Oh, this is breaking my heart a little, as I really never expected to say that a book by Frances Hardinge just didn't work for me. It happens, almostOh, this is breaking my heart a little, as I really never expected to say that a book by Frances Hardinge just didn't work for me. It happens, almost has to happen, with any favourite author if they write enough books, but intellectual understanding doesn't necessarily make it easier to deal with when it does.
I'm going to try to sort out why this one didn't work for me, despite the voice in my head which is saying what I actually feel - that the core conceit could never have worked - but saying it in a very juvenile, stroppy tone. That central concept is the lie tree of the title, also known as the Mendacity Tree, which is a fantastical plant that feeds not off light, water and soil nutrients, but off lies. And not just lies told to it, but lies made public and widespread. If they're potent enough, the tree will reward the liar with a fruit that provides visions of -- well, supposedly of the truth. And knowledge. Truthful knowledge, obviously! Only the thing is that the protagonist, Faith, is a nascent scientist, in part because she's smart and fascinated and in part because she's desperate for the approval of her father, a minister and (until the book's opening), respected natural scientist. Science - at a particular historical stage (here 10 years after Darwin's On the Origin of Species was published) - and fantasy probably could be melded together into a fascinating story, but here I don't think they are at all.
One thing that really struck me while reading was how the villainous bad guys who work beautifully in Hardinge's other books work so much less well when closely related to, for example, the attitudes towards the education and intellectual abilities of girls and women in the mid to late 19th century. Faith is told again and again by the adults that she shouldn't have opinions because women aren't capable of true intellectual thought, but still gets the most awful, concentrated lecture from her father that seems to have taken every nasty thing a father ever said to his daughter at the time and rolled it into one. That he goes on to prove himself a hypocrite, viciously selfish and dishonest in every possible way, starting immediately after this lecture surely suggests it was a touch heavy-handed? But, and here I think is one of the problems, he's not only a (discredited) scientist, but also a rector, and if we're given the message that all Victorian men seem to have been awful, it's pretty clear that a Victorian Anglican minister would be irredeemably so. At times it felt like reading a Philip Pullman novel (there is no God, you idiots, and BTW HE'S EVILLLLL) mixed with a talking-to by Richard Dawkins. (Just to be clear, I have no problem whatsoever with anyone's beliefs *unless* they say that anyone who isn't an atheist is stupid and unscientific. That's some irritating crap right there.)
This brings me back to why the lie tree doesn't work for me, because you can't approach it from a scientific angle, as it's just not possible. It doesn't hold with the laws of nature, as I said above, and there's no way to figure out a hypothesis about the whole lying thing, which is inherently anti-scientific. Plus, what kind of scientist would think to themselves, "Hey, I feed this tree with a lie, the more it spreads through the world the better, and then I'll get knowledge I can trust back from it"? No matter that my years of science degree and post-graduate science study were years ago, that very idea slams up against a wall of "No" in my head. It may be meant to be a kind of parallel to the idea floating around at roughly the same time, of opium dreams as creatively fruitful (ha - pun unintended) or even those examples of scientists having dreams that gave them ideas which led to scientific breakthroughs (the carbon-ring dude, whose name I've totally forgotten, for example). Totally different though.
The second way of looking at the tree is from a religious perspective, hoping to learn the truth about these controversial new scientific ideas. (view spoiler)[ Which is exactly what Faith's father did, unforgivably lacking faith in science OR religion OR his own need to be honest about his findings.) (hide spoiler)] But seriously guys, if you lie to the stupid thing and it shows you a vision, you're going to believe it - why? That set-up would make anyone of an older Christian type of belief immediately think THE TEMPTER, and we all know about making deals with the devil. Also, educated English gentlemen were all well-studied in the Classics and it similarly screams "Beware of tricksy deals with the gods!". (view spoiler)[When Faith realises that her father had hoped it was the tree of knowledge, it just made things worse, because even for that, the sin was disobeying God's command not to eat the fruit, and here you'd be doing that AND lying first to get the fruit. It made no sense whatsoever to me that the only person who did firmly believe he was damning himself by getting the tree was Ben, who was already guilty of murder and planning the murder of a girl as soon as she'd shown them the tree. But Ben as evil lady's minion didn't make much sense in any way. (hide spoiler)]
At other times I started feeling we were in Wicker Man territory (although I [cough] have to admit I've never watched it), as the islanders started to show their true, i.e. superstitious and violent, natures with amazing speed. Granted, both Faith's mother and father had behaved horribly right from the beginning, but still, this was before we actually knew who the villain who'd killed Faith's father even was. Faith herself, whose simmering anger and unstoppable curiosity I'd liked initially, became quite ruthless about getting revenge on the villagers who'd acted against her family.
