GRIEF IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS, BY MAX PORTER
Max Porter’s first book is slim, potent and delightfully difficult to classify. In language that is sharp, strange, witty, tender, occasionally obscene and always surprising, Porter tells the story of a man grieving his wife, boys grieving their mother, and a Crow who arrives in the wake of their loss, to act as “friend, excuse, deus ex machina, joke, symptom, figment, spectre, crutch, toy, phantom, gag, analyst and babysitter.”
Poetic in its emotional compactness, Grief is the Thing with Feathers contains the breadth of a narrative arc, as well as a trinity of distinct, intimate voices. Impressions, more than scenes, are expertly conjured and deployed. When Dad feels guilty at his lack of patience for the orbiting mourners, he reasons: “She would approve, because we were always over-analytical, cynical, probably disloyal, puzzled. Dinner party post-mortem bitches with kind intentions. Hypocrites. Friends.” Meanwhile, the boys cope, play, grow-up: “We pissed on the seat. We never shut drawers. We did these things to miss her, to keep wanting her.” And through it all, the Crow as commentator: “I find humans dull except in grief... motherless children are pure crow. For a sentimental bird it is ripe, rich and delicious to raid such a nest.”
In its fresh, frank rendering of a family tragedy and its aftermath, Grief is the Things with Feathers allows us to be both human and crow—we suffer the misery and humor of survival through man and boys, but we also get to revel in the dark, cathartic pleasure of raiding such a nest.