Notes on Grief

by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Narrator)

Arran de la perdua del seu pare, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie ha escrit un text lúcid i sincer que ha volgut compartir amb tots els seus lectors.áSobre el dol es un recull de reflexions al voltant de la perdua, l'absencia i el pas del temps.

Genres: Nonfiction, Memoir, Grief, Essays, Audiobook, Africa, Biography

Audiobook

First published May 11, 2021

About the author

CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIE grew up in Nigeria. Her work has been translated into more than fifty-five languages. She is the author of the novels Purple Hibiscus, which won the Commonwealth Writers' Prize; Half of a Yellow Sun, which was the recipient of the Women’s Prize for Fiction “Best of the Best” award; Americanah, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award; the story collection The Thing Around Your Neck and the essays We Should All Be Feminists and Dear Ijeawele, or A Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions. Her most recent work is an essay about losing her father, Notes on Grief, and Mama’s Sleeping Scarf, a children’s book written as Nwa Grace-James. A recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, she divides her time between the United States and Nigeria.

Reviews

[Ilse · Rating 4 out of 5]

Never again

Never again. It feels as if I wake up only to sink and sink. In those moments, I am sure I do not ever want to face the world again.

Grief because of the loss of a loved one can be an overwhelming experience – one of the few that perhaps rightly might be classified as universal, as an experience most of us will go through if we are so fortunate not to die that young ourselves that we will not have to mourn the loss of someone dear.

Grief can render one speechless, hopelessly at loss for words while thirsting for them to make sense of the experience and the emotions as well as to hold on to and honour the life of that unique human being so dearly loved which cruelly ended – always too soon, a life always too short. Maybe it is this yearning for words that prompts to read testimonies on loss and grieving from those one can rely on to be more eloquent, even if such is painful and unsettling – and even if such means the cold comfort of learning that the struggle to find words is a common experience:

You learn how much grief is about language, the failure of language and the grasping for language.



At the time of reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s short story Zikora, a friend pointed me to Notes on grief, the compact piece Adichie wrote at the death of her father. I read it in one sitting in the café of the local library. Quite a few of her reflections rang familiar, her raw and astute evocation of the oppressive and substantial nature of grief, the intensity and inescapability of it, the rancorous disbelief, the wry sense of injustice reminiscent of W.H. Auden’s poem Stop all the clocks: How is it that the world keeps going, breathing in and out unchanged, while in my soul there is a permanent scattering?

Adichie not only focusses on and dissects the impact of the loss on herself and her family (including illustrating how the Covid restrictions imposing distance and causing delays for funerals in Nigeria complicated things). Her words also create an endearing homage to her so loved and venerated father, turning her testimony into a moving and life-affirming eulogy commemorating his humour and personality.

Finding relatable feelings articulated with Adichie’s stunning precision is a peculiar, soothing balm:

The weight is heaviest in the mornings, post-sleep: a leaden heart, a stubborn reality that refuses to budge.

Not finding the right words, not to express one’s own feelings, not having them at hand to offer a friend or relative grieving (it is not because there are no words that can bring any succor that one can remain silent) is not unusual when confronted with loss. I can imagine that referring to Adichie’s thoughts in this book can lead to the beginning of an answer when one is asked that seemingly so simple but so hard to answer well-meaning question when dealing with grief, ‘how are you?’



‘Never' has come to say. 'Never' feels so unfairly punitive. For the rest of my life, I will live with my hands outstretched for things that are no longer there.

(Photographs by Hanayo)
(*** 1/2)

[nelly · Rating 5 out of 5]

I didn't plan on reading this today but what started with me planning to read a few pages just to get a feel of it, ended up with me reading it to the end and how timely because tomorrow would have been my late young sister's 28th birthday.

I've learned that grief from the death of a loved one just never goes away, never really heals. Even if life returns to a semblance of normal, the grief is always there, just under the surface, ready to burst out at any slight trigger.

There's so much that CNA wrote here that echo the thoughts I had in those days, weeks, months after my sister died; showing how grief affects us in similar ways but even with all that, we all grieve differently.

I can tell this wasn't easy for CNA to write but reading this has made me realize, maybe...just maybe I should start writing about my sister. The way she wrote of her father makes me want to write down the stories of my sister's life so I can read them on a bad day and remember that yeah, it was all real. It was years ago and sometimes it feels like a dream but it was real.

I'm grateful to CNA for sharing this with us. For sharing her father's life with us. May He Rest In Peace.

[Elyse Walters · Rating 5 out of 5]

Adichie’s father taught her valuable life lessons— was respectful of her boundaries — left her many years of great memories—
…He was a defender of spouse…was the first to champion his wife’s accomplishments.
…His humor was exceptional
…He listened beautifully …
…His pride of Chimamanda mattered to her more than anyone else’s.
…Chimamanda not only admired her father so very much, as a daddy‘s girl, but she actually ‘liked’ him —
so much he was her favorite person to hang out with.
… she liked his strength, his humbleness, his integrity, his faith, his sense of duty and responsibility to do good,
….
A Beautiful book …
about grief for the father she loved —deeply loved!! Died too soon.
…Laughter that Chimamanda had with her dad —she will never have again….
…Her admiration, appreciation, and ability to feel grief- because she loved her father so much….was a sad but treasured gift.
Adichie knew her life was changed forever….but she was also aware that she could not have felt the depths of grief had she not loved him as deeply as she did.

He died in 2020 - at age 88
My dad died in 1956 - at the age 34.
I was 4. I adored my father too.
I understand that some things never return to normal after the loss of a parent (at any age).

“Grief is not about the possibility of return”.
I understand this at a very deep level.

