At several points throughout my reading of Bobby Palmer’s wonderful debut Isaac and the Egg, I was reminded of similar fictional explorations of loss. Max Porter’s Grief is the Thing with Feathers comes to mind, but, more obviously, David Almond’s seminal Skellig. Like both these books, Isaac and the Egg utilises the motif of an “alternate”: a non-human guide who appears at a critical juncture in the protagonist’s life in order to guide them towards transformation. Just like these novels, too, Isaac and the Egg is a fairy tale in the purest sense of the genre, utilising both occasional darkness and magical realism to interrogate the starkest realities of the real world.
When we first meet Palmer’s protagonist Isaac Addy he has already reached critical mass, staring into the abyss from a bridge after the death of his beloved wife, Mary. When a chance echo of Isaac’s own scream - similarly feral in its desperation - is heard in the nearby forest, Isaac is compelled to investigate. Whether what follows is real or simply a manifestation of his fractured psyche is a moot point. As readers we are already on board, equally compelled to discover whether even in the darkest of circumstances hope can be found.
This is a deceptively complex novel; a skillful sleight of hand which charms us so fully with its accessible and hugely sympathetic two-hander that we become unaware of what it’s doing under the surface. One of the hallmarks of timeless, classic fiction is to make the specific universal, and stripped of its outer eccentricities this is exactly what Palmer’s novel does. For Isaac is both himself and all of us: in our particular capacity to both love and lose what we love and to grieve its absence in absolutely human ways.
Any notion that Palmer’s conversational prose style is straightforwardly “easy” is quickly undercut by the art of his set pieces. This is especially true in the earlier chapters where the unflinching gaze of Issac’s grief is imbued with such vulnerability that our reading becomes almost invasive. Those of us who have experienced the bone-numbing, pyjama-wearing, time-as-syrup chasm of a close loss will only nod in agreement at these scenes, whilst those who haven’t will find themselves shrinking in fear at their possibility. What is equally so impressive about these chapters, and throughout the novel, is the author’s level of command over his material. In lesser hands, it would be perilously easy to slip into the saccharine, the sentimental, but Palmer manages to control his tonal pedal with immense skill, so that the reader feels moved but never manipulated, seen but never objectified.
A great deal of this control is achieved through the novel’s humour which is threaded throughout. Sometimes it’s with the wry, easy smile of a film reference, or the excellently positioned epigraph, but at other times it’s via the perfectly timed punchline, such as that which comes after Isaac and Egg’s shopping trip to town which had me laughing out loud. Make no mistake, this level of calibration - this pitch-perfect tone of the confessional - is HARD to achieve, but when done well it is masterful in its subtlety.
There are so many wonderful moments in this book seamlessly joined by metaphor and subtext. The idea of grief as an incommunicable language, for example, finds voice in Issac’s initial attempts to understand Egg which gradually evolves through the novel as Isaac begins to emotionally emerge.
If the peripheral characters - even that of Isaac’s wife, Mary - seem shadowy at times, I think this is both intentional and appropriate. The story doesn’t need the frills of excessive backstory nor an excessively drawn cast. To do so would be to dilute the laser focus on its protagonist and, by consequence, the singular nature of his grief which in its rawest state exists at the exclusion of the world.
And it is this authenticity of feeling that proves most impressive about this novel - that rare willingness to be vulnerable on the page which so many authors shy away from - which will stay with readers. Through Isaac’s journey from loss to resurrection we gain the highest recommendation of fiction: to come away learning something new about the world and ourselves.
My thanks to Netgalley and the publishers Headline PG, for the ARC in return for providing an impartial review.
TWs for suicide and death.