FEBRUARY
by Lisa Moore
Anansi Press (press blog)
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Reviewed by Marjolaine Hébert
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Grief. We have all had our taste of it. It is never a requested menu item, but there it is, strong and sustainable among the human range of emotions. And it won’t go away at will. It takes its own time.
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February is an insightful look into one woman’s grief twenty-six years after the drowning of her husband at sea.
But, we have all read stories of loss, haven’t we? So what, might you ask, makes February stand out from the other teary-eyed readings that already line one bookshelf of my study wall?
Through Helen O’Mara, Lisa Moore has succeeded in shedding light on the brief moments that sit on the boundaries of our consciousness, there where the most private of inner dialogues take place. How she uses the senses to describe everyday life is a unique one, and the life that is shared here is that of a woman who is on intimate terms with love and grief. This story isn’t as tearful as it is, quite simply, full of revelation about the inner workings of memory and of how we remain connected to our own life.
I suspect Moore threw out her copy of Strunk and White long ago. Her unfaithfulness to proper sentence structure, reminiscent of writers such as Ward Just and Marie-Claire Blais, leaves her readers at the mercy of the protagonist. You could say that it provides us with a backstage pass, and what is revealed in the mayhem, is life.
February is an insightful look into one woman’s grief twenty-six years after the drowning of her husband at sea.
But, we have all read stories of loss, haven’t we? So what, might you ask, makes February stand out from the other teary-eyed readings that already line one bookshelf of my study wall?
Through Helen O’Mara, Lisa Moore has succeeded in shedding light on the brief moments that sit on the boundaries of our consciousness, there where the most private of inner dialogues take place. How she uses the senses to describe everyday life is a unique one, and the life that is shared here is that of a woman who is on intimate terms with love and grief. This story isn’t as tearful as it is, quite simply, full of revelation about the inner workings of memory and of how we remain connected to our own life.
I suspect Moore threw out her copy of Strunk and White long ago. Her unfaithfulness to proper sentence structure, reminiscent of writers such as Ward Just and Marie-Claire Blais, leaves her readers at the mercy of the protagonist. You could say that it provides us with a backstage pass, and what is revealed in the mayhem, is life.
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