En la naturaleza las cosas crecen

by Yiyun Li, Virginia Higa (Translator)

"No hay una buena manera de exponer estos hechos, que deben ser aclarados antes de poder seguir con el libro. Mi marido y yo tuvimos dos hijos y los perdimos a ambos. A Vincent en 2017, a los dieciséis años; a James en 2024, a los diecinueve. Los dos eligieron el suicidio y los dos murieron a poca distancia de casa". Yiyun Li escribe sobre estas pérdidas y lo que les no es un proceso de duelo que eventualmente termina, sino un abismo que se presenta ante ella, un tiempo quebrado, un estado nuevo en el que deberá vivir para siempre. 

En la naturaleza las cosas crecen no presenta las respuestas ni los cierres que se esperan en un texto como este. Es, más bien, una reflexión sobre la vida y la muerte y, principalmente, sobre ser madre tras el suicidio de dos hijos, y cómo se habita esa realidad para la que no existen palabras. 

¿Cómo puede leerse una memoria así? ¿Cómo puede soportarse? Quizá se deba a la potencia de la autora, su honestidad atroz y valentía. En este libro se encuentra una verdad sin victimismos, y una sinceridad que esquiva los golpes bajos sin arrojarse al consuelo o la condescendencia. Yiyun Li, en el momento más doloroso, escribió una obra maestra sobre la vida y las formas de afrontarla, y también sobre cómo entender al otro, aun en sus decisiones más radicales.

Genres: Memoir, Nonfiction, Grief, Audiobook, Mental Health, Biography Memoir, Biography

149 pages, Kindle Edition

First published May 20, 2025

About the author

Yiyun Li is the author of seven books, including Where Reasons End, which received the PEN/Jean Stein Book Award; the essay collection Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life; and the novels The Vagrants and Must I Go. She is the recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, Guggenheim Fellowship, and Windham-Campbell Prize, among other honors. A contributing editor to A Public Space, she teaches at Princeton University.

Reviews

[Meike · Rating 3 out of 5]

Now Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Memoir or Autobiography 2026
Winner of the 2026 Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Nonfiction
Nominated for the National Book Award for Nonfiction 2025
This is the memoir of a mother who survived two suicide attempts and later lost both of her sons to suicide: Vincent died in 2017, aged 16, James in 2024, aged 19. Li wrote a tribute to James titled Where Reasons End, and "Things in Nature Merely Grow" is, you guessed it, a meditation on James' passing. I'm very obviously not here to comment on such an experience or to pass any moral judgement - I can't possibly fathom the degree of pain this woman must have gone through, and what she is still enduring every day. She is a survivor of extreme trauma. I'm merely talking about my own reactions to her text.

And the book made me think, mainly about the possible reasons for me not liking it very much. I arrived at the conclusion that three aspects put me off: I fundamentally disagree that some people experience the world as thinkers and others as feelers, it bothers me that the author does not discuss depression, and I find the almost comically heightened focus on intellectual prowess irritating. Let me explain: See, I have two M.A.s and an LL.B., and I like to look at the framed degrees on my wall as much as the next person, but those pieces of paper are not me, and they also do not make me a good or valuable person. Li spends copious amounts of time pointing out that James was a prodigy, reading complex texts in his diapers and later devouring Wittgenstein. He was SMART, people admired his abilities, he was, she states, not a feeler, but a thinker like her.

Thing is: We all have feelings, intellectualizing them will not make them vanish. In fact, not experiencing them and feeling detached from your emotions is an illness in itself. On top of that, intelligent people are more prone to struggle with depression. I now know a lot about James' intellectual achievements, but I don't know whether he was depressed, I don't know whether he was treated for a potential genetic disposition for the illness, or what kind of therapy he received when his mental health started to decline to a degree that the mother was asked whether she thought that he might commit suicide. I do know that after he died, his mother read Euclid to calm her nerves, and that's some of the saddest shit I've ever heard.

Everyone grieves differently, but believing, as explained in one part of the book, that intellectualizing everything means to be able to skip a step in the grieving process is just silly: If your child jumps in front of a train and you go straight to radical acceptance ("he wanted to leave"), that's not some kind of achievement, and I don't say that as moral judgement, I say that because I feel so sorry for an highly intelligent intellectual who writes sentences like: "I am a bereaved mother who happens to teach at an Ivy League university; I don't work for the admissions office" (Claire Fuller has pointed out this irritating sentence in her review). Your sons are dead and your point is that you see yourself as above the admissions staff? Really?

To be fair, the text also has many illuminating passages and writing it is an act of bravery in itself, but overall, I did not get on with this memoir.

[Nuno Markl · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lembrei-me de uma frase dita num velório por um pai que perdeu um filho: “Depois de um filho morrer, isto já não é viver”. Mas a vida continua. E agora? A escritora Yiyun Li perdeu os dois filhos, Vincent e James. Suicidaram-se ambos, separados por alguns anos. Neste livro breve cabe tudo: como se vive depois, todos os “e se” inúteis que surgem, toda a insensibilidade por vezes mascarada de sensibilidade de quem vê a tragédia de fora. Que dor inimaginável. Que livro bonito e duro. Deu cabo de mim, mas fica na minha lista dos melhores que li na vida.

