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A review by kkennedy2000
Let Us Descend by Jesmyn Ward
3.0
This should be paired with Sing, Unburied, Sing, as the spirits of both novels seem to play by similar rules and occupy a similar universe; Let Us Descend is an expansion. I really praise Jesmyn Ward’s use of language, though as with Sing, my problem is that it sometimes goes too far. It makes me wonder if I’m even reading it right, or if reading aloud/audiobook is stronger because it’s clearly working to be sooo lyrical, but on the page it can push to cringe.
On the whole, the magical realism in this story is far less effective than in Sing. I thought it felt a bit forced, and was ladled in either too much abstruse poetry or plain cliche, and was often entirely confusing.
Why the double Aza naming, and why no clarification for the reader as it went on? Because I missed that initially (the difference between the Aza spirit and Mama Aza) so that MAAAAAJOR portion of the book had me mad confused.
Jesmyn Ward wrote this in the wake of terrible tragedy and personal loss. Kudos to her, I can only imagine how difficult this book was to write — I’m glad she did, and that she continues to bestow us with an offering: the gift of her prose.
“You can’t ask me to drown on the promise of freedom.”
“How that love, with nowhere to go, aches: wind snagging ragged over frosted winter rocks.”
“I close my eyes to see the darkness behind my lids, to know a more familiar black.”
“All our lives been an offering, and this seeing is what’s been given back.”
On the whole, the magical realism in this story is far less effective than in Sing. I thought it felt a bit forced, and was ladled in either too much abstruse poetry or plain cliche, and was often entirely confusing.
Why the double Aza naming, and why no clarification for the reader as it went on? Because I missed that initially (the difference between the Aza spirit and Mama Aza) so that MAAAAAJOR portion of the book had me mad confused.
Jesmyn Ward wrote this in the wake of terrible tragedy and personal loss. Kudos to her, I can only imagine how difficult this book was to write — I’m glad she did, and that she continues to bestow us with an offering: the gift of her prose.
“You can’t ask me to drown on the promise of freedom.”
“How that love, with nowhere to go, aches: wind snagging ragged over frosted winter rocks.”
“I close my eyes to see the darkness behind my lids, to know a more familiar black.”
“All our lives been an offering, and this seeing is what’s been given back.”