Everything I Never Told You

I read the synopsis for “Everything I Never Told You” by Celeste Ng during one of my Goodreads scans; I had been looking for something resembling a certain favorite book of mine, “The Wednesday Wars” by Gary D. Schmidt that I’d read as a child, all warm and cozy in my bed.

Years later, I re-read the book to comfort me and remind me of nicer times. I wanted that feeling again, but this time, with a whole assortment of higher-reading level books to go to in times of need.

True to its name, “Everything I Never Told You” is riddled with things left unsaid, thoughts buried deep in one’s head, emotions hidden neatly under masks of calm, of happiness, of normalcy. 

It’s an exhausting read and I mean it in the nicest way possible. Turning each page is like pushing yourself further down a deep well filled with honey; the saccharine taste of despair suffocates you as the brilliance of Ng’s work effortlessly tugs you along through the viscous despondence into the lives of the five family members.

You find yourself smiling at the blossoming love of Marilyn and James, only to remember, once the chapter ends, that in another time, their daughter is still dead, their marriage still cracking under the strain of things left unsaid from a wedding, things left unsaid from a decade ago, things left unsaid from all the time spent in-between.

You predict somewhat how the story unfolds; it isn’t meant to be out-of-place, it isn’t meant to be a mystery novel. It’s the story of a family, of parents who lose a daughter, of siblings who lose a sister, and the sister, who loses herself.

There’s no one at fault but the whole world to blame. The burden of their loss sits heavily on you as you navigate your way through their trauma, their lives, an almost unbearable solidity of their pasts. You see neglected children and overbearing parents, but you also see broken children within that couple, you see broken dreams and vaguely remember a different author in a different book having written of the dreams of the dead floating away on the Styx; here, you remark to yourself, the dream isn’t the dead’s but aptly has floated away.

You see the embarrassment of a young boy trying to fit in; you remember with distaste your own issues with cultural identity in a foreign land. 

There’s no one at fault but the whole world to blame.

You grit your teeth at the mother’s young foolishness; you bite your teeth as she runs away. 

You’re transported into a sentient fly on the wall and you’re transfixed by the fluidity of Ng’s writing. There is no break between the past and the present, you’re drifting, entranced, as she lugs your forward in the melancholia between one mind and another, and you observe astutely that had it been any other way, you’d have noticed, you’d have grimaced and put the book down. It’s like when glass is being blown, how it’s stretched out, how it’s brought back together -- that, you remark, is how reading this book is. 

You know what they don’t and you cry out to them sometimes; this is as realistic fiction can get, your voice says from somewhere deep in your head.

You’re reminded of a long rope resembling a noose from a movie you’d watched, a movie about loss, a movie with the same laudable realism. You applaud the genius of these artists as you wipe your tears one last time, and put the book down, finally finished. 

You’re okay somehow; they move on, one day at a time. You’ll move on too, sooner rather than later, once you’re done recommending the book to everyone, once you’re on to the next one, until one day, you’ll revisit loss, maybe in cinema or literature, and be reminded of this one other thing you read that day in March.

Picture credits: http://www.sadighgallery.com/42927-INSECT-IN-AMBER-Pre-Historic