Grief Is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter Review

WARNING: THERE MAY BE SPOILERS BELOW

“Moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people, because any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project.”- Grief Is the Thing with Feathers, Max Porter

In a London flat, two young boys face the unbearable sadness of their mother's sudden death. Their father, a Ted Hughes scholar and scruffy romantic, imagines a future of well-meaning visitors and emptiness.

In this moment of despair they are visited by Crow - antagonist, trickster, healer, babysitter. This self-described sentimental bird is attracted to the grieving family and threatens to stay until they no longer need him. As weeks turn to months and physical pain of loss gives way to memories, this little unit of three begin to heal.

In this extraordinary debut - part novella, part polyphonic fable, part essay on grief, Max Porter's compassion and bravura style combine to dazzling effect. Full of unexpected humour and profound emotional truth, Grief is the Thing with Feathers marks the arrival of a thrilling new talent.

This will probably be the shortest review in the history of reviews, because, as is often the case for books I love, it's hard to write about them. Books I hate can get lengthy reviews that involve copious nit-picking and snark, but books I love get shorter and more serious reviews. Normally, I would have started out with a story about Ted Hughes just to set the mood, so to speak, but that now seems far too light-hearted for this book's heavy, heavy subject matter.

There is little to say about this book. I get the sense that reading it is a deeply personal experience, which is why if you haven't, get it now. It's one of those books that screams future classic. I am tempted to buy a bunch and scatter them about, donating them to places like Goodwill or used book stores. Even the cover (the UK cover also) is very much the kind of cover books in the classic canon usually have, and so is the font. As a whole, this book was hugely impactful, in a way that is hard to describe.

I don't know if it will ever make my favorite books of all time or even my favorite books of 2017 list, but I'm still glad I read this. It was a quick read, because of the shortness of the book and the poem-y prose it was written in. This is obviously a 9 book, no doubt about it. It was written too skillfully to be anything but. I liked Crow, and his jet-black sense of humor greatly appealed to me. I am mostly unfamiliar with Hughes' work, and I am tempted to read more of Hughes now after reading this book. I've always liked poetry, and any book that gives me an excuse to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon reading poetry is a good book in my opinion. And I like crows, too. Most don't, but I've always had a soft spot for them. They are what they are, and I admire them for their honesty.

This book portrays grief in its rawest, most ugly state. I appreciate that. I didn't cry, but that's just me being me. I wanted too, though, after reading the last lines. When I was putting this book on my shelf after reading, I noticed that on my alphabetized shelf that this book (since the author's last name is Porter) would have to sit next to The Bell Jar. The Dad might not like that too much, but I do.

9 out of 10