I went through a phase where I read a lot of grief memoirs. I think it started because I had seen Sonyali Deraniyagala’s Wave recommended as one of the best books of the year, and picked it up without knowing anything about it. I read it in less than 24 hours, so gripping did I find it, I took it everywhere, and sat sobbing in various restaurants and cafés and bars, utterly blown away. I was amazed at how vividly it described the various stages of grief — numbness, disbelief, rage, sadness — and its complex rhythms and unpredictable shocks. It was an astonishing testament to perseverance — not in a triumphant “success” story sense, but more like a largely unwilling but somehow dogged and even grim kind of survival, or continuance. Years earlier, I had earlier read Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking, which is similarly incredible, though in a different way, so I guess maybe it also sort of started there. But anyways, after Wave, for whatever reason, I started seeking out more examinations of loss and mourning.
I say this mostly to explain that I probably approach this sort of book in a different way from many people, because a lot of the features are somewhat familiar to me. These memoirs often have a lot in common with each other. The first time you encounter these features, it’s sort of jolting but also comforting to find your own experience so closely captured. I imagine this book would have that effect on many people, even though it didn’t, especially, for me. But it is often beautiful, and has many of the kinds of small, specific details that take on unbearable poignancy at times of bereavement, though it is also more plain-spoken and sort of straightforward than many such works. My heart went out to the author.
Kasia Reads 