Revenge. For some reason, that bothered me quite a bit, as there was so much symbolism about evolution and science, and then it turned out several very significant things were put into play because of someone's desire for revenge. Greed is a perfectly scientifically-compatible motivation after all, but revenge, not so much! What the killer actually said about plans for the future just seemed far too weak to work. (view spoiler)[I assume that Agatha was supposed to show what Faith could become if her intellectual powers were repeatedly thwarted, but that thing about her husband lying all around Parliament in order to make them lots of money: "if I cannot be famous, I might as well be rich" is stupid. Obviously he's going to be found out, as Faith's father was, and anyway, it's depressingly mundane for a murderess-as-respectable-wife. (hide spoiler)]
So, did I like anything about the book? Yes. This quote, for one.
Her self-respect had suffered a head-on collision with love, a clash that generally only ends one way. Love does not fight fair. In that moment her pride, the gut knowledge that she was right, even her sense of who she was, meant nothing, faced as she was with the prospect of being unloved.
Such a sad and accurate depiction. I also loved Faith's care for her little brother and his attachment to her. I thought Paul, the son of the island's curate, made a nice parallel to Faith, in being constrained in his desire to pursue new developments (photography in his case) by his father. He occasionally provided a bit of humour in the midst of all the gothic grimness too. I think they'll make good friends in the future. I really liked the inclusion of the creepy Victorian habit of photographing the dead, sometimes in the midst of their loving families. And finally, the book was dark and gloomy enough that I was very happy Faith was going to have her future as a natural scientist. Although even that was tempered by her statement at the end explaining her desire "to help evolution" as "I want to be a bad example". Didn't work.
So, that's done, and I only hope I never again feel I need to use the words "didn't work" quite so often in a review of a book by Frances Hardinge. ["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>...more
I'm going to rate this one, despite my own sensible policy of not rating books by friends, family, and other animals, and may revert once (!) this hasI'm going to rate this one, despite my own sensible policy of not rating books by friends, family, and other animals, and may revert once (!) this has more five star reviews. Initially, every rating counts, and if I can't break my own rules, why do I have them?
Tongue out of cheek again, this was as delightful as the wonderful Danse de la Folie and yet completely different. For one thing, this has the slowest, binary opposite-est of instalove romantic plot imaginable. Lest it not be immediately clear, that's the best of good things in my book. For a good portion of the time encompassed (maybe 7 years or so) the hero is trying to figure out how to get an annulment for the marriage, while being very much otherwise occupied commanding a ship. In wartime. Well, not much of his time is spent trying to figure this out, as he does have more important-to-him things on his mind. The fact that he was so much otherwise occupied saved him from any hint of my censure for his "I've been burned by Love in the past and will consequently eschew all Women, Romance and indeed Familial Relationships" attitude. That can be very irritating, but wasn't here and I loved Henry, despite his occasional idiocy.
Then there's Anna, who is the heart of the story, and has such an interesting path to travel, both literally and figuratively. Orphaned, married off young as part of an information-gathering deal by the Navy, pretty much abandoned, often forgotten, she manages to make her own way in the first years of the 1800s in Italy, France and Spain (with help from various sources), while still trying to honour her mother's wishes that she remain a "proper" English lady. TALL ORDER, THAT. She's a singer, and goes first to Paris, where she eventually becomes part of a company performing in a small, dilapidated theatre as society is gradually emerging from the Terror and Napoleon is moving towards the throne. One of the things I loved is that Anna is depicted as having a wonderful, pure voice, and being willing to work hard at her skills, but just isn't the best. Her voice isn't terribly strong and she's not a genius and everyone who counts knows it, including her. I guess this stood out as refreshing because of too many YAs where a protagonist having a talent (supernatural OR mundane) will inevitably be the MOST talented ever to have drawn breath.