This is a profoundly beautiful intimate and poignant memoir.

Thank you for writing it Chimamanda.

[Bel Rodrigues · Rating 5 out of 5]

"outra revelação: o quanto o riso faz parte do luto. o riso está profundamente entranhado no linguajar da nossa família, e nós agora rimos ao lembrar do meu pai, mas em algum lugar por trás desse riso existe uma névoa de incredulidade. o riso vai se apagando. o riso se transforma em choro, que se transforma em tristeza, que se transforma em raiva. estou despreparada para a raiva descomunal e avassaladora que sinto. sinto-me inexperiente e imatura diante desse inferno que é a tristeza."

eu não consigo nem falar nada além disso aqui.

[TarHeelReader · Rating 5 out of 5]

In the days immediately following my beloved dad’s death, I found this slim novella on my shelves. When I couldn’t focus to read anything else, I was absorbed. As I ran out of vocabulary to describe the pain, I found insight here and new ways to describe the ache lying deep in my core.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie lost her father suddenly in 2020, and as a writer often does, she picked up her pen to help release some of the anguish. Her raw and affirming prose left me feeling seen and understood.

It goes without saying I highly recommend Notes on Grief to anyone who has experienced the loss of a parent. Thank goodness for authors who gift us with words when we are stricken and bereft with none.

Many of my reviews can also be found on my blog: www.jennifertarheelreader.com and instagram: www.instagram.com/tarheelreader

[Jaidee (moving into a winter of nonfiction) · Rating 4 out of 5]

4 "dear, loving" stars !

A lovely short tribute to a father and a daughter's experience of acute grief.

I do not have much to say except that the prose was simple, loving, respectful and reads like a very polished grief diary.

My condolences to the entire family and you were blessed to have such a wonderful patriarch.

[Mohamed Al · Rating 5 out of 5]

هل تعرفون الشعور الذي ينتابكم حينما تشرعون في قراءة كتاب ما ويدفعكم للاستمرار في القراءة. على عكس هذا الشعور، كنت أشعر برغبة حقيقية في أن أتوقف عن قراءة هذا الكتاب، لأنني أحسست بأن هناك غصة تخنقني وأنا أقرأه. السبب الآخر هو أنني أعتقد بأن تشيماماندا لم تكتب الكتاب للآخرين بقدر ما كانت تكتبه لنفسها، وتحاول من خلاله -ومن خلال الكتابة- أن تتعامل مع حزنها الشخصي.

ولكنني مع ذلك لم أتوقف عن القراءة وأنهيت الكتاب في جلسة واحدة، ربما لأنني - كالكثير من البشر - نحب تعذيب أنفسنا، وربما لأنني - كالكثير من البشر أيضًا - نحب التلصص على الآخرين ورؤية كيف يتعاملون مع مآسيهم.

هذا الكتاب أكد لي بأن الفقد، وما يولده من حزن، تجربة مفرطة في الأنانية، فنحن عندما نحزن على رحيل شخص ما لا نحزن عليه في الحقيقة بقدر حزننا على أنفسنا .. بعده. نحزن لأن شيئًا كنا نملكه، شيئًا كان لنا، شيئًا كان يعيش في داخلنا .. اختفى فجأة.

أعتقد بأن من فقد شخصًا عزيزًا عليه سيجد نفسه في هذا الكتاب، وقد يعتقد أن تشيماماندا إذ تكتب عن تجربتها مع رحيل والدها، تصف أيضًا تجاربنا مع رحيل أحبتنا وكأنها كانت حاضرة معنا لحظة رحيلهم عنا.

[Rosh (on a medical break) · Rating 3 out of 5]

In a Nutshell: A short collection of notes written by the author after her father’s sudden death. Quite intimate in tone. If you have experienced a personal loss, you will empathise with her feelings. Tough to decide whether and to whom to recommend this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From her home in the USA, author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie spoke to her father in Nigeria on 9th June 2020. On 10th June, he passed away. Though he was due for a hospital visit, there was no indication that his health issues were so severe. The lockdown was on, as were the covid travel restrictions. As you can imagine, coping with a parent’s sudden loss cannot be easy. Adichie uses this little memoir-of-sorts to share her experience with grief.

At just 86 pages and with about thirty short notes, the book doesn’t take that long to read. But even within this limited time, it offers a powerful indication of the author’s sense of loss. As a self-confessed “Daddy’s Girl”, she obviously was struck deeply by his abrupt passing. These notes show her attempts at making sense of the new reality with a father-shaped hole in her universe. Her pain must have been exacerbated by not being able to be with her father or the difficulties of having a timely funeral because of the lockdown.

Reading this collection makes us feel like we are taking a walk through someone’s personal diary, and getting a ringside view of their heartbreak. This is not a book to be enjoyed, nor is it a book that teaches us much. It doesn’t aim to tell you how to process grief or acknowledge others’ grief, let alone offer advice on how to overcome grief. Rather, it is a very intimate sketch of the author’s emotions after losing her father, and her memories of her father. It restricts itself to her experience of grief rather than making universal declarations of what grief is or should be.

As the title indicates, the book is literally a collection of notes. Each note makes a “chapter”, with the book thus having thirty teeny chapters focussing on a particular reminiscence connected to Adichie Sr., who seems to have been a warm, kind, and intelligent person. The notes aren’t chronological, nor do they stick to one topic per note. The tone is thus exactly as someone speaking to us without a preplanned structure.

The audiobook, clocking at just 1.5 hours, is narrated by the author herself. Given the personal nature of this work, the audio is a good way of reading this memoir.

