath Ledger playing Ennis. He really gave a terrific performance.

In text and film, the isolated mountainous backdrop beautifully corresponds with the men’s tortured relationship. A natural sense of freedom emanates in the presence of the mountain setting and in the presence of one another, yet both are limited as each may not exist in the wider world, the wider community. Mountains aren’t ubiquitous, neither sadly, is societal tolerance for gay people.

5 Stars

Brokeback Mountain is a beautifully heartbreaking short story about two lonely cowboys falling in love.

Author Annie Proulx is one of the few impressively skilled and deftly capable writers who are able to convey an entire lifetime of joy and sorrow in so few pages. Her prose is lyrical, poignant, and so very precise, with each scarce word used to full effect. Her words moved me, plain and simple.

Regardless of how many times I’ve seen the film adaptation, reading about Ennis and Jack’s tragic love still knocked the wind out of me, much like it did the very first time I experienced their story on screen. The good news is the film is practically a scene for scene depiction of what is written here, which is such a rare occurrence where adaptations are concerned.

There is just something so sad about this one; it always makes me ache for what Ennis and Jack could have had. Although tragic in nature, I still adored this story and I definitely understand the praise and accolades this award-winning tale has received over the years. I’m just so glad I finally sat down and read it for myself.

Raw, intense and heartbreaking.

I expected it to be great. It was. A great afternoon read.

Why did I think this would be a good choice for my morning commute?

Sweet baby Jesus! This was everything I remembered the movie to be and somehow more of a punch to the gut. I'm perpetually amazed at how a good writer can limn a whole lifetime of deeds and emotions in a few choice words. Annie Proulx is that kind of writer. As a bonus Campbell Scott suffuses life into the characters of Ennis & Jack to point of making your heart bleed, reminding us he's a great actor. When Ennis says n  little darlin'n I about bawled my eyes out on the train. It overshadows sheafs of 'I love yous' in other stories.

Is this a romance? Not in the genre sense. It is however a love story. A sad/tragic one given the state of who we are/have been as a species/society, but also touched by small moments of grace and companionship, which is all we ever wish for in the end.

I'll definitely be doing this again and getting a print copy, just as soon as I recover.

Ήταν Μάιος του 2006. Μέχρι τότε είχα δανειστεί βιβλία μόνο από την κινητή βιβλιοθήκη ή την βιβλιοθήκη του γυμνασίου. Έλα που, όμως, εγώ το 2006 ήμουν λύκειο. Το, εν λόγω, λύκειο, δεν είχε βιβλιοθήκη. Σαν να μην έφτανε αυτό, η περιοχή της βόρειας Κέρκυρας δεν είχε και δεν έχει δημοτική βιβλιοθήκη. Μου είχε καταστεί σαφές, λοιπόν, αρκετά νωρίς, πως το κράτος δεν θεωρεί χρήσιμο να έχει, ο κοινωνικός ιστός, βιβλιοθήκες. Ήταν και είναι, μάλλον, περιττό. Αλλά αυτή είναι άλλη συζήτηση, ή, μάλλον, καλύτερα, άλλος πόνος.
Έτσι, όταν δεν έβρισκα αυτό που έψαχνα στην κινητή βιβλιοθήκη, αναγκαζόμουν να το αγοράσω. Αλλά, πως να αγοράσεις κάτι τέτοιο, σε μια μικρή επαρχία; Είχα εναποθέσει τις ελπίδες μου στο ίδιο το πόνημα της Άννυ Πρου. Πολλά τα διηγήματα μέσα στο βιβλίο. Μπορεί ο τοπικός βιβλιοπώλης να μην ξέρει, τι πουλάει. Όντως δεν ήξερε. Βλέπετε, δεν ήταν Δημουλίδου. ΤΕΛΟΣ ΠΑΝΤΩΝ. Αγοράζω το βιβλίο, το κρύβω, βιαστικά, μέσα στην σχολική μου τσάντα, λες και ήταν ναρκωτικά. Το απογευματάκι της ίδιας ημέρας, στρώνομαι στο διάβασμα, μιας και η πρώτη λυκείου μου άφηνε αρκετό ελεύθερο χρόνο.
Διαβάζοντας την πρώτη σελίδα κατάλαβα πως εδώ δεν μιλάμε για κάποια love stories, αλλά για μια συνεχή αναζήτηση. Συναντώ, λοιπόν, έναν πικραμένο γέρο σε μια πορεία αναζήτησης της πεισματικά ξεχασμένης νιότης του. Έναν νέο που βλέπει τον κόσμο γύρω του να γκρεμίζεται, μαζί με τα όνειρά του. Παλιούς θρύλους και οικογενειακά μυστικά. Έρωτες που δε χωράνε στα μέτρα των ανθρώπων. Φιγούρες άλλοτε φαιδρές κι άλλοτε τραγικές, φιγούρες ανυπόφορα μόνες, αντιμέτωπες με την αγριότητα της ψυχής αλλά και της φύσης. Όλα αυτά με φόντο τις ερημιές του κάντρι Γουαϊόμινγκ στην Αμερική του 1963.
Τα διηγήματα είχαν όλα κοινό παρονομαστή. Το αδιέξοδο. Οι επιλογές που στερεύουν. Άνθρωποι εγκλωβισμένοι, άλλοτε σε ορατά και άλλοτε σε αόρατα κελιά. Κελιά είπα; Όχι. Κλουβιά, όχι κελιά. Τα κελιά έχουν, παραδόξως, κάτι στην χροιά τους που τα κάνει ευάερα. Τα κλουβιά, όμως, είναι στενά και κλειστοφοβικά. Όσοι βρίσκονται μέσα σε κλουβιά αναπνέουν με το ζόρι. Αυτοί είναι οι χαρακτήρες της Άννυ Πρου. Ήρωες, οι οποίοι προσπαθούν ή προσπάθησαν να ευτυχίσουν και δεν τα κατάφεραν. Ήρωες, των οποίων η ζωή, σε κάποιο άλλο, ποιο σύγχρονο, πλαίσιο θα ήταν ευτυχέστερη. Ήρωες, των οποίων η ζωή ξεγλιστρά από τα χέρια τους, σαν να ήταν νερό. Ήρωες καφκικοί.

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Awww….Hell.

The quiet crush of depression creeps up on you with this one. At first, I was wondering about all the fuss as the the first third of the story laid out. By the midsection, the road ahead was pretty obvious, but didn't take any of the wallop out of the end. Bloody, Motherfuckin', God-Damned Sonnabitch!

Two men with no clue how to get what they really want and wasting time until there ain't no more.

Packs a punch for a short story. Heartbreaking, but wonderfully written.