The Weight of GriefbyAndi Miller Even finicky readers get the blues. After the heartrending news of a family member’s death last week, for the first time ever, I am finding it incredibly difficult to sit down at my computer with a clear head and write this column. It happens sometimes that we feel so overwhelmed and heartsick that the very things we love most in the world are pushed to the curb in favor of introspection and “me” time. But how does emotional wreckage relate to books? We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep—it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.What The Hours gave me was the opportunity to bypass my own unhappiness and enter into someone else’s. The result was a cathartic reading experience that left me charged with optimism. I suppose the real purpose of reading through grief is not only the ability to completely step outside one’s own existence and jumbled thoughts but also to find words for feelings that may be nearly impossible to express. I found some clarity in Michael Cunningham’s writing, and I found some wisdom. I stumbled upon a nugget to hold onto, to ponder, and ultimately a sense of possibility that made each day a little less painful. Books are magical creatures for certain. I have always insisted so, and I will probably never change my opinion. What they provide is comfort, escape, and knowledge. The experience of reading through grief can be like sitting down for a gab session with a trusted friend comfortable that you will come out on the other side with a little relief. Through this latest ordeal I have been steadily reading Daniel Wallace’s novel, Big Fish. It is a fitting choice because it is fanciful, full of myth and tall tales, and ultimately endless amounts of fun, while also packing an emotional punch. For the uninitiated, the story revolves around William Bloom’s father, Edward, as he hovers on his deathbed. William relates the story of an overwhelmingly absent father through near mythic yarns that place his father on a superhero-like pedestal. It is something of a sad book as the reader learns of Edward’s demise in four chapters interspersed with the adventure-filled and often hilarious Edwardian myths. One cannot help but feel the void William experiences as a child growing up largely without his father’s company, only seeing him now and then when he comes home for a bit, gets antsy, and leaves again. In Edward’s old age, William attempts to discuss his life and beliefs with his father, but Edward always wears a storyteller’s mask of humor that keeps his son at arm’s length. While I often wished Edward would just shut up and tell the truth, I could not help but wonder if William was better off knowing only a fabricated, mythical version of his father’s life. After all, there is often comfort and healing in fiction. For William, seeing his father as a mythical figure buffered him from pain. Daniel Wallace writes: I looked at this old man, my old man with his old white feet in this clear-running stream, these moments among the very last in his life, and I thought of him suddenly, and simply, as a boy, a child, a youth, with his whole life ahead of him, much as mine was ahead of me. I’d never done that before. And these images—the now and then of my father—converged, and at that moment he turned into a weird creature, wild, concurrently young and old, dying and newborn. My father became a myth. I can only be thankful for my reading this past week. Between tears and pain and big decisions, it has been absolutely essential that I escape for a bit with a nicely written tale. I do not know what the coming weeks hold, but I am certain that I can find some comfort in my books. Andi is a recovering university academic employed by the North Carolina community college system as an English instructor. While she decided to forego a Ph.D. and career as a professor, she fills in all the free time her current position affords her with editing literary publications, reviewing, freelancing, and blogging at Estella’s Revenge. Her work can be found in the journal, Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States (MELUS), and Altar magazine as well as online in various venues such as PopMatters.com. She is a member of the National Book Critics Circle (NBCC), and writes fiction. Her turn-ons include new books and gelato, while her turn-offs are reality television and washing dishes. Contact Andi.
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