Over The Highlands And Into The Moors In A Blue Mercedes
Roadtrips have a habit of getting my inspiration up to incredible levels, while at the same time depleting my time to near-nothing to put that inspiration to use. A two-edged sword, to be sure, but a strangely welcome one.
I have been very lucky on this trip to not only get to meet brilliant people and see absolutely awe-inspiring places, but also to read amazing new books. One in particular that I have to mention is Grief Is The Thing With Feathers, by Max Porter.
I devoured this book on the London-bound train from Bristol, and spent the time I had left thinking of nothing else. To say it is an accessible book would be false; it isn't for everyone. In fact, there are few books that I have read that follow this sort of free form style. And just as those have stuck with me from the moment I opened them to the first page, so this one joins their ranks.
What inspires me most, seeing work like this published, is knowing that some of my friends who are artists and authors, and who write in this style, will find their work not only welcomed by in demand, within a year or so at the very most.
The depth of metaphor and the power of the harsh words is something that adds more and more weight as the story progresses, and I found myself completely enthralled by voices used within: the Dad, the Boys and Crow. I think the Crow watching over me was flexing his wings every so often, tempted to join me in the read. But it's not his time yet, and we both know that.
I would recommend it for anyone looking for a strange and wonderful piece. It is cathartic and warming, it is harrowing and a cool reminder of mortality in every sense of that word. It's a beautiful book, and like most beautiful works of art, not easy.