Waves by Ingrid Chabbert & Carole Maruel | Book Review

Waves by Ingrid Chabbert & Carole Maurel, translated from the French by Edward Gauvin
Published by Archaia, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Waves is a graphic novel inspired by the author’s own experiences. We follow two women whose journey to have a child ends in tragedy, and the difficulties they face when trying to navigate their shared grief. As such, there are obvious trigger warnings here for infant death and bereavement.

The upsetting subject matter is handled with due sensitivity, with Maurel’s often dreamlike artwork well suited to the poignant tone of the narrative. Her use of colour is particularly effective, functioning as a visual representation of the book’s main themes. When we first join our characters, their excitement fills the world with vibrant colour. The moment they lose their child, this drains away entirely, leaving everything around them monochrome. As they make sense of their loss, connect with fellow bereaved parents, and begin to look towards the future, accents of colour begin to seep into the world once again; the spark of hope reignited. This simple but powerful creative choice perfectly encapsulates the characters’ devastation, and reflects the notion of finding ways to move forward through the numbness of pain.

With such emotionally charged content, the dialogue did dip into the overly saccharine for me at times, and there was an exchange with a doctor that I found jarringly implausible (I can only hope it was creative licence, and not something Chabbert actually experienced herself). Other than this, I thought the story was given both the reverence and the prevailing optimism it required.

I also very much enjoyed how normalised the queer representation was. This isn’t a story about two women trying to have a child; it’s a story about the pain that any loving couple losing a child would experience. The fact they are both women is purely incidental. There is absolutely a place for stories that put the specific impact of LGBT+ issues at the forefront, but it’s also vital that stories like this exist to highlight the underlying humanity that connects us all; the universal feelings of love and longing that transcend superficial differences.

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Where Reasons End by Yiyun Li | Book Review

Where Reasons End by Yiyun Li
Published by Hamish Hamilton, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

First and foremost, let me make clear that my somewhat middling rating does not reflect my opinion on this book’s literary worth. It is a wonderfully crafted, original, and stimulating read. Li is a phenomenally talented writer, and I would certainly explore more of her work.

Where this book fell short for me was its actual narrative, and a lack of emotional connection, which I found particularly surprising given the subject matter it explores. The novel is a series of imagined conversations between a mother and her 16-year-old son, who has just committed suicide. As a writer, the protagonist uses her proclivity for language to explore her situation, and the contrasting wonder and limitation of words in capturing emotion.

The whole thing is incredibly meta. Li herself is, of course, a writer, and this book was written in the wake of her own teenage son’s suicide. Whilst this adds some undeniable fascination and depth, it also caused me to constantly analyse and contextualise the story with respect to its origins; the line between fact and fiction very much blurred. This meant I could always see the author through the work, and remained unable to fully submit myself to it from a narrative standpoint. This isn’t necessarily a flaw in the book’s construction, merely something I was unprepared for going in. I was expecting something raw, harrowing and introspective, rather than something so conceptual and outwardly ruminative with regards to its wider themes.

On that note, it’s worth pointing out that the suicide and resulting grief are important background presences that loom over the book’s content, but they are never really the focus. Instead, Li uses the somewhat abstract conversations to play with words, exploring their multiple meanings and the dichotomy between the complexity of our language and its evident failure to fully reflect the reality of our feelings. She also muses on the nature of time, psychology, identity, and memory, with some passages being both highly astute and beautifully constructed.

If you’re looking for something that delves deep into the emotion and trauma of grief itself, driven by a conventional approach to character and plot development, this isn’t it. If, however, you’re looking for something decidedly more literary that intelligently dissects the language we use to navigate that grief, this is well worth picking up. Had I been clearer on what to expect going in, and therefore in the right frame of mind to absorb it all, I suspect I would have been rating this more favourably. That said, I still greatly admire what Li managed to create.

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If you’d like to give Where Reasons End a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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