[emma · Rating 4 out of 5]

there's nothing like a memoir.

yiyun li has been through more in one life than any one person should have to face, and the wisdom and clarity with which she writes about them is incomprehensible.

i don't know what else to say.

bottom line: i can't believe this book.

(thanks to the publisher for the e-arc)

[Lisa of Troy · Rating 5 out of 5]

“There is no good way to say this—when the police arrive, they inevitably preface the bad news with that sentence, as though their presence had not been ominous enough.”

Things in Nature Merely Grow is a memoir written after the suicide of the author’s second son. The author has two children, Vincent and James. However, both of their young lives were cut tragically short at the ages of 16 and 19.

Things in Nature is highly readable—Yiyun Li has such a rich and expansive vocabulary, and there is a beauty in the simplicity of her prose.

One of the key themes explored is the loneliness that can accompany being extremely high-functioning. My gosh is this relatable.

“Not calling a fact by its name can be the beginning of cruelty and injustice.”

“When Vincent was five, I thought of signing him up for a soccer club, and he informed me, with utter seriousness, that I would be doing that not for his happiness, but because I wanted him to be like the other children.”

Mic drop.

In Things in Nature Merely Grow, Vincent feels like Seymour Glass.

One day after picking up James from kindergarten, Li noticed that he wore a self-made sign, “IM NOt TaLKING Because I DON’t WaNT TO!”

Preach it, buddy! My gosh……most people talk just to keep their lips moving, no sound greater than the sound of their own voice. Or perhaps just to keep themselves awake. However, most people don’t have many particularly interesting or unique insights. Why engage in a meaningless conversation when most people haven’t even read the book or have a conversation just regurgitating the facts that could be easily found on Wikipedia? If a unique insight is shared, it would be met with blank stares or inattention.

“For a school writing contest, instead of turning in a patriotic essay praising the glory and beauty of our mother China, I wrote a piece decrying the hypocrisy of such contests, and then elaborating on the ugliness of life a child experienced while being forced to lie about it.”

“Decrying” – what a verb!

This is essentially tone down your light, because your brightness makes other people uncomfortable. In other words, mask. Pretend to fit in. Then, talk about how awesome it is to fit in. Yeah…….

“His best skill was not to be noticed by anyone.”

Most of my life – heck I still feel this way most of the time – is that I am invisible. When you don’t talk non-stop, when your voice isn’t the loudest, when you don’t grab someone on a TikTok in the first 5 seconds, you are easily discarded and discounted. People don’t even look up from their forsaken Smartphones to see your light.

“Very few people deserve to see your tears.”

I would go further – very few people deserve to experience the gift of you. The world is massively disappointing most of the time. That’s why I love F. Scott Fitzgerald—because he has relentless hope, optimism, and cheer in a world full of disappointment, cruelty, and the careless.

“Very few people will prefer to say: I would prefer not to.”

This results from societal conditioning to make other people comfortable. We are taught by countless voices that to be weird is worse than being unknown. But, I would counter that being unknown is worse than being weird.

“These are but pebbles that should not and will not stop me.”

Caveat: Yiyun Li, at one point, writes, “A few years ago, a young woman spent two days with me for a profile for The New York Times, and for that interview (as for all the other interviews), I made it clear that I would not answer any questions about my husband and James.” Towards the end of the book, there is this passage, “When Tom came to visit for a second time, he spoke about his sojourn in a New York City psychiatric hospital not too long before. ‘There I turned the corner, and guess who was coming down the hallway? [Insert name of celebrity].’” On the one hand, the author would like privacy for her family, yet she outs someone who is privately seeking mental assistance? This book is strong enough on its own without this needless name-dropping.

The Green Light at the End of the Dock (How much I spent):
Hardcover Text – $19.30 from Pango
Audiobook – Free through Libby

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[Thomas · Rating 5 out of 5]

Loved this. A deeply sad and cogent memoir by a mother and writer whose two sons died by suicide. Yiyun Li’s prose is intentionally thought-oriented as opposed to feeling-oriented, though her deep love and care for her children is evident on every page.

For my fellow psychology folks or people who’ve benefitted from and/or practice(d) Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT), this memoir is a masterclass in practicing radical acceptance in the face of unimaginable loss and suffering. Li directly names radical acceptance and DBT a couple of times in this memoir and it was so touching (and heartbreaking) to read. As someone who’s faced a lot of trauma and grief in my own life in different ways than Li, I’ve benefitted a lot from applying radical acceptance and DBT to my own life so I felt a lot of solidarity reading this book (DBT isn’t the only modality that’s helped me or that I practice from, and it’s excellent imo).

