M Sarki

http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/86546194843/in-the-wake-by-per-petterson

I find nothing pretentious or false in a Per Petterson novel. At least in the first two I have read thus far. To handle grief in the most tragic sense of it and bring it off in a believable tale of circuitous events all a part of the greater whole is truly remarkable. There is no development in this novel that is not understood and certainly applicable to a person with the character of Arvid Jansen. From the awful lonely and severe grimacing of the opening pages, and the movement on to dealing with the always at once vivid and then forever mounting daily tragedies of both past and present events, this remaining family of two middle-aged and recently divorced brothers seem to have been glued fast to their challenging fate. Of course, emotional and physical escape routes are spontaneously planned, and a severe action taken by one brother to finally end all this pain of guilt-laden suffering.

Although I personally have not had to deal with grief or guilt in the way Per Petterson presents the awful circumstances his character Arvid, not to mention himself, have been subjected to, I still felt something of gargantuan measure, which is what most days I really want. To feel so much on a given day is to live large, and though the pain at times seems unbearable, the essence of it is something to be cherished. And of course, as have others, I too have had my own share of grief and bad things happen to me, but nothing really, nothing compared to what this story relates in its heartfelt and aching fiction. Confusing and painful poison darts come at these two men from every direction off the board and the piercing stings add layer upon layer to this many-storied predicament. If revealed within this framework of mine the many details presented by this novel I would spoil the number of gems gifted to us along the roads Per Petterson takes us amidst Arvid’s own home remedies for self-healing. But the book sadly never made me cry, but it did indeed make me ache and have empathy rarely materialized in my own flesh. In truth I live probably too much in my fiction, whether it be my own or somebody else’s. But I prefer my life to be this way. Much as I also admit to my preference of dogs over human beings when it comes to meaningful relationships. Per Petterson certainly has a gift for writing penetratingly good prose. And I understand he was for years a pretty serious reader himself. I look forward to the next novel of his that finds me ready for his gift.