Last year, I posted a list of books about different types of love in honour of Valentine’s Day. It was fun to do, so this year I am going to do it again using books I have read more recently.
Us Conductors by Sean Michaels
I am an instrument. I am a sound being sounded, music being made, blood, salt and water being manipulated in air. I come from Leningrad. With my bare hands I have killed one man. I was born on August 15, 1896, and at that instant I became an object moving through space toward you.
All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews
Elf took my hand, weakly, like an old dying person, and looked deeply into my eyes.
Yoli, she said, I hate you.
I bent to kiss her and whispered that I knew that, I was aware of it. I hate you too, I said.
It was the first time that we had sort of articulated our major problem. She wanted to die and I wanted her to live and we were enemies who loved each other.
And the Birds Rained Down by Jocelyne Saucier
Love, there is only love… to explain what we don’t understand.
Love Letters of the Angels of Death by Jennifer Quist
And even through every offering you make, we both know the baby himself is not really an idol. He’s just an altar – a place to lay sacrifices. The sacrifice you make here is so profound I’ve never dared to mention my own – real but lost and invisible in the face of the cataclysm of your new motherhood. But the look of sameness in the routine of my life is not real. I have laid something precious on the altar of the baby too. My own sacrifice – it was you.
Good To A Fault by Marina Endicott
Clary knew what made the parents around her cry, more or less openly: that everything must grow and change and–rather than being set free–must die, all these children too. We die, they will die, their children will be dead. We resist mourning, because we know we will have to mourn soon enough, and the resistance makes us weep.
The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy by Rachel Joyce
Sometimes, Harold, the way forward takes you by surprise. You try to force something in the familiar direction and discover that what it needs is to move in a different dimension. The way forward is not forward, but off to one side, in a place you have not noticed before.
Cutting For Stone by Abraham Verghese
What I owe Shiva most is this: to tell the story… Only telling can heal the rift that separates my brother and me. Yes, I have infinite faith in the craft of surgery, but no surgeon can heal the kind of wound that divides two brothers. Where silk and steal fail, story must succeed.
Euphoria by Lily King
Nell and Fen had chased away my thoughts of suicide. But what had they left me with? Fierce desires, a great tide of feeling of which I could make little sense, and ache that seemed to have no name but want. I want. Intransitive. No object. It was the opposite of wanting to die. But it was scarcely more bearable.