6. 1992: I’m in the classroom for the first day of Death in Modern Fiction; my professor explains the focus of the course and its title this way: “I had to admit to myself — all of my favorite books are about death.”Now I am able to put something important into words: All of my favorite books are about death.7. 2013: My dad’s only sister, my beloved Aunt Mimi, dies on the first day of the year; one year earlier my dad suffers a near fatal heart attack. I hold his hand as a former priest administers last rites. I find myself reading what I can now identify as an important genre, which I begin to term Grief Memoirs: David Rieff on Susan Sontag, Manguso on a friend who jumped in front of a train, Meghan O’Rourke on her mother, de Beauvoir on her mother — books written by, for lack of a better word, survivors: children, parents, spouses, friends. Books written through or beyond grief.
13. Green’s text proffers — and refuses — to give voice to the howl of grief; to the self that will not Get Over It, that will not find solace in death’s beautiful tug, that never learned to Move On. As she puts it: “I could love another face, but why?”
14. Anyone who has ever loved and lost — which is to say, anyone who has lived long enough — knows that to move on, to let go, is to (a) betray the one who has gone and (b) betray the validity of the void. The rousing daily chorus of our cultural voices of self-help, the paeans to Good-Living like to proclaim Carpe Diem and so on — an erasure or coercion that reinforces the isolation, the alienation of grief, which is part of what we wish to deny about being human — not a linear process so much as an undoing.
If life isn’t about loss and separation — about a realization that we hurt people we love and need, that we bear grief and guilt — then I don’t know what it’s about.