Also appreciated when Li let some emotion out toward the end when she wrote about what was helpful and not helpful to receive from strangers in reaction to her loss. As she says you don’t need to say “I understand” – in fact you probably don’t understand given that the experience is different from yours. There are other ways to express sympathy and to honor someone else’s pain. Anyway, even though Li writes that she’s not a fan of the word “grief,” I found this memoir a restrained, powerful testament on living even with the pain of grief that will persist everyday. Big thank you to Li for writing it.

[Cora Chow · Rating 1 out of 5]

When reading this book, part of me was angered by the way the author approaches her two sons' death so uncritically of herself, but part of me also felt I was being spiteful toward a mourning mother.
I believe my anger came from the way she portrays her second son, and also how she talks about her parenting. Throughout the story, she almost describes her second son as a nilistic philosopher who was too perceptual and sensitive for this world. She also depicts her own parenting as unconditional, respectful, and flawless. I am uncomfortable with these remarks because it seems to have overlook the struggles of adolescence, miscommunication/ lack of communication between parents and children, and the imprints of the parents' own emotional problems on the family as a whole, which could find countless evidence in the narrative.
Because the author turns this supposedly private mourning into a public document opens for judgement and critique, it puts readers like me in a moral dilemma of not being able to judge this book without feeling guilt.

[julieta · Rating 5 out of 5]

Incredibly painful book about the loss by suicide of both her sons. But I find it incredible, her voice, her way of expressing the facts, and the pain is poetic and beautiful. I find Yiyun Li to be an amazing writer, I had read another book about her depression, and it is incredible to me how luminous and wise she is. Her matter of fact, her reading, the poems she cites, trying to find words to express the abyss, in this she makes a beautiful book, the now is where she is at, and she will never stop being a mother. I can't even begin to imagine, and I would be without words, but she finds a way to say so many things about life, death, motherhood, trauma, I am truly moved by this book.

[Traci Thomas · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a beautiful grief memoir. It is focused so much on thinking around death and suicide and less around feeling (by design). I loved that shift in approach. The writing is gorgeous and the way she interacts with other art objects is moving.

[Seigfreid Uy · Rating 5 out of 5]

i usually let my reviews flow, unfiltered thoughts about a book just rushing out of me — i can’t seem to do that with “things in nature merely grow”. there is a preciseness to yiyun li’s use of language in this book that i want to give the same care as i write this (initial review)

i have read plenty of books, and watched as many movies about people going through loss, and the uniqueness each one of them hold.

no two “griefs”— a word i’m being careful to use, as yiyun li expressed in her book— are ever the same.

yiyun lic an author i love, prose holding weight despite the seeming emotional detachment you encounter at face value, the origins of this style i have come to understand better as i read this book.

“there’s no easy way to say this” is the way the book starts— and there really is none.

yiyun li’s two sons both died by s—cide seven years apart. vincent, at 16, in 2017. james, at 19, in 2024. these are facts, and we will come to befriend facts very well in this book. a life thrown to the extremes.

things in nature merely grow is li’s third book that touches on the sensitive nature of s—cide.

“dear friend, from my life i write to you in your life” about her own struggles with depression. “where reasons end” a heartbreaking work of fiction about an imagined conversation between a mother and her deceased son, dedicated to vincent.

finally, “things in nature merely grow”, a book that is intentionally a work of non-fiction, reflecting on the “thinking” nature of james, a book dedicated to her son who died in 2024. recognizing that nothing work of feeling will come close, that even a fact-based non-fiction approach can only be an approximation.

three books about a topic so heavy, with additional weight knowing that this is the author’s very own life.

yet. and yet. yiyun li writes with an acceptance that feels unfamiliar in our usual vocabulary of grief and mourning. without attempting to reason or explain, she writes with preciseness and care and understanding in what can only be explained as one of the worst things a parent can experience.

she looks at it, as the title puts it perfectly — things in nature merely grow. gardens, plants, and flowers hold no meaning except for one goal: to live. such is life. hard as it may be.

hard as it may be, and i can not even pretend to understand, yiyun li’s work is about a mother that processes best through writing. there is no attempt at healing, or closure, or even to overcome “grief” — “my sadness is not a burden” she says. it is a book about continuing to live, and to go on. despite. despite. despite.

this barely scratches the surface of my thoughts on this book, and is easily one of the most beautifully written exploration of loss i have ever read, and all i hope for yiyun li from now on is ease and comfort and warmth and lightness. to go on living, and sit beside the loss and the love that comes with it.

(this is just an initial review)

[Claire Fuller · Rating 2 out of 5]

It's very hard to be critical of a memoir about the death of two sons to suicide, but I think I just have to accept that Li's writing style and way of thinking is not for me. I have also read one of her novels and didn't get on with that either. In Things in Nature Merely Grow she often states her credentials and reiterates over and over that she is a thinking not a feeler, and maybe it's the latter I'm looking for. I think I switched off around about the line: "I am a bereaved mother who happens to teach at an Ivy League university; I don't work for the admissions office."

[Luna Miguel · Rating 4 out of 5]

Preferiría no haberlo leído. ¿Por qué? Porque duele y da ganas de morir.

