"She knew what he was telling her and she didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to think of change. She wanted to think of everything being the same forever. And even if some things did have to change, she didn't want them to change now. Some other time, perhaps, when she was good and ready and able to accept them."
Death, in all its fine garments of inevitability and its utmost glory of indomitable composition, while often found repugnant to many and embraced by few, remains a labyrinthine reality of which there is no escape. River Boy, in its illustrious descriptions of rivers, its memorable elaboration upon the measures one would take when it comes to ameliorating the doom brooding over the ones we love, and in its eventual culmination of greeting the concept one dreads the most, offers insight into a young girl's internal combat with her attachment to her grandfather as well as her yielding to the reality of his departure, coupled with her infatuation with a mystical boy whose belonging correlates with the river in which she extracts catharsis, and which invokes an epiphany within the artistic nature of her grandfather.
In the vast expanse of literary work, this could provide an aggregate of people with a sense of relief that tends to often alleviate grief, the one that lingers in the farthest corners of one's psyche and requires a lighthearted, yet an even-handed noble adjustment, approach to it. With that being said, it is with tremendous misfortune that I say this book was not for me. So as to eschew the misunderstanding, it is imperative to note that I do not hold this book at a loathsome pedestal; as a matter of fact, it is with thorough comprehension that I was able to maintain the understanding as to why it would bestow profound meaning to the lives of other readers, mostly why it would occupy such an empathetic stature in the folds of their stories.
In essential terms, the book's focal point encapsulates a heartfelt tale about a young girl coming to inevitable terms with not only the departure of her grandfather, but also the conceptualization of death in its encompassing nature. Nonetheless, in ways often variegated from one another, that's all there is to it. While elaborating on a matter that is, without a sliver of a doubt, poignant and distressing, the book lacks substance in all its other elemental features, for at intervals in which the writing style was deliberately integrated with an attribute of repetitive narration, at others it merely served a purpose of negligence and obstructed the, pun intended, flow of the story. On more than one occasion, the book found itself blabbering upon minute details which do not supplement any portion of contribution to the arc of the narrative in and of itself, all of which are plausibly efficient in detaching the reader from being extensively submerged into the stream of its thematic relations.
The main character's, Jess, distinctive nature, while stupendous in her bondage with her grandfather, fell flat in an inestimable amount of occurrences, predominantly as I personally cannot employ an elaboration upon her character that would involve any feature proficiently adept in attributing her either a personality or an intrinsic essence other than the actuality of her penchant for swimming. Her one-dimensional characterization stood at opposing grounds with that of her grandfather, in which his was rather much profound that it barricaded the forthcoming buildup of Jess's character itself. He was persistently portrayed in picturesque descriptions of natural sightings, his character tautly interlinked with a painting of which the entirety of the basis of his characterization is situated, and which, altogether, allocates him a sense of exclusivity to the predilections and disposition of his character's curvature composition. Aside from those two, Jess's mother was merely a name, formulating a cardboard material accompanied by her otherwise vexed father.
Additionally, the book fell victim to the detrimental case of 'show don't tell', in which it committed to the latter and left the former on the wayside for its constituents to be gnawed at by the detriments of ill-structure. The majority of the parts which were presumed to convey some sentimentality to the reader were informed to them instead of sketched within an illustrative figure, purloining, in turn, the imaginative capacity of the reader himself. It felt as though the author was attempting through desperate and urgent methods to communicate his point in a matter verging on the periphery of profusion and overabundance, in which the readers were robbed of the opportunity to conjure their own cognitive illustration of the thematic compositions due to the superfluity of exhaustive description of the elements sustaining their own set of metaphorical aura as a substitution for the images portrayed. I was rather fond of what the River Boy stood for, but the author kept importuning the reader with superfluous attempts to jog their remembrance of his bearing semblance to the grandfather over and over and over again that it was eventually reduced into an atom of negligent essentiality. I'm not extensively ignorant of the actuality of its being a middle-grade book, and that it is originally intended for the absorption and consumption of young readers, but it is with immense gratification and indulgence that I proclaim that young readers are not mere imbeciles who cannot subtract the crucial profundity within a book through the symbolic elements of it; in other words, they can efficiently pinpoint the allegories implemented if the aforementioned representations are delivered in utmost clarity. Therefore, the River Boy was delivered well, perfectly well, in fact, that I personally did not find it arduous to become cognizant of its underlying conveyance, but to keep pushing the notion sort of eroded its own significance and substantial quality.
To say the least, the book merely found scarcity in the subtlety that accompanies the deliverance of the notion and consensus of coming to terms with the impending menace and unwarranted alterations of death, and for it to be nailed time and again within the desk of ideological transference further reinforces the author's impeding of the narrative itself and imposing his own set of notions to it. Had it not been hauled with the author's intent persistence that one fully becomes cognizant of his own idea, the percipience and altruistic insight of the novel would have invoked its own profound impact, as the reader would be putting the pieces of the concept of death along with Jess's trials of her own apprehension, instead of grasping its meaning before she does.
With that being elucidated upon, it goes without a shadow of a doubt that I appreciate the premise of the book. It is within my deep-rooted belief that it had, at one point, resonated with me, as I'm still trying to decipher the complexity of death's own constitution, as it allows the reader to understand that death is not constantly a means through which termination is met, but could also be an introductory access point to a new beginning.