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a place that feels lived-in and full of personality. The narrator works there and the shop becomes the social hub where customers, coworkers, and readers intersect. The inciting oddity is that a particularly obnoxious but unforgettable customer dies and then refuses to leave: she becomes a literal ghost who haunts the store and the narrator's life.
That haunting isn't played only for scares; it's the hinge for everything else. The novel uses the ghost to explore grief, guilt, survival, and the way stories stick to us. It folds in the messy realities of contemporary Minneapolis—racial tension, the fallout of police violence, and the social upheavals around 2020—so the supernatural sits alongside sharp, present-day political grief. Erdrich threads in Native American history and cultural memory, making the hauntings feel both personal and ancestral.
What I loved most was the voice: wry, tender, and often very funny even when dealing with heavy subjects. The bookstore itself feels like a character, and the book riffs on what it means to be sentenced—by law, by history, by love, and by the stories we keep. If you've read 'Love Medicine' or 'The Birchbark House', you'll recognize that blend of family saga and mythic reach; if you haven't, this is a vivid, humane entry point that left me thinking about how books haunt us long after we close them.
Reading 'The Sentence' felt like sitting through a long, intimate conversation that keeps veering into the uncanny. The plot orbits Tookie, a woman whose life stabilizes when she finds work at a beloved bookstore, only to be disrupted by the persistent presence of a deceased customer. Erdrich takes that haunted premise and expands it into examinations of culpability, freedom, and the rituals—both mundane and ceremonial—that communities create to handle loss. The book charts a year or two in Tookie’s life and uses the haunting as a pressure point: individual grief mirrors national distress, and the characters' attempts to explain or dispel the spirit become revealing of their own pasts.
Structurally, the plot isn't strictly linear; Erdrich layers memories, flashbacks, and neighborhood gossip over the central throughline of the haunting and the shop's day-to-day operations. Alongside the supernatural element, there are scenes of fierce humor and tenderness—quarrels over who mis-shelved what, celebrations, breakups—that make the characters feel lived-in. In the end, the resolution leans less on dramatic exorcism and more on a quiet, complicated form of reconciliation. I appreciated the way the plot resists easy closure and leaves you holding a strange, human-sized ache.
I get a kick out of stories that marry everyday life with the uncanny, and 'The Sentence' does that beautifully. The plot pivots on a ghost who refuses to leave a small bookstore, and that supernatural stubbornness forces the protagonist—and the reader—to confront layers of loss, memory, and responsibility. Around that core haunting the novel builds out scenes of ordinary bookstore rhythms: staff gossip, book recommendations, and the strange intimacy of retail work.
Beyond the store, Erdrich anchors the narrative in real, painful events that ripple through the city and through people’s lives, so the haunting reads like both literal presence and metaphor for collective grief. There's also a strong throughline about storytelling itself—how books can comfort, wound, and preserve history. I finished it feeling moved and oddly buoyed, like after a long, honest conversation with a friend who knows when to be funny and when to be fierce.
If you want the short take: 'The Sentence' hinges on Tookie, a bookstore worker in Minneapolis, and a haunting that starts when a customer dies and won't leave. The ghost becomes a plot engine, pushing people to confront their regrets, affiliations, and the effects of the larger political moment. It reads like workplace fiction crossed with magical realism—there are inventory lists and staff jokes alongside séances and earnest attempts to understand why haunting can be both personal and public.
What surprised me most was how the plot balances plain, funny bookstore life with darker meditations on memory and history. It’s not a thriller so much as a character-driven, emotionally candid story that happens to involve a ghost. I liked how it left me thinking about how communities hold on to stories, and it stuck with me for days.
Late-night conversations about books tend to get me sentimental, and 'The Sentence' is exactly the kind of novel that sparks that. Erdrich sets much of the action in a beloved local bookstore, and the narrator, who works there, becomes entangled with a ghost—the spirit of a customer who simply won't stop showing up. That premise could easily be gimmicky, but here it frames deeper questions: who gets to tell stories about suffering, how do communities carry trauma, and how do we reckon with both private and public grief?
Structurally, the book shifts between the small-scale intimacy of the shop—funny staff dynamics, the peculiarities of customers, the comfort of bookshelves—and the wide, raw moments of city-wide trauma. Erdrich doesn't shy away from the 2020 unrest in Minneapolis; she folds it into the characters' lives so the political becomes personal. I found myself thinking about how bookstores serve as witnesses to people’s lives and how a haunting can symbolize unresolved history.
Tone-wise, Erdrich mixes sharp wit with sorrow, and the result is an emotionally complex novel that feels like a conversation with a wise, mischievous friend. Reading it made me want to linger in bookstores longer and to pay attention to the stories that haunt my own neighborhood, which is a sweet kind of leftover after a good book night.
At its heart, 'The Sentence' follows Tookie, a woman who lands a job at an independent bookstore in Minneapolis after serving time, and the narrative quickly folds into something stranger: the shop becomes haunted. The ghost belongs to a customer who died in the store, and while that setup sounds like a cozy ghost story, Erdrich uses it to dig into everything from guilt and love to how personal and national histories haunt ordinary places. The timeline is anchored in the fraught years after the 2016 election, so the story also becomes a running commentary on outrage, grief, and the way public events get tangled up with private lives.
What I loved most was how the plot alternates between small, intimate bookstore moments—customer exchanges, inventory disputes, the rhythms of staff life—and surreal, uncanny intrusions as the haunting intensifies. Tookie and the people around her try various ways to make sense of the ghost: exorcism, humor, stubborn denial. The plot ultimately moves toward a kind of reckoning, not just with the literal spirit in the store but with the lingering, systemic histories that refuse to be neat. I walked away feeling both unsettled and oddly comforted, like I'd spent an afternoon inside a novel that asks hard questions but still knows how to laugh.
I get a kick out of how 'The Sentence' reads like a love letter to bookstores until it suddenly flips into a ghost story and a social novel. The plot centers on Tookie, who works at a neighborhood bookshop in Minneapolis and is thrust into the weirdness when a patron dies and keeps coming back. That haunting threads through the book as a literal problem the staff tries to solve and as a metaphor for unresolved history and personal trauma.
Erdrich layers the timeline with the political fallout of the late 2010s, so the characters' reactions to the haunting are inflected by worry, anger, and the broader cultural moment. There are funny, human scenes of customers arguing about books, tender moments of connection, and darker stretches where memory and remorse make everything feel heavy. The plot isn't just a tidy sequence of events; it’s an emotional spiral that asks how we live with ghosts—personal and political—and whether a community can heal. I left feeling oddly buoyed; it's messy in the best way.