Del mismo modo, quiero hablarles de él. ¿Por qué? Porque duele y da ganas de vivir.


(Mi crítica completa en Babelia: https://elpais.com/babelia/2025-12-30...)

[Tony · Rating 1 out of 5]

I would kill myself too if this woman was my mother.

Just to be clear, I started reading this with the best intentions. Recently two people close to me died, within the space of a month. One was my uncle, whom I loved very much and the other was an old friend, with whom I lost touch the last few years. The friend died by suicide.
Being in this terrible headspace, I was looking for something relevant to read that might be able to help me, when I stumbled on this title. The ratings were all super positive, so I was like wow, this might be able to help me.

Oh boy. Be warned, potential reader: there are no answers here, no wisdom learned, no deeper insights. Not even any emotions with which a normal person might be able to relate and find some solace with. These are just the egocentric musings of a sociopath mother.

Oh yeah, this woman is fully on the sociopath spectrum. I did not know when I started reading this that BOTH her children died by suicide. When I read the first one died of suicide, I found it tragic and troubling, but the sort of thing that can happen to any family. But when she said the second child died of suicide too, both at a VERY young age, that was when I started suspecting something was not right in the family.

And the more I kept reading, the more apparent that became. On the first half of the book, I was still keeping an open mind, but by the second half, I had completely turned against the author. She is a self-centred narcissist, forcing academic excellence on her very young children to the point she sucked out all joy from their lives and pushed them into deep depression. She cant stop herself from bragging about how "intellectual" and successful she is, or at least that's how she sees herself. And her children were merely a tool for her to further expand her amazing intellect and fame.

At one point she says her therapist (yes, every one in the family had a therapist. Her, the father, and the two boys. What kind of a child needs a therapist at the age of 13!?! That's a huge red flag that the family was dysfunctional) her therapist told her that her 10 year old son at the time (!!!) needed specialized schooling to turn him into a mathematical Einstein. WHAT!?! Who the hell talks like this about a 10 year old?!? These poor children were robbed of their childhood and pushed into a misery of constantly learning and studying. Yeah, I'd kill myself too to escape that prison.

At no point does she actually really talk about her children, what they were like etc, like a normal person would of their loved ones. All she talks about, is her projections on her children. She did not really understand them, or see them for who they were, she just saw what she wanted from them. Children geniuses, so she could go and brag to her friends about.

The worst thing about this is that despite the fact both her sons committed suicide, at no point in the book does she really self reflect and question whether she did anything wrong as a mother, or what that might be. Nothing at all, I am not exaggerating. It is as if the children did that on their own, in a bubble, and she was not part of the picture and had no control of the situation. Complete sociopathic narcissist.

It would be zero stars if I could.

[Em Memória de Fátima Linhares · Rating 5 out of 5]

Os filhos da autora suicidaram-se, um com 16, outro com 19 anos. Receber a notícia de que um filho se suicidou já deve ser uma coisa inimaginável para uma mãe mas, passados seis anos e uns meses, receber novamente a mesma notícia deve ser para a mãe ou fazer o mesmo que os filhos ou enlouquecer. Como é que se ultrapassa isto? A autora escolheu os factos e a lógica.

Que uma mãe faça tudo o que é humanamente possível pelos filhos e, mesmo assim, não consiga obrigá-los a viver – é um facto que dispensa qualquer adjetivo.
Os filhos morrem, e os pais continuam a viver – também este facto dispensa qualquer adjetivação.
(…)
Neste abismo a que chamo vida, é aos factos, com a sua lógica, o seu significado e o seu peso, que me agarro.

Quando Vincent morreu, escreveu “Where reasons end” e, depois da morte de James, este “Things in nature merely grow”. É um relato duro, racional e lógico, que para alguns poderá parecer frio, distante e sem sentido, mas a realidade é que, independentemente daquilo que de bom ou ruim nos acontece, a vida continua…

Como foi capaz de ter uma aula de piano logo depois de o seu filho morrer? Não me lembro da resposta que dei à Cristina, mas não faz mal. Para esta e muitas perguntas parecidas, há apenas uma resposta: o que mais me resta, a não ser continuar a fazer as coisas que consigo fazer, mantendo o corpo nutrido e ativo e a cabeça ocupada e ágil?

[ruthing · Rating 2 out of 5]

I have been on something of a grief literature kick lately, and I would say that this was a good read, but also an incredibly strange one. I don’t know how to rate this book, as I’m still sitting with it, but I’m struck with how little I can relate to the outlook of our narrator/author.

I am not a parent, though I would like to be, but I do deal with mental health struggles. I don’t mean to blame or critique our author, but I can scarcely imagine being asked be my child “the world is full of suffering, why did you bring me into it?” and not immediately making an effort to illustrate the beauty of the world. I cannot imagine telling my child that only a meager 10% of life is good, and that life does not get better, only our ability to deal with it. If anything, this book has made me more aware of the way our own outlook on the world can imprint on our children.