Overall, this book might be quite short but it is packed with big emotions. If this were written by some other author, I wouldn’t even have picked it up, but I am a huge fan of Adichie and would ideally like to read everything she pens.

I don’t consider this memoir at the same level as the author’s other shorter books such as ‘We Should All Be Feminists’ or ‘Dear Ijeawele, or A Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions’. At the same time, this book is not a feminist essay and hence cannot be compared to any of her earlier works.

Basically, this is not a must-read, but to those interested in giving it a go, it offers a heartfelt ode to a beloved father by his grieving daughter. I cannot decide how to rate a public penning of private emotions, so I’ll just hit the midway mark. This isn't a book to be purchased but to be borrowed from the library.


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[Reading_ Tamishly · Rating 4 out of 5]

The book is exactly what the title says.

As a constant reader of the author's work for the past few years, I would say this book does what the author does best. Non-fiction writing at its finest.

What made the reading more engrossing and understandable are the short chapters, easygoing language, anecdotes and emotions that are described the way everyone can feel at the moment.

The book made me tear up at many parts. However, I wasn't expecting much of some other events that occurred in this short read. It felt like they made it look like the book about something else.

The book's main highlight is the description of the close family bonds and the father-daughter love. Also, due to the current pandemic situation, how families struggle to attend funerals is being highlighted in this book. I feel that's the ultimate heartbreaking part.

Please pick up this book only when you are prepared to read about loss and grief.

[Amina · Rating 5 out of 5]

I get this book.

I didn't think I would get it this much.

I too lost my father, 11 years ago, but not so suddenly. The loss of a parent can be one of the hardest experiences of one’s life.

When Adichie talks about the world continuing to move but that no one is able to feel her soul drifting away in the grief, I understood her.

Grief was the celebration of love, those who could feel real grief were lucky to have loved

Her words are empowering and expressive.

I am writing about my father in the past tense, and I can't believe I am writing about my father in the past tense

I love that she revels in the remembrance of all that her father was, and everything he embodied.

I am faintly aware that this book may be triggering for some . I found it to be deeply personal, raw, and honest.

Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be...you learn how glib condolences can feel. You learn how much grief is about language, the failure of language, and the grasping for language

5 solid stars.

[sAmAnE · Rating 3 out of 5]

سوگ خیلی چیزها یادت می‌دهد، اما زجر و سختی‌ات هم می‌دهد. می‌فهمی سوگواری ربطی به مهر و شفقت ندارد و اتفاقاً سراسر خشم است. می‌فهمی همدردی و تسلیت به گوش صاحب عزا، فقط حرف است، اغلب هم تو خالی و ناراستین. می‌فهمی سوگ با زبان پیوندی تنگاتنگ دارد...ناکارآمدی زبان به وقت سوگ، چنگ اندازی به زبان وقت سوگ...
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باور کردنی نیست چطور ممکن است دنیا انگار نینگار کار خودش را بکند و به حیاتش ادامه بدهد اما چیزی درون من تا ابد از هم گسیخته باشد...
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آدیچیه در سال ۲۰۲۰ ناگهان پدرش را از دست می‌دهد قلم را برمی‌دارد و اندوهی را که در زمان حال تجربه می‌کند و خاطراتی را که از گذشته با پدرش دارد را می‌نویسد. او شاید غمگین نیست، خشمگین است، خشمی ناشی از رها شدن و از دست دادن او.
شاید تجربه شخصی خود را در سوگ از دست دادن پدرش می‌انگارد ولی این چیزی نیست جز تجربه‌ای مشترک میان همه‌ی انسان‌ها که هرکس به طوری متفاوت آن را سپری می‌کند.. درد، غم، اندوه و خشم بسیار دردناکند سعی می‌کنیم از آنها فرار کنیم ولی باز آنها ما را پیدا می‌کنند و چاره‌ای جز مواجه شدن با آنها نداریم. صداقت نویسنده را در بیان احساساتش بسیار دوست داشتم و عقیده دارم جستار چیزی نیست جز این که بسیار لذت بخش است.

[Jon Nakapalau · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of the best books I have read this year - ranks up there with The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis and Wave by Sonali Deraniyagala. Pain is so overwhelming, so often we just want to hide from it, but it always finds us. We all have to confront pain; this book is one of the best ways to go about preparing for that inevitable confrontation - highest recommendation.

[Nat]

Notes on Grief by Adichie is a memoir that meditates on loss, sorrow, and grief — which, as she says herself, ‘has the onset of doubt.’

Among its many cruel and relentless facets, grief gives rise to doubt. Doubt that brings the bereaved a sense of uncertainty about whether they had done enough — or could have done more. It makes one wonder if they were inadequate, powerless. In Adichie’s own story, she feels uncertain about the world after her father’s passing. Her overthinking leads her toward thoughts of nihilism, “a cycle of thinking there’s no point,” as she says.

“Grief was the celebration of love, those who could feel real grief were lucky to have loved.“

Most of my grandparents had passed, one of them recently, so the pain and sorrow expressed by Adichie is one of familiarity. Many people grieve differently, and while I grew up pretty close to my grandmother and while the news hit hard — my grieving was brief. Brief, but profound. Reading through Adichie's words and experiences, it was deeply comforting to witness how she coped with grief — I found many of those moments profoundly heartwarming.

As this book grapples with misery, the prose — illuminated by its poetic and lyrical writing — places a heartfelt weight upon its readers. Every line feels thoughtfully shaped, allowing sorrow to unfold in prose that is both aching and luminous.

Ultimately, this book being a memoir makes it hard for me to rate, as I don’t wish to undermine the feelings the author presents. So with every other memoirs I have read or plan to read, they will remain unrated.

