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A review by adam613
Wait Softly Brother by Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer
5.0
Loved this for so many many reasons. Captivating and mesmerizing. Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer can really tell a story. Review to follow after I pick up the pieces of my heart.
"It's not happiness I'm after."
"It is true that if you start to scratch at the threads of any narrative, you discover it is just another enchantment. You discover there is no such thing as realism. All of it is just made up. All of life, all of everything."
"They say that everything you write, just like everything you dream, is a replica of you, or your unconscious self. They say that you can't write a character who is not, in some true way, an aspect of yourself. If this is true, then all fiction is autobiography. All writing is self."
"Lives are stories or stories tucked into other stories. My parents know this. That is what families do, don't they? They set out a fiction that poses as a truth and the members of the family perform their roles."
"Maybe it doesn't matter what I write. Maybe it is the fact of writing that will always be the thing."
"In the hush of the forest now, the rain like white noise, I can finally hear myself think. How I need this water, is what I am thinking, despite the chill of it. It's like I am beginning to recall my roots with a liquid thirst."
"And dwell I do. On the past, on this ancient Civil War story. It's funny, the word dwell. Funny how it implies obsessive rumination but also living in a place, as if the two things are contiguous or even precisely the same thing. I'm aware of the extent of Boyt's story is just me working through whatever I am working through in this old childhood homestead."
"I know the unspeakable thing. I live it all through my body. It resides every crevice of my nervous system. Trauma is body just as writing is. I know their trauma even if I don't have words for it yet. For they, in their huddled attempt at protection, have bequeathed it to me in every way. By their shifty silence, by their fury, their whispers, their guarded emotions, their particu and idiosyncratic habits, their scorn, their very bodily being, they have given t the gift that their parents gave them, and their parents' parents."
"I keep thinking maybe no one will ever read this. Humanity will be extinguished before it is printed. I think of all the books jouncing on an open sea that covers the entire planet."
"And the story, like a great snake eating its own tail, is just another way of seeking myself. You see, you can't escape the duty you have to that. You can't exit the matrix or whatever it is in you that needs healing. Either you stand in it and suffer, or you exit and suffer less. And by you, I mean me."
"This expedition is another rabbit hole. There is no there there. The truth - whatever that means - resides somewhere between the research and the fantasy. The archive is only productive insofar as it is spurring my imagination."
"It's not happiness I'm after."
"It is true that if you start to scratch at the threads of any narrative, you discover it is just another enchantment. You discover there is no such thing as realism. All of it is just made up. All of life, all of everything."
"They say that everything you write, just like everything you dream, is a replica of you, or your unconscious self. They say that you can't write a character who is not, in some true way, an aspect of yourself. If this is true, then all fiction is autobiography. All writing is self."
"Lives are stories or stories tucked into other stories. My parents know this. That is what families do, don't they? They set out a fiction that poses as a truth and the members of the family perform their roles."
"Maybe it doesn't matter what I write. Maybe it is the fact of writing that will always be the thing."
"In the hush of the forest now, the rain like white noise, I can finally hear myself think. How I need this water, is what I am thinking, despite the chill of it. It's like I am beginning to recall my roots with a liquid thirst."
"And dwell I do. On the past, on this ancient Civil War story. It's funny, the word dwell. Funny how it implies obsessive rumination but also living in a place, as if the two things are contiguous or even precisely the same thing. I'm aware of the extent of Boyt's story is just me working through whatever I am working through in this old childhood homestead."
"I know the unspeakable thing. I live it all through my body. It resides every crevice of my nervous system. Trauma is body just as writing is. I know their trauma even if I don't have words for it yet. For they, in their huddled attempt at protection, have bequeathed it to me in every way. By their shifty silence, by their fury, their whispers, their guarded emotions, their particu and idiosyncratic habits, their scorn, their very bodily being, they have given t the gift that their parents gave them, and their parents' parents."
"I keep thinking maybe no one will ever read this. Humanity will be extinguished before it is printed. I think of all the books jouncing on an open sea that covers the entire planet."
"And the story, like a great snake eating its own tail, is just another way of seeking myself. You see, you can't escape the duty you have to that. You can't exit the matrix or whatever it is in you that needs healing. Either you stand in it and suffer, or you exit and suffer less. And by you, I mean me."
"This expedition is another rabbit hole. There is no there there. The truth - whatever that means - resides somewhere between the research and the fantasy. The archive is only productive insofar as it is spurring my imagination."