Grief can be an alienating process, but I found myself having trouble relating to our author more than anything. A beautiful, difficult, and sadly timeless book, but one I’m not sure how to feel about.

[Cam Waller · Rating 4 out of 5]

Such a beautiful book -- deeply felt and beautifully wrought. In the face of unspeakable tragedy, Yiyun Li is somehow able to make sense of the insensible. A grief memoir unlike any else, comparable only to Joan Didion's BLUE NIGHTS in my mind. Yiyun Li is one of the greatest writers working and thinking, THINGS IN NATURE MERELY GROW is a testament to that.

[Liz · Rating 3 out of 5]

I wanted to love this so very much, but I couldn't. Most significantly, I didn't like Li's depiction of her younger son. She doesn't admit that he's autistic, but she quotes sources (e.g., Born on a Blue Day) that strongly imply that he was-- or at least that he believed he was. With that backdrop, the distinctions she painstakingly drew between that "thinking" son and her "feeling" son, who she felt much closer to and understood better, were excruciating for me. I have zero grounds for judging this mother's relationship with her child (and wouldn't want to do so anyway), but the whole thing just made me feel awful.

There are also some breathtakingly bitter passages where she calls out former friends and others for reacting badly or inadequately to her grief, and I found those hard to read. Some of the people she's quoting to shame them were almost certainly trying their best but just not sure what to do in the face of almost unbelievable tragedy. Li can be somewhat bitingly funny about these people's failures, but again, the whole thing just made me feel bad in a way that was not quite what she intended.

[Jaclyn · Rating 5 out of 5]

Li writes from the depth of the abyss that is both her teenage sons deaths by suicide. She is never sentimental and she is not seeking to answer the questions you might assume she would. She does not flinch as she writes of her profound losses. Her prose is so polished and clean you could chip a tooth on it. The portrait she paints of her sons is tenderly and honestly rendered. This is quite simply one of the most extraordinary pieces of memoir writing I have ever read.

[Júlia Peró · Rating 4 out of 5]

Soy consciente de los límites del lenguaje, así que no voy a intentar explicar con mis propias palabras lo que me ha parecido este libro, recurriré a algunas palabras de la propia autora:

«Vincent murió porque sentía que la vida no podía alcanzarlo».

«James habría dicho que la vida era “perfectamente vivible”, del mismo modo en que decía que la comida mediocre de la cafetería era “perfectamente comestible”».

[Darryl Suite · Rating 5 out of 5]

The right stuff.

I read this in ebook format. And now I gotta purchase the physical copy because it needs to proudly be put on display. This one’s a treasure & the soothing balm that I needed right now.

[Rita da Nova]

«Até me sinto mal por dizer isto, mas gostei muito de ler Yiyun Li neste registo. Espero que a vida não lhe dê motivos para continuar a escrever assim, mas posso dizer que nunca outro livro me tinha feito pensar na temática do suicídio de uma forma tão racional. Tantas vezes procuramos respostas, mas elas simplesmente não existem.»

Review completa em: https://ritadanova.substack.com/p/tud....

[Sarah ~ · Rating 5 out of 5]

Things in Nature Merely Grow - Yiyun Li



"لقد رفضت دائماً استخدام كلمة ”حزن“ ونادراً ما استخدمت كلمة ”حداد“ - ... هذا ليس كتابًا عن الحزن أو الحداد."


"أشعر بذهول شديد وجروح عميقة من الحياة."

"لستَ مُلزمًا قطْ على إظهار ألمك للعالم."


"الموت صعب. والحياة أصعب. والأصعب من ذلك الاستمرار في الحياة عندما تُمزقها وفياتٌ أبدية. يستغرق الأمر لحظة واحدة ليصبح الموت حقيقةً واقعة، نقطةً واحدةً في خطٍّ زمني، تَطمس كل شيءٍ من الماضي وتَقضي على أي إمكانية للمستقبل."

~
...


هل بكيت خلال قراءة هذا الكتاب الصغير؟
نعم، بكيت كما لم أبك قط-ربما يقترب من تأثري به كتاب الكاتبة السابق.
كتاب حزين ومؤثر وفي عالم مليء بموت الأطفال هذا كتاب عن حزن عائلة وأم بعد خسارة ابن آخر.
لا يمكن تقييم أحزان الآخرين... ولذا لا أجد أيَّّ كلمات أكتبها عن هذا الكتاب، وهذه كانت مقالات مؤثرة وتفطر القلب.

[Kamila Kunda · Rating 5 out of 5]

There are very few books (probably only three) which I would call “home” and Yiyun Li’s “Things in Nature Merely Grow” is one of them. Reading it was such a deeply intimate experience for me that I often paused and paced the room to gather my thoughts and my emotions, as if embracing a bouquet of not-so-random flowers I picked in a meadow.