[محمد خالد شريف · Rating 3 out of 5]

"الحزن ليس شفافاً، بل مادي، مُستبد، شيء مُبهم. "

عندما قرأت عن الكتاب قبل أن أقرأه، سـألت نفسي: أيعقل أن تلك التجربة المريرة التي جعلت الخوف والربكة يتملكا جسدي مر بها شخص في أرض الواقع فعلاً؟ بل وكتب عنها؟ لا بُد أن أقرأ هذا الذي كنت أتمنى ألا أمر به، هذا الذي دعوت الله كثيراً أن يُجنبني إياه.

دعني أحكي لك قصة حقيقية قد لا تخصك ولا تُهمك في شيء، ولكن وجب توثيقها، على الأقل بالنسبة لي. مع بدايات جائحة كورونا، وانتقالي من بلد إلى آخر وفراق والدي لأول مرة منذ حوالي رُبع قرن. حدث ذلك التتبع الغريب والمأساوي بغلق مطارات الدول، لمنع تفشي تلك الجائحة التي فتكت بالعديدين، وأثقلت كاهلنا باشتراطات صحية، والتزامات وتدابير وقائية، وحتى لحظات كتابة هذه السطور لا زلنا كالراقص على الدرج، لا نعرف هل مررنا من هذه الأزمة الكئيبة؟ أم ما زال هُناك متحور جديد ينتظرنا في الأفق ليفعل تلك الفعلة الشنيعة مرة أخرى. ألا وهي جلوسنا بالمنزل مرة أخرى، الحجر والحظر. في حالتي، وجدت نفسي بعد شهر واحد من انتقالي أجلس في مسكني، لاشتراطات الكورونا وتبعاتها. في البداية، تملكتني تلك اللذة المُصابحة للاجازة المفروضة على الكُل، وذلك يعني بالطبع نوماً كثير، وقراءة أكثر، وبالفعل عام 2020 من أكثر الأعوام المحورية بالنسبة لي على مستوى القراءة ولذلك حديث آخر.

وفي أحد أيام الحظر، وبالتحديد أحد السهرات الرمضانية، وأثناء تصفحي لمواقع التواصل الاجتماعي، صعقني مقطع مصور لشاب يقترب من سني، يحمل والده، يصرخ بأقصى صوت تتحمله حنجرته، باكياً، متألماً، ويشق ملابسه، ويقول: أبويا مات. فقط كلمتان! كلمتان هزوا روحي وكياني. وقتها أدركت المصيبة، ماذا لو حدث ذلك لي؟ والدي وهو أعز ما لدي بحياتي، لا قدر الله، وأنا أبعد عنه بقارة! ولن أستطيع أن أكون هُناك، تملكني الخوف والذعر، ووجدت نفسي اتصل بوالدي، وأبكي، بكيت بكاء مرير، بكاء خوف، بكاء فقد، بكاء بقدر المسافة التي تفصل بيني وبين والدي، والأنكى، أنه لم يرد على اتصالي! أزيد بكائي وأزيد إتصالاتي، حتى أتاني صوت والدي الناعس، يلعن جنون ابنه الذي يتصل به الساعة الخامسة صباحاً، فتمالكت نفسي كأي مُغترب يحترم نفسه، وقُلت له: أنا فقط أطمئن عليك، ولماذا لم تعد تسهر كما السابق يا حاج؟ أكبرت أم ماذا؟ وضحكنا سوياً ثم أغلقنا الاتصال. ووقتها فقط تمكنت من النوم.

أحكي لكم كُل هذا لأخبركم أن "تيشماماندا" حظها السيء والعاثر أنه قد حدث لها أسوأ كوابيسي، فقد توفي والدها، ولم تستطع أن تكون هناك بسبب غلق المطارات، هي في أمريكا، ووالدها في نيجيريا، تفصل عنها قارات ومُحيطات وسنين ضوئية من ناحية التطور، حتى أمريكا بكل ما تملك من موارد اربكها الكوفيد، فما بالك بدولة أفريقية؟ تحكي "تشماماندا" بألم وتجتر ذكرياتها مع والدها، كُل تلك الأفعال البسيطة التي كان يفعلها، صرامته، طريقة لبسه، قراءته للجرائد، مكانته المرموقة بين أقرانه، حُب وتقدير من حوله له، تجتر الذكريات وتُدمي روحها، وترثي نفسها وأباها، وتتذكر آخر مرة كانا سوياً، وتبكي، لأنها لم تكن تعلم أنها المرة الأخيرة. أليس مؤلماً أنك لا تعرف أبداً متى سوف تكون آخر مرة تلتقي فيها بأحبابك؟

الكتاب لا يتجاوز المائة صفحة، ولكنه يحوي أطناناً من الحزن، بكلمات دقيقة وبسيطة، تنوع ذكريتها وتدويناتها عن الحُزن، وما يفعله بالمرء، وتختم "تشيماماندا" تدويناتها بتلك التدوينة الأكثر حُزناً:
"أكتب عن أبي بصيغة الماضي، ولا أصدق أنني أكتب عن أبي بصيغة الماضي."

[Christine · Rating 1 out of 5]

I thought this was going to be a book about grief in a general sense. I thought there would be some insights, some naval-gazing, some revelations, some enlightenment even. So, I was surprised, as I made my way from beginning to end, that it's simply 70 pages of the author telling us how much she revered her father and how despairing she is that he is no longer alive - she cries, she beats her fists, she falls to the floor - I could not relate. (At times it felt like "over-sharing".) Everyone is different, everyone grieves differently, so I am not dismissive of her grief. Rather, I am questioning the purpose of this book. I suppose, if this helps the author find a way forward then that's probably a good enough reason. But, this type of raw display does not interest me, particularly when I was expecting something more philosophical. This book was not for me.

