Reviewed by Tricia Brick

At 17, Eustace Conway left home to live in the woods. For more than twenty years he has lived off the land, hunting or gathering his own food, making fire, dressing in the pelts of animals he has killed and skinned and eaten. In The Last American Man, Elizabeth Gilbert tells the story of Conway, a skilled horseman, carpenter, blacksmith, and public speaker who also believes himself to be a "Man of Destiny," and aims to save a consumerist and desperately shallow America from itself.

He’s the storybook American hero: handsome, resourceful, dynamic, and apparently great in bed. Unfortunately, his attitudes toward women — and his interpersonal skills — are as Stone Age as his lifestyle. Gilbert leans hard on her analysis of Conway’s heartbreakingly difficult childhood, attributing his flaws to his desperate attempts to earn his father’s love. But who can blame her for seeking absolution for her hero? Conway’s charisma is legendary: A few words about his pioneer lifestyle and a room of defiant middle schoolers falls into rapt attention, New York City crack dealers respect the value of wilderness living — and a writer sings his praises.

As a narrator, Gilbert is delightful — eloquent, funny, smart, and mostly fair. Her accounts of Conway’s exploits are wonderfully engaging, and he’s given her plenty of material. So lively is her narrative voice, however, that it’s sometimes unclear whether the story’s about Conway or about the wannabe cowgirl Gilbert half-seriously longs to be.

Luckily, she’s a charming traveling companion. But Conway’s day-to-day life is fascinating enough to carry the book, and Gilbert gamely reports such gems as his method for determining if a road-killed squirrel is fresh enough to eat. (If the fleas are still hopping on the pelt, it’s lunch.)