Yiyun Li lost two sons - they both took their lives. Vincent was 16 when he died in 2017, James ended his life at the age of 19 in 2024. The author wrote “Where Reasons End” for Vincent but she admits it would be impossible to write a book for James. “Vincent died because he did not feel that life could meet him: in poetry, in music, in beauty, in courage, and in perfection.” But “(…) we could only approximate an understanding of James, not knowing him, not being him.” “A neuropsychologist who did a two-day assessment of James when he was in second grade explained to us that she had run out of tests for his mathematics and his logic.” James never lived among adults who were his intellectual peers.

“Things in Nature Merely Grow” is not a book on grief. It is not an analysis of feelings of a mother (or of parents) who lost both children. It is not what many readers would expect. And yet it was everything I expected, and more. Yiyun Li is an extraordinary woman, the best mother I could ever imagine - respecting her children’s decisions, choices and ways of being at every stage of their lives. She is also a terrific writer, whose perception I identify with very strongly. Her precision, her unique manner of expressing herself fills me with awe. The way she writes about herself gives me the impression she may be the only person in the world to truly understand me.

“And yet life is still to be lived, inside tragedies, outside tragedies, and despite tragedies.” I find Li’s settling herself into life of permanent presence of absence of her sons somewhat comforting, life-affirming. As a person who considered suicide twice in my life (but never took any steps to end my life), I felt deeply alive and understood while reading “Things in Nature Merely Grow”. I will be forever grateful to Yiyun Li for creating home in her book for me.

[Baba Yaga Reads · Rating 5 out of 5]

Truly a life changing book for any mother with a history of suicidal depression.
Yiyun Li lit a light in my chest that I will carry around wherever I go.

[Crystal · Rating 1 out of 5]

This book was so triggering for me that I've revived my decrepit Goodreads account just to write this review.

This book is based on the true story of the author, Yiyun Li, and the experience of both her sons committing suicide. I came across this book through a BookTok recommendation (perhaps this was my first mistake). I was skeptical at first, but I was drawn to the topic of grief, suicide, and family. There was an underlying feeling of unease (Would this just be a self-serving grief narrative? After all, the dead can't speak), but I brushed it aside and came into it with an open mind. But by the first couple of chapters, it became clear that my suspicions would be confirmed. I persisted though, to the end of the book, hoping for a "gotcha" moment that never came.

For a book that Li herself describes as "a book for James," she does so little of talking about James or Vincent than of herself. I know nothing of her sons, except for their academic achievements. I know that James could play the Oboe at 5 years old, knew multiple languages, attended prestigious private schools, etc. But I know nothing about -him.- In fact, I could see more of "him" in the 3 page memorial article in Princeton student newspaper than in the 172 page book written by his mother supposedly dedicated to him. Instead, Li focuses on stories of her own childhood trauma, on showing examples of how great and infallible of a mom she was, snarky and defensive retorts to past and future criticism, and many references to highfalutin literature with accompanying intellectual rambling and Olympics level mental gymnastics.

This book is particularly offensive because (as a Chinese American with a similar background) I relate to Li's sons. So when I read the Things in Nature, I am reading Li's words, but I "see" the unspoken story of Vincent and James, peeking out beneath the veneer of her narrative.

But you need not be Chinese American to be able to read between the lines. Her writing tells on herself.

An example: Li praises herself for not being like other parents because she allows 5 year old Vincent to not join soccer club, despite her suggestion, because Vincent says that "[Li] would be doing that not for his happiness, but because [Li] wanted him to be just like the other children." She pats herself on the back for not forcing him to do something he doesn't want, but does not question why a 5 year old would even have such a nefarious thought about his mother's motivations.

Another example: Li writes, "A mother's job is to provide a framework for living: things to do, places to go..." Indeed, Li excels at his - fencing lessons for James, tennis lessons for Vincent, traveling all around the world, perfect aesthetic meals curated for each member of the family, etc. However, when it comes to emotional depth and finding oneself in life, Li's motherly framework for living offers little. The closest she comes to this is her statement to James a few weeks before his suicide. She says to him that only 10% of life is joyful and the other 90% must be endured... Imagine offering this as a framework for living, and then having the audacity to be surprised when your son commits suicide.

Perhaps there is a reason that the only two adjectives we see her sons describe her as are "dense" and "gormless."

Li uses those comments as pretense to show how she could never have understood her sons because they were geniuses who were so above her.

I interpret those comments as her sons' observation of how lacking she is, not in raw intellect (she is clearly very academically skilled), but in emotional intelligence. And by the way, these are not static skills - one can strive for better (but this is a reality that Li refuses to admit - she writes "reality has no alternatives" as a justification of why she doesn't focus on the "what-ifs").

Also, the way she absolves herself of any critical thought when it comes to anything that may be self-incriminating (but at the same time casually judging others) is extremely infuriating to read.

There multiple uncalled for asides of Li demeaning her students for not understanding a concept (is it not the job of the professor to guide her students to said concept?), of Li mocking well-meaning, but poorly executed condolences from her peers, of Li calling her critics deficient... the judgements that Li incongruently adds in the middle of her ramblings doesn't offer anything to the point she is trying to make, but does offer insight into the kind of environment that her sons may have grew up in. Imagine growing in a up in a household where mistakes and perceived stupidity are given no grace, and character insults are thrown around like candy. It is no surprise to me that Li keeps on saying that Vincent was a perfectionist, and James near-silent to everyone except his brother.