Even if Anna weren't such a lovely character, the book would have been interesting to me because of the historical setting. I knew little to nothing about the period around the early years of the Napoleonic Wars in Spain, for example, and it's not a typical Regency novel setting. Anna's time in Paris was possibly my favourite of the pre-England sections of the book, as it seemed the perfect place for Anna to grow emotionally in a way she hadn't been able to before. So many wonderful secondary characters, too! (view spoiler)[Auguste and his fellow officers were really frightening, and the tendency for mob-rule to break out from another direction added scope to the threat to Anna herself. Utterly, completely credible, too. (hide spoiler)] The glimpses of Nelson, Lady Hamilton and the like were fascinating, and I was also very taken with the time Anna spent on board the ship Henry commanded, just before the Battle of Trafalgar. It's a re-uniting neither of them wants at all, but their being thrown together this time allows them to see the good in each other after all the years of bad impressions. There's an unflinching view of what war at sea is actually like, but with a wonderful ship's doctor, at least. Loving nods to Persuasion dotted delightfully through the book are another treat.
Finally, Anna travels alone to England, to face a country that bears little resemblance to her mother's memories of a gentle, green land; a family that Henry has shunned since he left (yes, even his mother, who is lovely and doesn't deserve it!); desperate worry about Henry's health; and a scheming hussy of a SIL, who certainly doesn't wish Anna well. I'll leave it there, except to say that readers needn't worry too much about the outcome of all these things... In part that's because Anna is, by now, a wise woman, who has learned from her experiences, tragic or terrifying although they may have been at the time. (view spoiler)[ I'm not a particularly jealous person, but if my husband/lover/holy crap, just realised I'm in love with this guy/whatever had said another woman's name after we'd made love for the first time, I might not have handled it as well as Anna did. Especially once I'd learned that he'd been thrown over by this woman years ago and was still maybe carrying a bit of a torch underneath all the resentment and bitterness. It didn't help that Emily was the worst mother EVER and I hated her for that. However, I amused myself by sneering at her for not having known that Henry couldn't have married her even if he had been willing/able to divorce Anna, as she was his brother's widow. It's entirely appropriate that SHE wouldn't have known that in novel reality, so not an error. I do like the resolution of "punishing" the nasty characters by sending them packing with what they want, once they've been utterly foiled in getting what they wanted MOST. My self-comforting sneers just helped me remember it's my preferred outcome, because Emily was particularly nasty, and I could only dredge up so much sympathy for her due to her unspeakable mother. (hide spoiler)]
So much fun, and I hope this does brilliantly so Sherwood writes more like it. (Don't forget to look for it on Book View Café!) ["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>...more
Only question is whether to buy it *first* on Audible or break with tradition and just snap it up in the bookshop... Now puPeter goes out of London?!
Only question is whether to buy it *first* on Audible or break with tradition and just snap it up in the bookshop... Now publication date has changed to November. WHINE (Audiobook is October, according to Amazon, but who knows when Audible will get it.)...more
Great title! Though I'd be reading whatever it was called, of course.
Lot of nice descriptions of the underwater world and the world itself is typicallGreat title! Though I'd be reading whatever it was called, of course.
Lot of nice descriptions of the underwater world and the world itself is typically well-done, but this hasn't the solidity and nuance I'd been hoping for. As others have said, this is much more for younger readers than YA, which is only a problem because it was marketed YA. Still, I enjoyed it and hope that further instalments may be stronger....more
Originally posted here - where the formatting & links will be better, though I'll clean up a bit here..
A Song of England
John Clute, writing in hisOriginally posted here - where the formatting & links will be better, though I'll clean up a bit here..
A Song of England
John Clute, writing in his Strange Horizons column, says: "All Clear is a song of London, a song of England, and she has gotten the song right. " Of course, it's a very specific London and England of which she's singing: much of it's England - particularly London - during the Blitz, but there are also sections in Kent and Surrey in 1944. As I said in my piece for the Strange Horizons 2010 in Review, the spirit of the Blitz - the quiet, stiff-upper-lip, managing to carry on courage of the British on the home front - is almost a cliché, so much has been written and said about it by now. That doesn't dilute the strength of the song Willis gives us, which is one to that quiet courage and to loyalty. What I've come to think, some months after finishing, is that part of the strength comes through showing such a variety of ways in which that courage can be lived. The three historians we see (the historians are those who time-travel from 2060 Oxford), Polly, Merope/Eileen and Michael, are very different and yet ultimately equally heroic. Polly, whose POV we share most ), is more experienced and older than Merope, and tries to protect and comfort her, while constantly worrying herself , with much justification. The rhythm of that worry feels very familiar - round and round, with all the arguments against the conclusion being worried about being marshaled and used to defend against that as necessarily true, ending with a "Yes, but..." thought which destroys them all, throwing her back into the worry again. But, rightly or wrongly, she shields both Michael and Merope from as much as she can, and almost against her own will, cares deeply about the "contemps" she gets close to, instead of protecting herself from that grief.
