This novel is pitched as the memoir of Charles Braun, a man in his early sixties who, having just lost his elderly mother, realises that his life is so empty he wants it to end. Charles has, quite literally, never done anything. Across seven decades he has contrived to avoid experiencing anything of note. He isn’t merely bored with life, he knows he is thoroughly boring.
Let me start by saying that I don’t buy into the idea that this is genuinely the memoir of a man who has taken his own life. It’s clearly a literary device. If I’m wrong and my comments below appear disrespectful to the departed, then so be it.
I can’t offer more than a three-star review for Posthumously Yours. Yes, it was readable, sometimes clever, and I never wished to abandon it. But I didn’t like it, and I certainly didn’t find the subject matter deep or meaningful.
The writing is skilful, although the regular deployment of long, showy words comes across as a bit smug and self-satisfied. Without a shred of irony, the text even references “logorrhoea”—something you could very fairly accuse Mr Braun of. The prose isn’t what lets the book down, though; it’s the character. I simply didn’t like him. What bothered me most was the way he goes about deciding whether to end his life. Braun concludes that he probably wants to kill himself and, having made that decision, checks himself into a hospice… and then carries on living there. He doesn’t notice anything about the other people in the hospice, paying no attention to the end of their lives. They are non-characters apart from the fact that they dislike him ordering in pizzas with garlic toppings. He isn’t mentally unstable, suffering, or even mildly depressed. He’s just bored. His worldview, anecdotes, humour, and even his despair have a relentless sameness. He doesn’t grow and never reveals hidden depths. That may be true to his psychological profile, but it makes for a static, airless reading experience. To be honest, I thought he was just a prick and wished he’d get on and do it.
Just as Braun is boring, so too are big chunks of the plot, and I found myself skimming. There’s a chapter that opens with him and his mother discussing, at numbing length, the relationship dynamics of neighbours who’ve moved from California to supremely dull Springfield. I had no interest in whether Mitchell was a househusband or a furniture-maker who only crafted furniture for his own home. There are numerous such anecdotes: Braun having a nightmare and firing an airgun into the sky, a visit to an orthodontist, staking out farmland for days to see if it might be developed. None of them go anywhere. They exist solely to underscore, again and again and again and again, how mind-numbingly boring the character is.
It’s also worth noting that the novel entirely fails to account for the stark difference between North American and UK hospice provision. Here in the UK, hospice places are rarer and more precious than gold dust. People who desperately need them often can’t get them, and thousands die horribly at home or in hospital. The idea that this ridiculous man can simply decide to go and live in one—presumably paying, as Americans seem to be able to do for anything—is frankly offensive to someone in the UK. Even in an American context, the notion that a healthy man could settle into a hospice as a lifestyle choice feels jarring and artificial. It offers an enclosed, convenient setting for the story, but it’s not remotely believable.
There is a lot of humour in this book, which is true to life (or death) for people contemplating their end. At times it is satirical and sharp. At other times it is puerile schoolboy stuff - for example playing ‘dirty’ words in Scrabble, the incident at the baseball stadium (which is peculiarly told from outside Braun’s perspective when no other part of the book deviates in this way) and the long running gag about the Tampax factory.
The supporting characters—Maeve, Vic, and the hospice chaplain—are far too patient and generous with him. Professional kindness would only go so far. In reality, any counsellor, nurse, or friend confronted with a perfectly healthy man behaving so pathetically selfishly, insensitively, and demandingly would eventually speak plainly, give him a shake, and tell him to get out there and do something instead of wallowing in his own self-loathing. No, that’s not fair. He doesn’t even have enough spark to loathe himself.
About three quarters of the way through the book changed direction abruptly, almost as if the author had become bored with what they were doing. Suddenly Braun was dead and we were getting input from other people discussing the circumstances of his death. Which rather violated the concept that as a reader as I was reading the autobiography of Braun, explaining why his meaningless life led him to do what he did. It was very confusing. The ending section was uninteresting and unenjoyable. I felt cheated that having invested time in a particular story, it was taken away and turned into a clumsy attempt to explain how things ended.
Some readers who enjoy dark humour about self-annihilation (normally, I’d say that includes me) or who love deep character studies may find Posthumously Yours intriguing. But for many readers. especially anyone who has supported a loved one through end-of-life care, or watched someone wrestle with mental health issues that put them at risk of suicide, the premise lands very badly.