In fact, Li concludes that Vincent committed suicide because he was a perfectionist and life could not meet his perfect standards. For James, she concludes that he committed suicide because he was an autistic savant who was lonely because no one could meet him at his level.

That Li reduces her sons to these tropes while glazing her own role as their parent is infuriating.

--

I am so confused about the glowing reviews. Admittedly, it is a book that is easy to read, albeit disorganized sometimes (one reviewer said it was like reading a blog post - I agree with this sentiment). But to give a uncritical review is only if you take the author's words at face value and do not question her at all, even when her own cherry picked vignettes points to something darker or when she contradicts herself between chapters. I understand that people are kind and give a grieving mother grace, but to ignore how the author is showing herself as an unreliable narrator, someone who would have a personal interest in controlling the narrative around her sons' suicides?

I find it an interesting observation on how Chinese critics (she just had to dedicate multiple paragraphs throughout the book to reference and defend against) are more harsh than the Western critics. Aside from the nonsensical nationalist arguments and the tone deaf delivery of some Chinese neitizens, I do think this distinction between the critics is worth noting. Is it because Chinese people understand the perniciousness of our achievement based culture that Li's sons may have faced? Because Chinese people understand how important "saving face" is in our culture and see through Li's intentions?

[Steven · Rating 1 out of 5]

Few concepts in life are as complex, but universally experienced as death and meaning in life. Everyone grapples with these topics one day, so I was interested in a book dedicated for her late youngest son that committed suicide, James Li.

Frankly, this book deserves more than one star in terms of comprehensible prose and readability; it is incredibly simple and easy to follow her characterizations and recollections throughout the whole book.

Yet, I can not, in good conscience, rate this book any higher than the lowest possible score I can give. Yiyun Li attests very early on that there are no insights nor happy endings in this novel; I expected nothing, yet was still surprised to find her lauding and embracing academic, intellectual charades paired with circular logic. Who was this book even for? I can't even go over the inordinate amounts of concerning details in this book - separately, everything looks fine with some grace and ignorance given to her as a grieving mother, but as a whole, they paint a world that in her own terms, must be unreality. The delusion in her writing must be keeping her sane. This book is not for James, it is the fictionalization and manipulation of a human being into a character that would match her worldview and agenda; it is the discarding of any narrative that does not serve her own life.

You'll find no problems if you don't question a single word or think about any of the experiences mentioned in this book. As an individual who has grown and been well acquainted with the environment that she wished her children to belong in, I can see the hypocrisy in the intellectualism and magnanimity that she spouts throughout this novel. You will see a stark, depressing, lifeless framework, devoid of meaning, provided to these children when you piece the scattered events into a coherent timeline. You will see two sons, full of life, simplified and juxtaposed as literary themes - one who could not escape "feelings" and thus died, versus one who died because they were too much of a "thinker."

For such a well-read, articulate writer, it's sad to be inundated with numerous detailed academic passages, vivid descriptions of garden flora, descriptive depictions of her interactions with others, for her to still distill James into a static, flat character. All that is James, is he was musically gifted, linguistically gifted, participated in many extracurricular activities, and was a "thinker," not a "feeler." If that is the trajectory of meaning and purpose in his life, I can only imagine the kindness he had in his soul to hold on for so much longer.

[Marta Cava]

«I tanmateix la vida s'ha de continuar vivint, dins de les tragèdies, fora de les tragèdies i malgrat les tragèdies». Vull que aquesta frase sigui el meu epitafi. I vull que tothom llegeixi aquest llibre que del dolor en fa bellesa.

[nathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

“𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴, 𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘴, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 - 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 - 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦: 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘶𝘴. 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦-𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺.”

For the longest time I would recommend Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking to those who ever lost a loved one. And now, here is this, written so tenderly with a great concision that is so stark and plain and beautifully eclipses in moments so dire to questions of the role of the writer and the mother, of the role of a person who is supposed to go on living a world where two major loves are gone. Important. Teaches a thing or two about what not to say, what not to do for a person in need after such a heavy loss. One of those books that teaches you a whole lot, at the end of all your tears.

“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 - 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘺. 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳.”

[Vincent Scarpa · Rating 5 out of 5]

What can you say that feels adequate about a memoir that is, at least in part, interrogating the question of what exactly one is able to say in the face of extremity — in Li’s case, the unreal pain of losing both of her young sons to suicide.