[Rebecca · Rating 4 out of 5]

This slim hardback is an expanded version of an essay Adichie published in the New Yorker in the wake of her father’s death in June 2020. With her large family split across three continents and coronavirus lockdown precluding in-person get-togethers, they had a habit of frequent video calls. She had seen her father the day before on Zoom and knew he was feeling unwell and in need of rest, but the news of his death still came as a complete shock.

Adichie anticipates all the unhelpful platitudes people could and did send her way: he lived to a ripe old age (he was 88), he had a full life and was well respected (he was Nigeria’s first statistics professor), he had a mercifully swift end (kidney failure). Her logical mind knows all of these facts, and her writer’s imagination has depicted grief many times. Still, this loss blindsided her.

She’d always been a daddy’s girl, but the anecdotes she tells confirm how special he was: wise and unassuming; a liberal Catholic suspicious of materialism and with a dry humour. I marvelled at one such story: in 2015 he was kidnapped and held in the boot of a car for three days, his captors demanding a ransom from his famous daughter. What did he do? Correct their pronunciation of her name, and contradict them when they said that clearly his children didn’t love him. “Grief has, as one of its many egregious components, the onset of doubt. No, I am not imagining it. Yes, my father truly was lovely.” With her love of fashion, one way she dealt with her grief was by designing T-shirts with her father’s initials and the Igbo words for “her father’s daughter” on them.

I’ve read many a full-length bereavement memoir, and one might think there’s nothing new to say, but Adichie writes with a novelist’s eye for telling details and individual personalities. She has rapidly become one of my favourite authors: I binged on most of her oeuvre last year and now have just one more to read, Purple Hibiscus, which will be one of my 20 Books of Summer. I love her richly evocative prose and compassionate outlook, no matter the subject. At £10, this 85-pager is pricey, but I was lucky to get it free with Waterstones loyalty points.

Favourite lines:

“In the face of this inferno that is sorrow, I am callow and unformed.”

“How is it that the world keeps going, breathing in and out unchanged, while in my soul there is a permanent scattering?”

[Kerri · Rating 5 out of 5]

It feels strange to 'review' something so intensely personal, so I'll keep it brief. In Notes on Grief Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie both captures her intense grief about her father's death, and also writes a beautiful tribute to the man she has lost. It's a slim volume, my copy having 88 pages, but it contains so much and I expect it is one I will be glad to have in my book collection, knowing I can revisit it whenever I feel the need.

[Ahmed · Rating 4 out of 5]

كتاب فاتن، مؤلم، يقطر حزنا وصدقا، وتشيماماندا أديبة أريبة، تعرف كيف تحزن وكيف تكتب حزنها، مرثية الوالد المؤثر، مع إجراءات العزل والكورونا لم تستطع السفر للبكاء على جسده فبكت بدموعها على الورق نَص شديد الشاعرية والعذوبة ودافيء رغم قسوته أحيانا، لأن الرحيل يحمل قسوته الضرورية كما الغياب.
كتاب شديد الجمال، وترجمته متقنة جدا وبليغة.

[Stephanie Arellano · Rating 4 out of 5]

“La pena era una celebración del amor, quienes sentían auténtica pena habían tenido la suerte de amar”.

[Fatma Al Zahraa Yehia · Rating 2 out of 5]

هناك بعض الكتابات التي يمكن أن يُكتفَى بتدوينها في مقالة طويلة. مثل تلك الكتاب الذي مثّل تعبيراً صادقاً عن مشاعر وأحاسيس امرأة فقدت والدها العزيز.
ولكن كانت السبعون صفحة تكراراً لفكرة واحدة، وهى الأثر النفسي الذي تركه الرحيل على روح تلك المرأة، وتلك قليلٌ كمحتوى على ان يُضمّن في كتاب.

Though the author's portrayal of her sorrow and agony resembles what I had been through after my father was gone, I couldn't relate to that book!
Trying to figure it out, I reread the book. Still, there is a kind of a barrier between me and the inner voice of someone with whom I shared the same trauma.

After reading a lot of literary works about death "most were like that book, memoirs", I still wonder, why I felt connected to them but I failed to feel the same with Chimamanda's notes.
I'm sorry for not knowing the reason.

[María Francisca Valenzuela · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hace una semana, un accidente se llevó a mi papá. Es muy poco el tiempo que ha pasado, y este libro se cruzó conmigo justo cuando empezaba a sentir que no estoy procesando todo esto como se debe.
Hubo párrafos donde me vi tentada a iniciar un diálogo. La autora describiendo a su padre, y yo al mío. Poniendo en evidencia cuán increíbles fueron, o cómo sus palabras, acciones y formas de ser, nos formaron también a nosotras.
El día que fui al parque a organizar su entierro, la encargada me pidió que le describiera. Y aunque las palabras se amontonaban en mi cabeza, fue la idea de tener que describirlo en pasado la que irrumpió en mi garganta y se me escapó sólo un llanto desgarrador. A la autora le sucedió algo similar. Supongo que la pérdida de un padre, independiente de la forma o el lugar en el que ocurra, será siempre difícil.
Hoy leyendo este libro, cortito, conciso y tan humano como la experiencia de perder a alguien tan amado, encontré un poco de calma y pude dar orden a todas esas palabras que fui incapaz de decir en el funeral de mi viejito.

A todos ustedes que han tenido una pérdida, sobre todo en medio de esta horrible pandemia, les envío un abrazo a la distancia. La fuerza para poder encontrar las palabras y darles un sentido, y mucha entereza para aceptar que de ahora en más, todo será en tiempo pasado.

