published in Issue 3 of the San Francisco Review of Whatever
Like a lover, I guard this book jealously. And yet I want everyone to know the special quiet of the room, the gray light of early morning, mid-day, the clarity of the air. As the day passes on to night, how the candles light the room, how the tones of Russian chants might be heard, or the symphony, or no sound at all, just the dry silence of the house, occasionally the scratch of the turned page.
For the reader who has access to dark, leafy, and pungent paths, it is recommended to rise very early in the morning and walk them. Then, the novel impressed upon the mind, easily compose phrases like, “out into the secret pockets of the day, the lawnmower corralling geese, all the leaves open and fragrant.”
What I am saying here is that to read Practice is to open oneself to the affective power of language, stashing for one’s own uses small fragments of Rosalind Brown’s deftness. Brown’s architected prose, in all its exquisite geometry, creates a feeling of clear and methodical triangulation; words and concepts which, like a lock body, open themselves in a perfect revelation. Three turns of the key, then four, and the whole thing, the rhythm and clarity of it, is present, precise, and correct.
— Alexandra Pink, dramatist, San Francisco