I found Li’s recent(ish) novel Where Reasons End to be absolutely stunning, an unbearably sad and beautiful book, and I wondered, when news of this book’s approaching publication came out, how Li would address this unimaginable pain and loss a second time. I’ve never met her, I should say, but she strikes me in her writing as a remarkably vigilant thinker and examiner, and that is very much the impression you get reading Things in Nature Merely Grow. She is also, it’s worth mentioning, capable of looking head-on at extremity in a way that bespeaks a kind of willingness and agility that I envy but do not myself possess. Her insights back from “the abyss,” as she is fond of referring to it, are many, but to say too much about this feels adjacent to spoiling the reading experience: you should hear it in her words, not my synopsis. In that spirit, a passage I found quite lovely:

“I did not stop writing or take time off from teaching when Vincent died. Writing, teaching, gardening, grocery shopping, cooking, doing laundry — all these activities are time-bound, and they do not compete with my children, who are timeless now. There is no rush, as I will have every single day, for the rest of my life, to think about Vincent and James, outside time, outside the many activities of everyday life. And this, among other reasons, is why I am against the word ‘grief,’ which in contemporary culture seems to indicate a process that has an end point: the sooner you get there, the sooner you prove yourself to be a good sport at living, and the less awkward people around you will feel.

Sometimes people ask me where I am in the grieving process, and I wonder whether they understand anything at all about losing someone. How lonely the dead would feel, if the living were to stand up from death’s shadow, clap their hands, dust their pants, and say to themselves and to the world, I am done with my grieving; from this point on it’s life as usual, business as usual. I don’t want an end point to my sorrow. The death of a child is not a heat wave or a snowstorm, nor an obstacle race to rush through and win, nor an acute or chronic illness to recover from. What is grief but a word, a shortcut, a simplification of something much larger than that word? Thinking about my children is like air, like time. Thinking about them will only end when I reach the end of my life.”

[Tamára · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Tudo na natureza apenas continua” é o testemunho de uma experiência aterradora retratada de forma crua, sem adornos ou palavras bonitas.

Não direi que este é um livro sobre o luto, a autora é contra essa palavra por parecer indicar um fim. E para ela, a consumação da dor, da memória e do sofrimento, só será possível quando a própria morrer.
Portanto, se a autora deixa claro que este livro não é sobre o luto, eu vou seguir as suas orientações e dizer que este é um livro sobre o que resta.

É um livro sobre o resta depois da partida daqueles que mais amamos, sobre o que resta depois de esmiuçadas todas as hipóteses plausíveis, sobre o que resta depois da maior dor do mundo.

A autora aborda como lidou com a perda através da “aceitação radical”. Mais importante do que amar é, segundo ela, “compreender a respeitar os meus filhos, (…) compreender a respeitar a decisão que os dois tomaram de por fim à vida”.

Ao longo da obra ela faz uma longa reflexão sobre como (ou se) poderia ter evitado este desastre. - “(…) verdadeira tragédia não é a morte em si, mas a dificuldade da mãe em perceber quando deve ou não confiar na intuição.”
Mas também nos deixa questões incómodas e sem resposta definitiva. - “Que uma mãe faça tudo o que é humanamente possível pelos filhos e, mesmo assim, não consiga obrigá-los a viver — é um facto que dispensa qualquer adjetivo.”

Achei interessante constatar que a Yiyun Li vê nas passagens de “O Rei João” de William Shakespeare, a verdadeira essência da dor de perder alguém. São várias as referências a passagens de Constance, passagens essas que muitos estudiosos acreditam que podem ter sido inspiradas na experiência do próprio bardo com a perda do seu filho Hamnet.

Esta obra é arrebatadoramente complexa pela essência do tema. Não é fácil descrever os sentimentos que a autora sentiu, assim como não é fácil descrever o próprio livro. Talvez o mais acertado será dizer que o que “resta é silêncio”.

[Paula Mota]

DNF

Em 2019, tentei ler “Where Reasons End” em que Yiyun Li se dirige ao filho de 16 anos que se tinha suicidado. Nem o formato nem o tom poético funcionaram comigo na altura, mas em 2025, quando publicou “Things in Nature Merely Grow”, após o suicídio do segundo filho, quis perceber como sobrevive uma mãe à perda de dois filhos e de onde vem essa necessidade de o partilhar com o mundo. Continuo sem saber e nem quero sequer imaginá-lo, porque, tendo também dois adolescentes, achei o relato insuportável e desisti ao fim do primeiro capítulo. Do ponto de vista literário, onde o primeiro livro pecava por um lirismo excessivo, este peca pela intelectualização do luto, o que me deixa desconcertada em relação à opção da autora em exteriorizar a sua dor como se ela realmente não fosse sua mas de uma personagem criada por si.

Inevitavelmente, há um momento em que o livro – que exige energia, tempo, disponibilidade mental e até vida – se transforma num livro. Nessa altura, passa a ser um mero objeto, com um título, que faz o seu próprio percurso, separando-se do autor. É o que tem acontecido a todos os livros que escrevi, incluindo o livro para Vincent. Esse livro anterior - “o livro para Vincent” – chegou sem qualquer planeamento consciente, uma noite. (…) O Vincent morreu em setembro; no final de novembro percebi que tinha terminado o livro. Desta vez, tive consciência de que, durante esse período, não escrevera uma única palavra para James. Comentava sempre com a Brigid que sabia que tinha um livro; só não arranjava maneira de o escrever.