[Sami Kay · Rating 5 out of 5]

I’m sitting here in my hammock with tears streaming down my cheeks and I wasn’t even expecting this book to happen to me today, but it did at this perfect time.

My sister died right before COVID happened and it was very unexpected. I read this book today and I felt seen and reading about so many of my feelings that are just too big for words was profound. Especially this piece:

“Laughter is tightly braided into our family argot, and now we laugh remembering my father, but somewhere in the background there is a haze of disbelief. The laughter trails off. The laughter becomes tears and becomes sadness and becomes rage. I am unprepared for my wretched, roaring rage. In the face of this inferno that is sorrow, I am callow and unformed.”

I miss my sister very much this week. She has been on my mind and heart for days. Grief is weird and unpredictable. And forever, really.

[Julie · Rating 5 out of 5]

I truly enjoyed getting to know Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's father through her poignant memoir. It was made all the more personal by listening to the author read her own words with feeling. Favorite quotes that caused me to pause, lean in and listen to over again:

"You learn how glib condolences can feel. You learn how much grief is about language. The failure of language and the grasping for language."

"I did not know we cry with our muscles."

"another revelation, how much laughter is part of grief." This resonated, as I remember feeling astonished, as we laughed with my grandparents after my own father's funeral.

"how dare you make this thing true!" referring to people writing in the book of condolence.

Covid causes so much uncertainty and the inability to plan. Dates are set for resuming services and then, moved further away, it's "like playing yoyo with a cat."

"age is irrelevant in grief. At issue is not how old he was but how loved."

"Concrete and sincere memories from those who knew him comfort the most and it warms me that the same words recur: "honest," "calm," "kind," "strong," "quiet," "simple," "peaceful," "integrity.""

"His humor, already dry, crisped deliciously as he aged."

"Never has come to stay. Never feels so unfairly punitive. For the rest of my life I will live with my hands outstretched for things that are no longer there."

[Nadine Yosry · Rating 3 out of 5]

قررت أقرأ الكتاب ده في وقت بحاول أفهم الفقد اللي بمر بيه. بحاول أقرأ كتب عن ناس مرت بالفقد وبتحكي تجربتها معاه وبتوصف مشاعرها. حاسة إن حاجة زي دي هتحسسني بالونس، إني مش لوحدي في التجربة دي.

الكتاب ده عمل كدة كويس اوي. ٨٠ صفحة قدرت أحس بسببهم بمشاعر حزن بس في نفس الوقت ونس. مش أنا لوحدي اللي فقدت أبويا فجأة، ولا أنا لوحدي اللي مش فاهمة العالم من حواليا بعد ما مات.

القراءة دي بالنسبالي قراءة شخصية تماماً، ماكنتش مستنية إني أكون رأي تجاه الكتاب أصلاً. لكن طبعاً أسلوب تشيمامندا واختيارها للألفاظ لا غبار عليه وقادر إنه يلمسك بمنتهى الخفة.

[Hannah · Rating 5 out of 5]

Didn’t want to read it

My father was killed about a year ago, so I really didn’t want to read this book, but I did because I missed my dad and wanted to be with someone else who also missed her dad. She put into words much of how I also feel. I miss my dad so much…

[Come Musica · Rating 4 out of 5]

La perdita all’improvviso.

Durante il primo lockdown Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie ha perso suo padre. Aveva 88 anni.
Ora non conta l'età quando si perde uno dei due genitori.
Conta solo il dolore che dilania.
Un momento prima era la colonna portante della sua vita, un attimo dopo non più.

Ha dell'aberrante sapere la notizia via Zoom.
Non poter prendere il primo volo per raggiungere la sua famiglia. Per dare l'ultimo saluto.
Con suo padre c'era il fratello.
È da quasi ventotto anni che mi interrogo sempre sulla stessa domanda (sono tanti gli anni che è morto mio padre. Aveva l'età che ho io adesso.): si riesce mai ad elaborare il lutto?
Non credo. Si riesce a passare dalla perdita all'incorporea presenza, questo sì.
Passa la disperazione. E le lacrime si sostituiscono con il sorriso.

“Mi pento delle mie passate certezze: bisogna affrontare il lutto, parlarne, attraversarlo. Comode certezze di una persona che non ha ancora conosciuto il dolore. A me è già capitato di stare male, ma soltanto adesso arrivo al cuore della sofferenza. Solo adesso imparo, cercandone a tentoni i contorni spugnosi, che non c’è modo di attraversarla. Mi trovo chiusa dentro una centrifuga, e sono diventata una costruttrice di scatole dentro le cui rigide pareti ingabbio i pensieri.”

La forza di sua madre, nonostante questo dolore dilaniante. La forza di chi sa che la vita deve riprendere ad andare avanti: “Il governo nigeriano annuncia che gli aeroporti riapriranno verso la fine di agosto e mia madre torna in chiesa per concordare una data nuova. Adesso è per il 9 di ottobre. Il giorno dopo la stampa nigeriana riferisce che secondo le dichiarazioni del governo la riapertura degli aeroporti rimane in sospeso – forse sí, forse no. Mia madre ha un disperato bisogno di una data certa. «Dopo la sepoltura potremo cominciare a guarire», dice. Mi si spezza il cuore a vederla cosí coraggiosa e cosí stanca.”

Cosa resterà dopo?
Restano i gesti, restano i ricordi.
Resta l'amore.
E, per quanto mi riguarda, restano i tratti del padre che continuano a vivere nella figlia, attraverso di lei.

