The presence of absence

Dying and acceptance are explored in this inventive and moving story of a man with a terminal illness by Van Booy (Night Came with Many Stars). Max Little, a writer, grapples with telling his wife Hadley about his being diagnosed with an unspecified rare disease. He also contemplates suicide, only to realize the act would hurt Hadley even more. Max's reflections come in the form of short journal entries written in his hospital bed, framed with a prologue in which Van Booy claims to have received the journal from Hadley, and decided to expand it into a novel after Max's publisher deemed it too fragmented. Each entry, sparked by "the drunk librarian of memory," is rich in setting and emotion. Max takes readers to the playground where he first met Hadley and to a therapist's waiting room where he befriended Jeremy, who is often at his bedside and becomes close with Hadley as well. The second section, written by Van Booy's author character, begins with quotidian scenes of a young girl and her parents living in New Jersey, which end up linking beautifully to Max's journal. As ever with Van Booy, the reader is in good hands. (Nov.)

A sentimental author reflects on his life and career as he lies dying. In the final days of his life, Max Little takes memory and gratitude as the tasks at hand. Writing a journal from his hospital bed, he describes the people who have mattered to him: Carol, the therapist he saw in the weeks following his diagnosis; Jeremy, a kindred spirit facing the loss of his mother; and, most importantly, his wife, Hadley, whom he met when they were children. After his diagnosis, he wonders how he should break the news to her. How will his death affect her? These questions weigh on Max even more than his own sadness: While his diagnosis does cause pain, Max's tone is overwhelmingly one of acceptance and nostalgia. "Those we've lost do return," he says. In the novel's brief second section, we see that theory manifest in scenes taking place eight years after Max's death. The concept of listening to a famous author reflect on life and writing is an appealing one, but the novel's aphoristic musings are often too pat to yield new insight or too abstract to reconfigure the reader's views. One of Max's central claims is that each reader will imagine scenes differently in light of their unique experience. To that end, he repeatedly invokes his readers--"good company you are"; "It's actually you telling the story"--but the novel is most affecting when it commits to a narrative of its own. Max's initial response to his diagnosis is particularly poignant: He goes through a series of everyday activities--making toast, brewing tea, taking a bath--that feel like "impersonating myself." But his later posture of calm renders the narrative placid and oddly ethereal. A free-floating reflection on human connection that never quite touches ground. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.