Warning: This review might be a bit shit, but I can't review this book in any objective or critical way. It's one of those books we all have. I can only say what it does to me.

I first finished this book a little over a year ago. It was the first day of February, and I had read the book in two days. I remember finishing it on my bus on the way to work. It was a Saturday, so I worked in the morning. The air was cold, and every road, building, and tree was tinted blue by the morning dawn, the sun not yet high in the sky. The world was quiet.

I arrived at my stop, I got down, I walked a few paces, for privacy, and then I sobbed.

Much like the protagonist in this novel, ironically, I, too, walked through an empty world that morning. I saw no one living or dead. In my—thankfully—long way to work, I wept, and I wept, and then the day arrived.

I do not believe I cried only because of the novel, but because of what the novel unlocked in me. From all the recognition and all the memories it brought forward. Me finally experiencing my own loss. If you cry about one thing, you cry about all things.

I want to try and define what this novel is, so maybe I'll start by saying what it's not.

The Review

This is not a typical zombie story. There is gore, so content warning about that. But you won't find any thrill or true horror here. This is a meditation on the nature of grief told through a story told through a zombie. But the zombies are not even the most important part. There is also the crow, the stump, the hunger, the cardigan, the trees, the moon, the stone, the beach, the silence. For some of these, the author will tell you what they are, but for others, you can choose to make sense of them in whichever way you prefer. "Every metaphor presents itself as what was there all along"

It is also not highlighter bait, even if it might appear that way at first. Upon first glance, it could strike you as a bunch of deep-sounding quotes taped together loosely through dubious plot, moving the protagonist to and fro until they land on the stage for their next tragic line. It's disjointed sometimes and spare in others, like a bunch of broken thoughts flying in the wind during a walk. I've highlighted this book more than all other books I've ever read combined. And yet, it all comes together. The parts talk to each other. I can feel the real pain and the real grief and the real human heart behind it all. Barely anything happens in the book, let me say it plainly. And yet the emotional world is so vast. As vast as you want it to be, as your own longing is, even.

It is also not immediately understandable. It's one of those stories you can read a million different ways. You can find connections, references, and hidden and not-so-hidden meanings. Moments that call out to you, or moments that remind you of your dad, your mom, your cousins, your long-dead grandma, your friends, or your country. The whole world can be found in it because grief does, indeed, fill the whole world, and you can find it even in as gentle an image as that of a tree, borne down with fruit. None of these interpretations, however, are real. Well, some of them are. The feelings behind them are.

And I found myself trying to understand it all, on both reads. I can connect some things to other things. I can find meaning in metaphors. I can find similarities to The Divine Comedy, to my own experiences, to things I've read that I don't remember where I read them anymore. It's all there if you look for it. And the thing is that, the protagonist tries to do so, too. We try to find meaning in this story, and we find that the protagonist is doing just the same. She wants meaning, depth. An end after what lasts forever. She wants to find a reason for all of this pain, and we search for it, too. Holding hands, we ask this world together, "Why?". But it doesn't answer, or maybe it does, but it's not the answer we want. The meaning is elusive.

What's behind this whole book, however, is the true nature of longing. Of saying goodbye a million times and knowing you will have to do it a million times more. The true heart of this book is a feeling we all have, and we'll all continue to have, if we're lucky enough to love something to the point of suffering it this much. The book is a long journey through yourself and each other, through the empty world of hope. Through the ruins, the abandoned cities, the forests, the world just beginning to fall asleep. She walks through the stages of grief like a walk through the country. She finds things, let's go of things, experiences changes, big and small, interior and exterior. It is funny at times; the laugh surprises you in the middle of the funeral. It is also hopeful at times, but you have to look for it. Even here, there is a light.

Grief has many names in this book. We can find it under every rock, in every object, in every person and animal, but that's the best we can do. The open hand of those who walk this same path with you—however, whoever—is the most meaning you'll ever find.

Final Thoughts

On my first read, I read this in two days. Like the protagonist, I was hungry. I was empty. This read, though, took me 22 days. It was a calmer experience. I could never read this book for more than 10 minutes without putting it down and listening to the emotions it stirred in me. I listened to my own crow as I went on this journey.

I could never read for more than 10 minutes at a time, so I savored it. I sipped this book, little by little, like the glass of wine I never had with you.

I listen to my heart like I can't listen to you. Because you're not here anymore, because I'm scared your voice has changed with age, because in every word I wish you were saying something else. I sipped this book like a glass of tears—like seawater—and it reminded me of you.

i grew up in Bangkok, in its warm and brutal beauty. its symphony of sputtering engines and scent of smoke, petrol, sweet-sour fruit. the pale pink glow of the polluted sky at ‘golden hour’ – that bewitching time of day that soothes for a moment the ache of any sorrow. so much of me is composed of love for that city, and perhaps that’s why this book was both so moving and so disappointing.

the scope of this book is incredibly ambitious. it traces a plot of land from the 19th century into the distant, dystopian future, crossing genres from historical to contemporary literary to scifi. the aim, i’m guessing, was to capture the entire lifespan of a city, from birth to death and beyond. a wonderful concept only partially realised. to do so would’ve required more words or, preferably, more economical ones.

the book draws on the city's textures with evident care and affection, and some passages are incredibly beautiful — a musician hired to play for spirits, a quiet student fleeing from bullet fire, a missionary in the feverish grasp of cholera. the prose is lush, loving, reverent. my issue is that it is almost too lush. the author is clearly talented at descriptive writing, but the effect is somewhat like a snapshot; it freezes time and removes us from its immediacy. it is aesthetically stunning but emotionally distant. in fact, the entire book comes across more like a series of postcards than a narrative. while its loveliness is never in doubt, loveliness alone cannot carry a story, especially not one of this length.

in terms of structure, the chapters are caught in an awkward middle ground — too short for much to happen, too long to sustain the pace of a vignette collection. the chapters jump back and forth through time without clear pattern or purpose, and the sheer number of characters and perspectives means none of them quite stick. the city itself is vividly conjured, but its inhabitants remain more like illustrations of the kinds of people that live there rather than believable characters that i could actually get to know and feel invested in. the start and end were interesting enough, but the middle 50% was a genuine slog.

at times the writing even felt composed for foreign eyes. there was something romanticised and disingenuous about how the author rendered illness, grief, violence, the mundane, even street dogs, in lyrical prose, everything imbued with a whole, impenetrable dignity. it felt deliberately literary rather than reflective of real life — the real lives that came and passed. the construction worker felt symbolic of all construction workers rather than a man with his own joy and anguish. life may always be poetic, but it is certainly not always beautiful. there is meaning in letting ugly things be ugly.

i get the intention: this is a book about a city rather than about the people in it. but knowing a city’s history, its buildings and streets, its rivers and rain, the noise of its festivals and the taste of its food, is not enough. to truly know a city, you need to know the minds and hearts of its people, and that's what felt out of reach.