Paul Harding's 'Tinkers' is one of those quiet, introspective novels that lingers long after you turn the last page. At its core, it follows
George Washington Crosby, an elderly clock repairer who’s dying in his living room, surrounded by his family. As his mind drifts between lucidity and
delirium, the narrative spirals into his memories—especially those of his father, Howard, a traveling salesman and epileptic tinker who abandoned the family when George was young. The beauty of the book isn’t just in its plot but in how Harding stitches together time like a fragile clock mechanism, moving between George’s childhood, Howard’s struggles, and even Howard’s own father’s life as a Methodist
Preacher. It’s a meditation on mortality, fatherhood, and the small, broken things we inherit and try to mend.
What struck me most was the way Harding writes about nature—the frost, the light, the way a clock’s gears mimic the universe’s indifferent precision. It’s not a book for readers craving action, but if you love lyrical prose and emotional depth, it’s unforgettable. I still think about Howard’s epileptic episodes, described like cosmic interruptions, as if his body was a faulty clock too.