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bawallington 's review for:
The Bone People
by Keri Hulme
"'If you push him hard enough, he'll fight you to make you understand. It's his last resort, spitting and kicking... he'll do his damndest to punch into you what he wants to say. That's bad, I know, you know,' wagging a finger at the boy, 'but he's still trying to talk to you,' lifting his eyes to Kerewin, 'you know?' - The Bone People, Keri Hulme
Kerewin Holmes - local eccentric and cantankerous artist - has built herself a tower in the New Zealand marsh to live in solitude when a strange, mute boy and his mercurial foster father crash into her isolation and make themselves at home. But Simon and Joe have dark pasts and a troubling relationship, and as Kere comes to care deeply for them both, she is forced to reconcile the trauma and violence simmering in each of them as they become inextricably bound to one another.
(cw: domestic violence, child abuse) This was potentially my most challenging read of 2019, both in prose and in content (please take the content warning to heart if those are difficult topics for you). Written in 1984, Hulme speaks to questions we are publicly grappling with on a difficult scale over 30 years later: when violence permeates a relationship, a family, a society, how do we protect and heal ourselves and others while holding the perpetrators accountable? What if the person hurting us is someone we love deeply? But then she takes it to a place that feels more uncomfortable: If violence seems the only way to communicate some great hurt, can it be translated or entirely avoided? Can or should we forgive those who perpetrate the greatest harm? It's a fine line to walk, and after falling in love with this book and this family in the first 2/3, one horrific moment almost made me put it down to never return. But I did, and I'm glad I did. Hulme acknowledges we live in a world where people do terrible things, and we must decide what is done with those people, who makes that decision, and what healing means.
I also think this book's exploration of (mis)communication is fascinating - rather than the rom com trope of only hearing part of the story, these characters know everything they can about one another; it's just the words and language each uses fundamentally does not connect to meaning for the listener. Simon's inability to speak expands his access to expression both creatively and violently. Kerewin's poetic and metaphorical diatribes never quite speak directly to the point. And when Joe's flowery and sincere declarations of love fail, he substitutes with drink and his fists. This is a violent and sad book about connection and disconnection, forgiveness and healing, and the worst things that can happen to us and how to come back.
Pair with Nothing to See Here (for a lighter hearted story about difficult children) or A Little Life (for an exploration of abuse and trauma) - also consider giving this a read if you wanted to like Where the Crawdads Sing (but didn't)
Kerewin Holmes - local eccentric and cantankerous artist - has built herself a tower in the New Zealand marsh to live in solitude when a strange, mute boy and his mercurial foster father crash into her isolation and make themselves at home. But Simon and Joe have dark pasts and a troubling relationship, and as Kere comes to care deeply for them both, she is forced to reconcile the trauma and violence simmering in each of them as they become inextricably bound to one another.
(cw: domestic violence, child abuse) This was potentially my most challenging read of 2019, both in prose and in content (please take the content warning to heart if those are difficult topics for you). Written in 1984, Hulme speaks to questions we are publicly grappling with on a difficult scale over 30 years later: when violence permeates a relationship, a family, a society, how do we protect and heal ourselves and others while holding the perpetrators accountable? What if the person hurting us is someone we love deeply? But then she takes it to a place that feels more uncomfortable: If violence seems the only way to communicate some great hurt, can it be translated or entirely avoided? Can or should we forgive those who perpetrate the greatest harm? It's a fine line to walk, and after falling in love with this book and this family in the first 2/3, one horrific moment almost made me put it down to never return. But I did, and I'm glad I did. Hulme acknowledges we live in a world where people do terrible things, and we must decide what is done with those people, who makes that decision, and what healing means.
I also think this book's exploration of (mis)communication is fascinating - rather than the rom com trope of only hearing part of the story, these characters know everything they can about one another; it's just the words and language each uses fundamentally does not connect to meaning for the listener. Simon's inability to speak expands his access to expression both creatively and violently. Kerewin's poetic and metaphorical diatribes never quite speak directly to the point. And when Joe's flowery and sincere declarations of love fail, he substitutes with drink and his fists. This is a violent and sad book about connection and disconnection, forgiveness and healing, and the worst things that can happen to us and how to come back.
Pair with Nothing to See Here (for a lighter hearted story about difficult children) or A Little Life (for an exploration of abuse and trauma) - also consider giving this a read if you wanted to like Where the Crawdads Sing (but didn't)