“Naturalmente mi ricordo come mio padre diceva sempre «non fa niente» per tranquillizzarci su qualcosa, ma il fatto che lo abbia ricordato anche Okey lo fa sembrare vero in un modo nuovo. Tra le tante singolari componenti del dolore c’è anche l’insorgenza del dubbio. No, non me lo sto immaginando. Sí, mio padre era davvero meraviglioso.”

Sì, lo era anche il mio.

[Loredana (Bookinista08) · Rating 5 out of 5]

O carte atât de mică, dar atât de puternică. Chimamanda scrie atât de bine despre un subiect atât de dureros și de sensibil, încât nu-i pot da mai puțin decât nota maximă. Pierderea tatălui zguduie existența familiei și a Chimamandei din temelii, iar autoarea nu oferă decât sinceritate completă în descrierea procesului de doliu. Mi-a plăcut foarte mult cărticica asta, deși este tristă.

[Hamed · Rating 3.25 out of 5]

به نظرم Notes on Grief کتاب خوب اما فراموش‌شدنی‌ای بود. یک‌سوم ابتدایی کتاب رو خیلی دوست داشتم، مخصوصاً چون تازه داشتم با نثر سرسنگین، توصیفی و Fragmentary آدیچی آشنا می‌شدم. توی همون یک‌سوم ابتدایی مسائل خیلی جالبی رُ مطرح کرد؛ مثلاً فیزیکالیتی درد، این‌که هنگام عزا و سوگ، انواع‌واقسام دردهای فیزیکی رو تجربه می‌کنیم و حتی خود قلب، قلب عضلانی و آناتومیک ما، هم می‌تونه محل تجربه‌ی درد باشه.

I did not know that we cry with our muscles. The pain is not surprising, but its physicality is.[...]This is an affliction not merely of the spirit but of the body, of aches and lagging strength. Flesh, muscles, organs are all compromised. No physical position is comfortable. For weeks, my stomach is in turmoil, tense and tight with foreboding, the ever-present certainty that somebody else will die, that more will be lost.

نمی‌دانستم که ما با عضلاتمان گریه می‌کنیم. خودِ درد تعجب‌آور نیست، اما جسمانیت آن چرا. [...] این رنج نه‌فقط رنجی روحی، بلکه رنجی جسمانی است؛ رنجی همراه با درد و کاهش توان. گوشت، عضلات و اندام‌های بدن، همگی مختل می‌شوند. هیچ وضعیت جسمانی‌ای راحت نیست. هفته‌هاست که معده‌ام آشفته است، منقبض و فشرده از بیم و دلشوره؛ با این یقین همیشگی که شخص دیگری خواهد مرد و چیزهای بیشتری از دست خواهند رفت.

این بخش از کتاب منو یاد کتاب Heartbreak انوشته فلورنس ویلیامز نداخت که درباره‌ی شکست عشقی و قلبِ شکسته خونده بودم و دقیقاً همین بحثو مطرح می‌کرد؛ این‌که درد عاطفی صرفاً یک استعاره نیست و چطور در بدن هم تجربه می‌شه.

آدیچی از تغییر نگاهش به زندگی و توازن درد در برابر درد هم مینویسه و میگه

Grief is forcing new skins on me, scraping scales from my eyes. I regret my past certainties [...] The smug certainties of a person yet unacquainted with grief.

سوگ داره پوست‌های تازه‌ای به تنم تحمیل می‌کنه و پولک‌ها رو از جلوی چشم‌هام می‌تراشه. از قطعیت‌های گذشته‌ام پشیمونم [...] قطعیت‌های ازخودراضیانه‌ی کسی که هنوز با سوگ آشنا نشده.

حتی از تاثیر سوگ‌ روی نثر خودش می‌گه

My wariness of superlatives is forever stripped away.

احتیاط همیشگی‌ام در به‌کاربردن صفات تفضیلی برای همیشه از بین رفته است.

کمی جلوتر، آدیچی درباره‌ی واکنش مردم به فرد سوگوار صحبت می‌کنه؛ تلاش برای این‌که در مواجهه‌ی مستقیم با اندوه، برای مرگ یک توضیح قطعی پیدا کنن. بخش بد ماجرا اینه که انگار این توضیح قطعی رُ لازم دارن تا بتونن موضوعو درک شده حساب کنن و متعاقباً به فکردن بهش خاتمه بدن. آدیچی مینویسه:

‘He is in a better place’ is startling in its presumptuousness, and has a taint of the inapt. How would you know – and shouldn’t I, the bereaved, be privy to this information first? Should I really be learning this from you? ‘He was eighty-eight’ so deeply riles because age is irrelevant in grief; at issue is not how old he was but how loved. Yes, he was eighty-eight, but a cataclysmic hole now suddenly gapes open in your life, a part of you snatched away forever.

«او در جای بهتری است» از این جهت تکان‌دهنده است که چقدر با پیش‌فرض و از موضع دانایی گفته می‌شود و تا چه اندازه نامناسب به نظر می‌رسد. از کجا می‌دانی؟ و آیا نباید من، که عزادارم، اولین کسی باشم که از این موضوع باخبر می‌شود؟ واقعاً باید این را از تو بشنوم؟ جمله‌ی «هشتادوهشت سالش بود» این‌قدر خشمگینم می‌کند، چون سن‌وسال در سوگواری بی‌اهمیت است؛ مسئله این نیست که چند سالش بود، بلکه مسئله این است که چقدر دوستش داشتیم. بله، هشتادوهشت سالش بود، اما حالا ناگهان حفره‌ای ویرانگر در زندگی‌ات دهان باز کرده؛ بخشی از وجودت برای همیشه از تو ربوده شده است.

