This is an odd little book. I was attracted to it because of its title. After my sister died, I spent the first year reading books about grief: mostly memoirs, but also books on the psychology and philosophy of loss and the rituals of grieving. So like a crow that spots some bright shiny object, I wanted this book. And as today is the anniversary of my sister's death, it seems appropriate to dip back into works on grief.
Its title page describes it as a novel, and for once I actually appreciate that clue. I would more likely think of it as a prose poem or a traditional trickster tale or even a meditation on a dream about death. I could even imagine it being performed as a play. It challenges our traditional understanding of genre as well as our understanding of grief.
The story is told in three voices: the dad, the crow and the boys (although at times each boy attains his own individual voice). The father's wife has died suddenly, and he must deal with his own bereavement, single parenthood and meeting his publisher's deadline for his academic study on Ted Hughes' Crow. Meanwhile the two brothers are left, in many ways, on their own to deal with their bewilderment and grief, sometimes acting out their pain with the unique savagery of angry children. Amid this chaos arrives Crow: mythic, primal, trickstering, threatening, protecting, and meddling.
The story takes us from shortly after the wife's death and far into the future when the boys are grown and can reflect back on the years of bereavement and can claim "...something more or less healthy happened. We miss our Mum, we love our Dad, we wave at crows. It's not that weird." Along the way there is humour, violence, myths to unfold, dark visceral moments, and much earthy Crow-iness.
I am at a loss on how to rate this book. It was not to my taste, but I recognize the beauty of its language, the brief heart-breaking insights into human nature, and its ultimately reassuring message on our capacity to heal.
Three smileys out of five. 😀😀😀
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