Sing, Unburied, Sing

Dang. This one socked me hard. I'm still reeling. Trying to sleep after reading this book, especially towards the end, is like trying to sleep with a rock lodged in your throat: heavy and full and sad, and demanding your attention to the heaviness, the fullness, the sadness. The language is wonderfully poetic, the story painfully tragic, and the crescendo of magical realism (if that's what you'd call it?) is downright powerful. It feels at once historical and contemporary in a way that's especially poignant at this moment. It reminds me of Toni Morrison, but not in way that feels derivative. A good book, through and through – but the kind I need to recover from.