‘It has happened, so just celebrate his life,’ an old friend wrote, and it incensed me. How facile to preach about the permanence of death, when it is, in fact, the very permanence of death that is the source of anguish.

یکی از دوستان قدیمی‌ام نوشت: «این اتفاق افتاده، پس فقط زندگی‌اش را جشن بگیر» و این حرف خشمگینم کرد. چقدر ساده‌انگارانه است که درباره‌ی دائمی‌بودن مرگ موعظه کنیم، وقتی درواقع همین دائمی‌بودن مرگ است که سرچشمه‌ی رنج و اندوه ماست.

این منو یاد ایرانوخودمون انداخت که اولین چیزی که در مواجهه با خبر مرگ فردی که نمیشناسیم به ذهنمون میاد اینه که بپرسیم “چند سالش بود” و اگه متوفی سالمند بوده باشه، با یک آسودگی خاطر مساح‌گونه، تسلیت می‌گیم.

اما بعد از این یک‌سوم ابتدایی، کتاب افت می‌کنه. حتی با این‌که رابطه‌ی پدر و دختری، که من شخصاً خیلی دوستش دارم، عمیق‌تر مطرح می‌شه و آدیچی بیشتر به رابطه‌ش با پدرش و زندگی خانوادگی و روابط سیاسی پدرش می‌پردازه، موضوع سوگ ارتقا پیدا نمی‌کنه و وارد مرحله‌ی جدیدی نمی‌شه و اطلاعات بیشتری درباره‌ی پدر و خانواده به دست میاریم به درک عمیق‌تری از خود سوگ منجر نمی‌شن. دیدگاه فلسفی تازه‌ای اضافه نمی‌شه و هسته‌ی اصلی کتاب، به‌جای این‌که با پیش‌رفتن روایت گسترش پیدا کنه یا پیچیده‌تر بشه، برای من کوچک و کوچک‌تر می‌شد. انگار کتاب در همان محدوده‌ی مشاهده‌های اولیه باقی می‌مونه و حرف چندانی برای اضافه‌کردن نداره.

برای همین، با وجود نثر خوب آدیچی و جذابیت رابطه‌ی پدر و دختری، کتاب برای من اون کیفیت ترنسندنتال رو پیدا نکرد؛ نتونست از نمای بیرونی یک تجربه‌ی شخصی فراتر بره و به بینش تازه‌ای درباره‌ی سوگ برسه.

کتاب خوبی بود، اما فکر نمی‌کنم مدت زیادی در خاطرم بمونه.

راستی، کتاب صوتی که با لحجه نیجریه‌ای روایت شده یه متانت و آرامش خاصی داره که مختص این لحجه ست و موضوع کتاب قوت دو چندان داده بود.

[Paula Mota]

I am writing about my father in the past tense, and I cannot believe I am writing about my father in the past tense.

“Notas sobre o luto”, como próprio título indica, não é uma análise exaustiva sobre a perda de um ente querido, mas antes um conjunto de 30 apontamentos sobre a morte inesperada de um pai, que inclui o relato dos acontecimentos e dos sentimentos imediatos, bem como recordações prazerosas e a celebração de um homem respeitado pela comunidade e acarinhado pela família.
Quando o pai de Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie morre inesperadamente, sem lhe dar sequer tempo de se despedir, a autora passa por várias fases do luto, começando pela negação.

My sister Uche says she has just told a family friend by text, and I almost scream, ‘No! Don’t tell anyone, because if we tell people, then it becomes true.’

Depois, a raiva.

You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You learn how glib condolences can feel. (…) Why are my sides so sore and achy? It’s from crying, I’m told. I did not know that we cry with our muscles.

A negociação.

I wish I had not missed those few days of calling them, because I would have seen that he wasn’t just mildly unwell – or I would have sensed it if it wasn’t obvious – and I would have insisted on hospital much sooner. I wish, I wish. The guilt gnaws at my soul.

A depressão.

Grief is not gauzy; it is substantial, oppressive, a thing opaque. The weight is heaviest in the mornings, post-sleep: a leaden heart, a stubborn reality that refuses to budge. I will never see my father again. Neveragain. It feels as if I wake up only to sink and sink. In those moments, I am sure that I do not ever want to face the world again.

E, por fim, a aceitação.

‘You have a particular laugh when you’re with Daddy,’ my husband tells me, ‘even when what he says isn’t funny.’ I recognize the high-pitched cackle he mimics, and I know it is not so much about what my father says as it is about being with him. A laugh that I will never laugh again. ‘Never’ has come to stay. ‘Never’ feels so unfairly punitive. For the rest of my life, I will live with my hands outstretched for things that are no longer there.

Apesar de não ter sido provocada pelo Covid-19, foi durante a quarentena que se deu a morte do pai de Chimamanda, razão pela qual ela se viu impedida de viajar dos Estados Unidos para a Nigéria, o que atrasou o funeral durante meses, intensificando assim a ansiedade e adiando o momento de desfecho. Ainda que seja uma obra inerentemente triste, termino “Notas sobre o Luto” com a sensação de que o panegírico se sobrepõe ao obituário.

Of course I remember how my father always said ‘never mind’ to make us feel better about something, but that Okey has remembered it too makes it feel newly true. Grief has, as one of its many egregious components, the onset of doubt. No, I am not imagining it. Yes, my father truly was lovely.

[Nada Elshabrawy · Rating 5 out of 5]

If I had written about my father when he passed away, if I ever decide to write in the future about his death, this is how I'd have written/ I'd write.

ريفيو مصور للكتاب على قناتي.
#دودة_كتب

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgjqL...