Michel Rostain

It is eleven days since our first person narrator has died. He was just twenty one years old when meningitis took him. Now he tells the story of how his parents, specifically his father, are trying to cope with that hard fact. Their son is dead.

This is a true story. But it is also a fiction. Lion, the son, is the reader’s narrator. Telling us that he is there to witness his parent’s tears and grief and despair. It is, as the blurb calls it, a blurring of memoir and fiction. The facts are real, the manner of their telling is fiction.

It is a beautifully constructed story. Heartbreaking, of course, due to its subject matter, but not mawkish or overly sentimental. Anecdotes and stories about the son are revealed, his life shines through in the midst of this tale of his death. He may be gone but he lives on in his parents. But only in their memories. It is this wonderfully terrible mixture of delight in his life and grief that he is gone.

Some of the aspects of the writing didn’t quite work for me. If it is the dead son that is telling the story why does he focus so much on the father and not on the mother? But of course, this is the father writing. He can only tell his memories and thoughts and how he tried to cope with it. But this is a minor quibble, and one that shouldn’t stop anyone reading the book/

The cover says that this is not a book about death it’s a book about life but that life is a life after loss. And that is really what the book revolves around, the death of a child, and how people find a way to go on after such a part of their lives is gone.… (mehr)

« Le onzième jour après ma mort, Papa est allé porter ma couette à la teinturerie. Monter la rue du Couédic, les bras chargés de ma literie, le nez dedans. Il se dit qu'il renifle mon odeur. En fait, ça pue, je ne les avais jamais fait laver ces draps ni cette couette. Ça ne le choque plus. Au contraire : subsiste encore quelque chose de moi dans les replis blancs qu'il porte à la teinturerie comme on porterait le saint sacrement. Papa pleure le nez dans le coton. Il profite. Il sniffe encore un coup la couette, et il pousse enfin la porte du magasin. Papa ne peut plus traîner. Condoléances, etc. Le teinturier - recondoléances, etc. - débarrasse papa de la couette. Papa aurait voulu que ça dure, une file d'attente, une livraison, une tempête, juste que ça dure le temps de respirer encore un peu plus des bribes de mon odeur. Papa se dépouille, il perd, il perd. »

Michel Rostain nous happe dans le récit d'un deuil impensable. Avec une infinie pudeur et une grande finesse, il nous entraîne dans les méandres d'un amour absolu, celui d'un père pour son fils.… (mehr)

This is a poignant and moving read that deals with the very difficult subject of grief, the grief of parents suddenly and tragically deprived of their only child. Yet this book is not heavy going, nor a hard and sorrow-filled slog - it is, in some ways, a celebration of life and a memoir of hope and remembrance: the narrator's 21 year old son tragically contracts a virulent strain of meningitis. Within a few hours of hospitalization, he has died and his parents are left to deal with the hole he has left in their lives. This story is the personal journey of Michel and Martine through their initial shock and grief. Through painful bouts of regret - at not spending more time with him in that final week, and cherishing the moments that they did enjoy. Through the recollections of bittersweet memories at his very touching funeral. And the final step of their journey, as they fulfil their Lion's final dream, and "let him go" in a very moving conclusion.

This book is part memoir, part fiction; heart-breaking and beautiful. The father's grief and love shine through in every word. However, the story is enriched not by merely following Michel through his experiences, but in the fact that we follow Michel through the eyes of Lion, watching him from the other side of death. In this manner, we are shown the wretched grief - the clinging to the last vestiges of Lion's life: his scent upon the bedclothes, the little box of ashes. It adds an additional layer of complexity and beauty.

There is also a dash of humour, a light sprinkling to the mood.

Overall, a beautifully written, deeply affective read that, at less than 200 pages, was devoured within a day of receiving it. It makes one think of mortality and loss and leaves you with the feeling that, although losing a child is terrible, it is something that you can live with, even if you never lose the hurt.

Read-to-Review copy provided by Hachette, via Booksellers, NZ.… (mehr)