This is a remarkable book, the first by Max Porter. It’s bound to appeal to all sorts of readers without being facile or treacly or academic. The poetic story ranges into all sorts of diction.
A woman has died. She’s left her two sons, the brothers, and her husband. The books is divided into short segments in which we hear the voices of the brothers, the husband, and the Crow, who has come over from the book by Ted Hughes to talk this family through—as advisor and savant and a “doctor or a ghost”. The father/widower is writing a book on Hughes, and the parallel story of Hughes and his two children losing Sylvia Plath pervades the text as a diatonic underscore that never seizes control of the main dirge. The book is entitled Ted Hughes’ Crow on the Couch: A Wild Analysis.
As the mourners have left, the main speaker, the “Dad” is left alone with his mourning. But the crow comes to call: “There was a rich small of decay, a sweet furry stink of just-beyond edible food, and moss, and leather, and yeast”. The Crow tells Dad that “I won’t leave until you don’t need me anymore.”
The brothers try hard to be cleaner and nicer. But sometimes they are overwhelmed with the impulse towards bad behavior. “We used to think she would turn up one day and say it had all been a test.” “We used to think we would both die at the same age she had.” They fear that their Dad will die.
“The one son went for drawing, furiously concentrating like a little waist-high fresco painter scrabbling hands and knees on the scaffold. Thirty-seven taped-together sheets of A4 paper and the full rainbow of crayons, pencils and pens, his front teeth biting down on his lower lip. Heavy nasal sighing as he adjusted the eyes, scrapped them, started again, working his way down, happy with the hands, happy with the legs.
The second son went for assemblage, a model of the woman made from cutlery, ribbons, stationery, toys, buttons and books, manically adjusting – leaping up, lying down – like a mechanic in the pits. Clicking and tutting as he worked his way around the mosaic mum, happy with the face, happy with the height.”
Crow himself has known grief: “I lost a wife once, and once is as many timas as a crow can lose a wife….He flew a genuflection Tintagel-Carlyle cross Morecambe-Orford, wonky, trying to poison himself with forbidden berries and pretty churches, but England’s litter saves him. Ley lines flung him cross-country with no time for grief, power cables catapulted loose bouquets of tar-black gone and feather and other crows rained down from the sky, a dead crow storm, a tor top burnt bird bath…Blackberry, redcurrant, loganberry, sloe. Damson, plum-pear, crab-apple, bruises. Clots, phlegm, tumours and quince.”
As a grief counselor, Crow lets Dad know that there is no “moving on.” “Any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project.”
At a spare 115 pages, this book reads like both a prose poem and a riveting thriller.
I don’t know if the references to Hughes and Plath are essential. I don’t know Hughes’s crow, nor did I feel I needed to.
Porter has added a fresh, original voice to the literature of death and grief. The book is generated, in part, by his own experience of losing his father when he was a 6 year old and of his fascination with Hughes and Emily Dickinson. I recommend it highly and know I will reread it.