Yeah, baby. Fuck yeah. Woodrell's prose is so fine I want to snort it up my nose and shoot it into my veins.
If you've been reading my reviews for a few years, you know that I often can't write proper reviews for the books that impress me the most. I just slap five stars on it and crank out a bunch of swear words to try to express my awe. "Holy shit wow! Damn, the dude can write! Fucking exquisite!" And so on... This is another one of those. The ones I can't review because I can't express what it did to me or for me.
After reading Woodrell's The Outlaw Album, I wrote a review essentially saying he was a one-note man who couldn't seem to write about any subject other than meth-head Ozark freaks in all their various incarnations. Woodrell must have read my review and said, "I mon prove her wrong!" And he did. I was wrong. I don't mind being wrong if it means I get to read such extraordinarily crafted prose as I found in The Maid's Version.