Voodoomary
The cover calls this a "novel of the plague," and it is, but this fictionalized account of Shakespeare's family is also a novel about the profound, transformative experience of grief. The famous playwright is never named; instead, all the action revolves around his wife, Agnes. She is an outsider with a hint of magic in the margins of her character, firmly confident in her abilities and choices, and I want her in my life.
I saw the film first and am glad I did. As intense as it was on screen, I would have struggled to spend this much time with the source material unprepared. O'Farrell's prose is like a decadent, lush cake. It is delicious enough that you cannot consume a lot at once, yet it never feels overwhelming. It demands to be savored.
The grief in this novel is not masochistic. It is bone-deep and honest. If you have ever lost someone, you will feel it here. Yet there is something healing in the pages that is difficult to put into words.
What stays with me is this: the death of one small boy moved a human being to create a work of staggering power and beauty that has lasted hundreds of years. It continues to move people who never knew him, who were not even alive when he was. Grief never lessens. We grow larger around it so we can carry it without breaking. Art does that too.
The cover calls this a "novel of the plague," and it is, but this fictionalized account of Shakespeare's family is also a novel about the profound, transformative experience of grief. The famous playwright is never named; instead, all the action revolves around his wife, Agnes. She is an outsider with a hint of magic in the margins of her character, firmly confident in her abilities and choices, and I want her in my life.
I saw the film first and am glad I did. As intense as it was on screen, I would have struggled to spend this much time with the source material unprepared. O'Farrell's prose is like a decadent, lush cake. It is delicious enough that you cannot consume a lot at once, yet it never feels overwhelming. It demands to be savored.
The grief in this novel is not masochistic. It is bone-deep and honest. If you have ever lost someone, you will feel it here. Yet there is something healing in the pages that is difficult to put into words.
What stays with me is this: the death of one small boy moved a human being to create a work of staggering power and beauty that has lasted hundreds of years. It continues to move people who never knew him, who were not even alive when he was. Grief never lessens. We grow larger around it so we can carry it without breaking. Art does that too.