For the first half or more of the first book, the three are in different parts of the country, and Eileen is in service in a house filled with refugees from London. Although worried that her drop hasn't opened to get her back to Oxford (and 2060) when it should, she still decides not to leave the house when one the most awful of the children, Binnie Hodbin, is seriously ill with measles. She copes with the huge burden of nursing ill children and minding the others while they're under quarantine, and eventually makes a truly horrendous trip to London, with the Hodbins and another child, hoping to deliver them to their families and then find Polly. When the three do eventually get together, Merope (she's still going by Eileen, but Merope is such a lovely name that I like to use it when I can) is the most affected by the bombing, and it's partly this that causes Polly to protect her so much. But she has the strength to care, not only about Polly and Michael, but even about the horrible Hodbins, and finds enormous courage by the end of the book.
Michael was the one of the three I was least fond of, although that didn't mean I disliked his sections at all. His reaction to his fears about the (many) things that have gone wrong with his assignment is often to be rather cranky. He's certainly not shown as interacting with others, either historians or contemps (obviously contemps is the term used for the people of the time to which the historians have traveled), at all as warmly as the other two. But his worry is often that his actions will have lost the war, and while this isn't likely to be a worry the reader shares, it is still understandable, given what's happened and what he thinks he knows. And if his brand of loyalty is the type that sends him off on his own to try to contact other historians who might be somewhere, without, maybe, making as much of an effort as he might to let Polly and Eileen know he's okay, he is still utterly loyal to them and their welfare.
And that's only those three central characters. Then there's Mary, another historian whom we never see in Oxford, who's gone to 1944 to a FANY post. Mary is a driver coming to an ambulance station where the duties have been mostly driving officers around, but are about to be driving to the sites of bombings when the new V-1 bombs start falling - falling so heavily that the area came to be known as Bomb Alley. Every one of these often very young girls shows extraordinary bravery, and also the small generosity of sharing around their dance frocks and switching off shifts with their fellows and looking out for each others romantic lives, while coping with horrors and dangers that are unrelenting. And there are Sir Godfrey and Miss Laburnum and the others Polly meets in St. George's where they shelter, who form a theatrical group that performs in the underground, and the crazy Commander Mike meets who takes part in the Dunkirk evacuation, and the lovely Vicar who's so kind to Eileen, and Marjorie, who works in Townsend Brothers department store with Polly. Even the awful Miss Snelgrove who gives Polly grief for not having a black skirt to wear to work sees it as her job to ensure that standards don't drop in Townsend Brothers, no matter what the circumstances - and she manages to be generous and kind when it really counts.
These are only some of the more memorable heroes, of course, and there are many, many more. They're all so different, and some of them are more appealing than others, but they're all admirable in their own ways, and it's impossible not to care about them. (All right, not Polly and Eileen's landlady, who almost reassuringly shows how some people can completely fail to be affected in any way for the better by the heroism all around them! )
A Riddle Wrapped in a Mystery inside an Enigma
On another level entirely than the one that was so deeply moved by the ode to small, seemingly insignificant heroism (which is of course anything but insignificant), I found Blackout/All Clear to be a wonderfully absorbing, and at the end, satisfying mystery. Not quite that nice three-layered one indicated above, but pretty close. This is all an intended part of the structure of the books of course, not something I'm claiming to have spotted in a brilliantly insightful way. To Say Nothing of the Dog wears the partial deriving of its structure from Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men in a Boat very obviously, while the Agatha Christie elements here are worked in more gradually. Agatha Christie herself actually makes a cameo appearance during the terrible bombings on the 29th December when St. Paul's is almost destroyed, in the second book. And there are layers of mystery, as there's what the characters don't know, there's what Polly knows but withholds from the reader as she withholds it from the others, and then there's deliberate authorial misdirection, in which Willis writes sections without telling you who the POV character is, making you guess who they are and how they connect to the other characters. And it's all carried out over 2 books, eight months and 1100+ pages! I can't think of another book over which I've spent so much time avidly searching for clues (this being in February, after finishing Blackout) and trying to puzzle it all out. I found my friend T's thought of rereading and marking the different sections with different coloured markers sheer genius, though I didn't actually do it. It's especially disorientating to think of that eager puzzling when I knew perfectly well that when "solved" it might well break my heart. (Not one of your tough readers, me.)
