I took Betsy James’ new memoir with me on a road trip to the Canadian Rockies and found it a fine antidote to hours of driving. The world rushing by at 70 mph, the shift from rolling canola fields to jagged upthrust peaks, the rumbling trains, the smoke from fires — my mind getting edgy and tight.

And then comes a quiet evening in a remote camp and time to open a book. “Breathing Stone” isn’t in a rush. It’s in a place. James unfolds the place in language that is, on some pages, serene and beckoning, on others rough and wild.

After months of being swept up in mysteries and thrillers, racing through narratives that are all about what happens next, I find it pleasing to be in a book about what happens now and always.

An excerpt won’t really capture this. I think one need all the words in their delicate and particular order. I am reminded a little of Edward Abbey’s “Desert Solitaire”, another book that offers the gift of place to a reader.

It’s like being brought back to one’s self.