52 Books in 52 Weeks, it's called. The challenge is simple: read a book every week for a year.
52. The last lonely Saturday.
I expected that the 52nd book this year, the one that fulfills the challenge and after which all other books would be gravy, would be Buechner’s Telling the truth: the gospel as comedy, tragedy and fairy tale. But on the strength of Ian’s recommendation, I tracked down the closest Jordan Crane title, which happened to be this, across the street at the Detroit Public Library main branch, and it turned out to be a 5-minute read, although I went through it twice (I never even checked it out, just read it right there in the stacks).
A tiny little wordless fable, both light- and heavy-hearted, in maroon lines and yellow wash (the colors of Autumn), which most certainly must have been among the inspirations for Bob Peterson’s opening sequence in Up. An elderly gentleman, living alone, writes a letter and adds it to that month’s (week’s?) pile of letters to his wife, and delivers them to her grave. Where he reveals his utter sadness at being a widower. Her ghost, obviously trying to love him, instead chills him and he retreats to his car, which won’t start. When she reads his letter, she goes back to him and tries again, reaching into his chest and triggering a heart attack; he dies, and his ghost joins her and they resolve into a wind that lifts a fallen leaf.
So short, such a quick read, that I struggle with how much weight I should give to it? Should I be looking for all kinds of levels of meaning, over-interpret it and bemoan its existential angst while praising its clear-eyed assessment of the gravity of loss, and it’s weirdly life-affirming assertion that death is not the end and nothing to be afraid of? Or should I simply say this is a harmless and quick little well-handled narrative in yellow and maroon? I guess you’ll have to be the judge.