But just as To Say Nothing of the Dog isn't only built around Jerome K. Jerome's book, Blackout and All Clear have more underpinnings than Agatha Christie, and some of those include cryptic crosswords, the great explorers including Shackleton, and back to Three Men in a Boat. The cryptic puzzles are part of the misdirection, logical puzzle/mystery-novel element - and this links to one character's going to Bletchley Park, although it's only in a desperate attempt to find any other historians who might know of working drops and so help the three stranded get back to 2060. The explorers are heroes that characters in the book look to for inspiration of their own - for bravery, obviously, and determination and perseverance.
Three Men in a Boat doesn't make an obvious showing as it does in To Say Nothing of a Dog, but the same rhythm of writing is there, I think. For example when one character (in 3MiaB) asks what time he should wake the others up so they can set out on the river, and after a bit of a row, 6:30 is agreed upon, the reader knows absolutely that it'll be several hours later, and the remaining packing, which is supposed to take a few mere minutes, will take hours, and then they'll discover that they've packed toothbrushes at the bottom of the bags and will have to unpack again, and when a cab finally comes to take them to the train station nobody will know what platform their train will leave from and on and on in like manner. And this is exactly how everything goes for everyone (at least all the historians) in both these books. I can see why this style of narrative drives some people mad, but I keep remembering an interview in Locus in 2003, in which I think she described the human condition as bumbling around with one foot in a bucket. And for me, the one-footed bumbling works as well in these books with their desperate, war-torn settings as it does in To Say Nothing of the Dog, with the comic look at some of the inanities of Victorian life.
While I'm touching on the subject of genre...
This is historical fiction, to state the blatantly obvious. It's also time travel, of course. The odd thing was that I'd catch myself thinking "But the historians are really time travelers" and then head-thunking for thinking something so stupid. But in a way, it's not as stupid as it seems, given the time to which Polly, Merope and Michael travel, and the wealth of first-hand records we have of it. There were many programmes on the radio (BBC Radio 4) about the period recently, given the 70th anniversary of the Battle of Britain last summer, and many included sound recordings of the bombings, and talked with people who'd lived through the war. But the availability of first-hand reports in itself doesn't ensure an author will be able to provide reading experience that will feel so vividly real, as we can all probably attest. Aside from mentioning how effectively the 1940s scenes are written though, I wanted to note how good an analogy the historians' time travel seems to be for reading historical fiction. (Anyone who knows me well at all will know that I've said before that I'm with Northanger Abbey's Catherine Morland on "real, solemn history". Historical fiction I love and have always loved, but I'm a lightweight on the reading of history books. Pathetic, but there you are.) The assignments the historians go on are in many ways ridiculous. They're not out to solve some of the mysteries of history, like what the hell was going on with Shakespeare's will and the second-best bed (although Willis has written a short-story about that, it's not one involving time-travel). Rather they're going to the past, in this case the 1940s, to observe normal people living their day-to-day lives for the most part (Michael's assignment isn't quite as day-to-day life as Polly's and Merope's, as he's looking at heroism, and wants to see the small boat owners who went to Dunkirk). And it's silly, in a way, as they could just read the records - even some of the shop-girls in London, whom Polly observes, would doubtless have recorded their experiences, given the Mass Observation Project. But in another way, it's the exact drive that has me, at any rate, reading historical fiction. I want to feel what it was like to live in the past, and a good writer will give me that experience through story. I could also get it, for more recent periods, at least, through reading the records. And yes, if I had a chance to go to certain periods in the past and just hang out for a bit, I'd take it in a heartbeat. IF I had -- y'know, inoculations against the nastier diseases of various periods, and the ability to avoid landing somewhere/when that would get me instantly killed. When I was young and sillier, I wanted to live in the past, though it didn't take too many years for it to occur to me that with terrible eyesight, chronic headaches and later I.B.S., I probably wouldn't have the jolliest of times. But I could at least read about it and be there. So the historians of 2060 Oxford seem to have that same impulse (LASIK having been perfected, and migraines and food intolerances and all overcome, no doubt), and their time-travel gives me the shared experience of being there, through the reading.
