What do you think?
Rate this book


304 pages, Hardcover
First published February 27, 2014
• William = “A man of dreams and visions who as a boy saw a tree full of angels...a man who is not of this world but who walks in Heaven’s highways.”
• I first noticed the author’s run-on sentences and tendency to start sentences with “And” in this section but put it down to Catherine’s shaky literacy; unfortunately, the style persists into the next two parts.
• Burning Bright by Tracy Chevalier is about the Blakes.
• “So now there is only the coarseness of a blanket in a tiny bed in a tiny room in a remote provincial town to protect her from the loneliness of the night that she thinks of as starless and over-arching.”
• “She looks at the little bunch of bluebells and things of all the unmarked graves, a whole generation swallowed up by the tundra.”
• Ironically, this section is based on Mrs. Mandelstam’s journals but translated into a third-person account. Perhaps Park felt a first-person narrative would be a pale imitation of Nadezhda’s own voice.
• For an evocation of Soviet-era Russia, I recommend Snow in May by Kseniya Melnik.
• “On the kitchen table a loaf of bread was white-furred and blue-measled.”
• “she knew enough to know that little in words was ever simply itself and that everything was loaded with some reverberating meaning.”
• The story is set in a remote coastal cottage in Ireland, where Lydia is expecting her daughters – London career girls – to join her to scatter their father’s ashes. Yet the loss of Don, who by all accounts was vain and spiky, affects her much less than her son’s death by misadventure on a Moroccan mountain some years ago.
• The setting and the writing are reminiscent of a number of other Irish authors. If you like this sort of thing, you might try The Gathering by Anne Enright, The Sea by John Banville, or Nora Webster by Colm Tóibín.
I shall see the visions that were denied to my mortal eyes, my head and heart freed for ever from their earthly limits, and I shall be as the woman clothed with sun, no longer "the shadow of delight".Nadezhda, at 114 pages, is the longest of the three novellas, and the one most deeply rooted in history. Osip Mandelstam was renowned as one of Russia's greatest poets, but he was betrayed for reading a poem about Stalin to a group of supposedly like-minded friends, and spent the last years of his life either in prison or in exile, finally dying in a distant gulag. Nadia (for short) outlived him by over forty years, surviving on temporary teaching jobs in places where they would not know her background. Although her husband betrayed her with other women, he was also the source of her greatest happiness, and she took on the burden of preserving his poetry as a sacred trust. Not daring to keep manuscripts, she memorized his entire oeuvre, keeping it alive by repeating it to herself each day for decades. Park's story is both a chilling account of life in Stalinist Russia and a tribute to a remarkable woman, looking forward to the time when his words can once more be spoken aloud:
Some day the cage doors will be thrown open, bluebells planted on the grave she will never see. Her lips begin to move. A voice for the dead, the words engraved eternally on the hidden chambers of her heart.Lydia, the only totally fictional story of the three, is paradoxically the one that seemed most real. Part of the reason is personal; the setting is similar to my childhood home, a small house by the sea in Northern Ireland, and even closer to where we sometimes spent family holidays; I could show you on a map. It was the summer cottage where Lydia used to come with her poet husband Don, and where he would often come alone to write. Now Don is dead, the funeral some months past, and Lydia, following the last instructions in his will, had come here this last time to scatter his ashes. Tomorrow, she will be joined by their two daughters, unmarried career women from London, but for now she is alone, going through Don's books and papers. And her own memories.
She could never forgive Don for Rory because he alone had been allowed to reclaim her son. Reclaimed him in the eight sonnets he had written about their lost child with this supposed heartbreak preserved forever in the eyes of the world. And so even in grief he had made her subservient.Yet, when her daughters come over to join her, and they walk that northern beach and talk, she begins to put her life into perspective, and to emerge from the fringes of an artist's shadow. And on the last page, when she kneels on the end of that stone pier to scatter her husband's ashes into the sunlight, the moment becomes a requiem, not just for him, but for all her losses.