Is It a Tragedy or a Comedy?
Here's the most personal part, if there's anybody still reading. This is a question asked in the book, very close to the end, and the answer is that it's a comedy. And "it" is "all of it. Our lives and history and Shakespeare. And the continuum." When I'd finished, crying so hard I could barely see to read, one of my first thoughts was that I'd found consolation, a consolation that relates to my own interpretation of its being a comedy. One thing pretty clear is that this doesn't have much to do with the normal meanings of comedy and tragedy. I happened to watch Stranger Than Fiction with Younger Daughter the other night, and Dustin Hoffman's character puts the literary interpretation succinctly when trying to sort out Harold's narrative, saying that if it's a comedy it'll end with his getting hitched, if it's a tragedy, he'll die. Blackout and All Clear are set in a war, so obviously, people die. There isn't just one hero to sort out for us whether it's a happy ending or a tragic one. This is where I've found a definition of the two terms which enables me to see "all of it" as a comedy rather than a tragedy. Or perhaps I've only defined tragedy, really, and if it's not that, it's got to be comedy. (This may be a very weird use of the terms, but at least I don't have to worry about comedy as a genre having to be funny, as I learned to my surprise in my OU Shapespeare course.) Anyway, so tragedy, as I'm using it here, doesn't mean tragic in the sense of simply sad. It's what you see in Hamlet, where not only is it sad that people die, but it's much worse than that, because the sorrow comes about as a result of the warping of love, in a way that destroys the love as well as resulting in the deaths. Assuming that Hamlet's father actually loved his son, as well as his wife and probably his country (and also assuming that his Ghost is an actual character, and not just Hamlet's hallucinating, which would make it a different story entirely), his demand that Hamlet get revenge for his murder destroys Hamlet's life, and -- in the context of the story -- most likely damns him as well. And of course many others die as well. What makes it a tragedy in my sense is that no love remains unpoisoned by the end. This is clearly different from the ending of All Clear, in which people die, and people lose other people, and you couldn't say anyone was entirely happy, but yet everyone has been loyal in their own way to the people they care about, even unto death.
It's in this way that I found All Clear to be consoling. Because -- life is hard. Relationships fail. People suffer from illnesses of body and mind. And loss. They die. You love your children and life or other people hurt them deeply. And it's not okay. Connie Willis doesn't kill off characters and then suggest it's all really fine because - oh, I don't know - their sacrifice enabled the war to be won, and all is well in this best of all possible worlds, kind of thing. Their deaths hurt, just as death and loss and suffering do in real life. And I'm not by any means a cynic, though I've noticed that I wrote there first that relationships fail. Some people spend long lives happily married to one person, and that's just as real as the many marriages that break down painfully, as did mine. Anyway, the books aren't primarily 'about' romantic relationships, although they could be said to be about love. I think my mind went there automatically because one of the most significant events of my childhood was my father's death, when I was 7, and had been sent to stay with my grandparents, a continent away from my parents and that side of my family. So almost before I knew much of what marriage was I learned that even the happiest of marriages (which theirs was) end with grief, and even if you're lucky enough to have one of those, it'll end with loss that you'll carry for years and years. (Okay, I know there are scenarios in which it doesn't, or in which the loss is of much briefer duration, and in half the cases, you'll be the one to go first anyway, but I'm talking from my own mixed-up, unresolved learning here.) Anyway, the consolation I got from the books is that they acknowledge all these different kinds of loss, some deep enough to break your heart and leave you feeling that you'll always be the walking wounded, but say that nonetheless that kind of loss is not tragedy. The loss for those left behind by bereavement of whatever kind is there because of love for the person who left, and if that love isn't destroyed by their leaving, it's not tragedy, and that distinction helps me, at least, to make sense of "all of it".....more