Things in Nature Merely Grow by Yiyun Li
Many thanks to Farrar, Straus, and Giroux and NetGalley for allowing
me to read an advanced copy of Yiyun Li’s profound new book Things in Nature Merely Grow. Li is one of my favorite writers. I’ve mostly read her short
stories and novels, but I ended up reading Where Reasons End about 2
years ago. That book, as she describes it in Things in Nature Merely Grow,
was dedicated to her son Vincent, who died by suicide 8 years ago at the age of
17. It’s hard to categorize the book since it blurs so many lines as Li extends
conversations, arguments, and questions she discussed with her son, Vincent. In
some ways, it seems to capture his essence, but in others, it allows her to
continue to speak with him, through her writing. It’s beautiful, haunting, and
like Li’s other writing, incredibly moving. I can’t remember if Li explained
the meaning of the title, but it seemed to suggest that keeping that connection
with Vincent is more important than finding reasons why he decided to take his
life. It also suggests that her continued conversations and questions with Vincent
occur outside of logic and reason, and that both to accept his absence and
continue to remain connected work outside of logic. Li’s latest book, Things in Nature Merely Grow, also examines the loss of her other son, James, who
was Vincent’s younger brother. James also decided to take his own life, and
while Li discusses both sons in this book, she also doesn’t dedicate the book
to James, noting that it wouldn’t have been what he wanted and a book wouldn’t
necessarily be able to capture James’ essence the same way her earlier book attempted
to capture Vincent’s essence. Li’s book transcends boundaries of classification
and operates in its own place, both celebrating the individuality of her two
sons and acknowledging their absences due to suicide. Where Vincent was verbose
and at times argumentative, James was contemplative and quiet, often speaking
with a slight smile, which for Li was filled with possible interpretations,
sometimes in opposition to each other.
Li also explains that while Vincent lived a life of emotion,
James lived a life of logic and reason. As a result, Li seems to take a step
back from the loss of both children and examine the facts. I found this approach
to loss unparalleled. I can’t imagine what I would do in this situation, but Li’s
ability to identify the facts and state them provides a way to work towards the
radical acceptance she describes as helping her process her son’s death. I’m
even struggling with the words to describe this, as Li also mentions other’s
challenges with attempts to console her. Sometimes people reveal their true
intentions, and this was some of the most shocking parts of the book. People
asking for editorial help, people possibly using her employment at Princeton as
an in for their children; it was truly shocking. Nevertheless, Li’s radical
acceptance also seems to help her navigate the difficulties and drains of interacting
with people after a loss. Also as a writer and astute observer of people, Li
seems to be an empath and can seem to intuit others’ feelings. I’m not sure if
I would have been able to be as composed as her.
In addition to navigating other people, Li also spends time
reminiscing about the challenge of parenting. I found her memories of taking
care of her sons while she was finishing up her MFA at Iowa’s Writer’s Workshop
also amazing. She mentioned how much of child care in the early years is both
intuitive and reactive. “One does not master the skills of taking care of a
baby by reading a manual or taking a few classes. One fumbles and blunders,
never certain if one has done everything right. One weeps from exhaustion or
frustration, and one worries and loses sleep over anything, small or large.” An
outcome of this kind of reaction and attempts at appeasing this helpless, tiny
human are frustration, exhaustion, and many times fear and anxiety as well. I
was amazed to learn that Li brought James as an infant to class with her, and
continued to teach a week after giving birth. I was also in graduate school
when my son was born, and I remember how hard it was to find the time to teach
and grade after putting him to bed, hoping that he would just sleep through the
night. These moments in the book when Li reflects on her sons’ lives and her
care and nurturing of both of them in different ways were some of the best
parts of the book. It’s both touching and also imbued, for me, with a sense of longing
in the sense of the Portuguese word saudade, which doesn’t really
translate into English. I remember after my dad died, someone mentioned this
word to me, explaining that it was a word that widows of sailors lost at sea
often used. It’s that feeling of loss and nostalgia, with a lack of
understanding or full knowledge of the whereabouts of the person who was lost. Again,
Li doesn’t mention this word, and also doesn’t seem to wish for things to be
different, and therefore, the memories are beautiful ways to communicate the
qualities and differences of her sons, not necessarily to feel nostalgic. If
anything, as I was reading these detailed glimpses of their childhoods, I could
relate to similar memories of behaviors, predilections, or mannerisms that
seemed to communicate more about our own hopes and beliefs, and possibly our
anxieties, about our children’s futures. Li’s observations and recollections
are detailed, nuanced, and subtle, capturing a quick conversation or response
from her sons, observing how they eat different foods at a café after a weekend
activity, as well as the books they encountered and how these texts influenced
their lives. As a result, reader can witness the sense of care and wonder Li
demonstrates for her sons, noting and appreciating their differences and
providing them with the space and support they needed to develop into authentic
selves. Li contrasts these memories with her own experiences growing up in
China, trained to be a mathematician, but secretly seeking to memorize ancient
poems. She details some of the harshness that she experienced when she
attempted to be her authentic self or express her own unique ideas in a society
and culture that seemed to value conformity and accepting the norms over
challenging them with one’s individuality. She shared some of these memories
with her sons, and in one memory, explained that as a special guest in James’ 2nd
grade class, she shocked his classmates because she said that she didn’t like
candy as a child. The story behind her distaste for candy is shocking, but it pales
in comparison to the cruelty inflicted by her mother, who claims that Yiyun was
the daughter she loved most. Li’s mother’s love can only be expressed through
demands, control, and domination. In another story recalling her childhood, Li describes
one of her mother’s methods to elicit compliance (and possibly guilt or shame)
was to claim that Yiyun had a twin with whom her mother preferred to spend time,
since this daughter was the exact opposite of Yiyun. Li’s mother would lock
Yiyun in a room while her mother and sister would pretend to converse and laugh
with Yiyun’s twin. Even more heartbreaking is the way Li describes her reaction
to this kind of cruelty. I can understand how growing up in this kind of
environment would lead someone to the kind of radical acceptance Li acknowledges
was necessary in dealing with the loss of her sons. I can see how the kind of
absurdity in facing violence and scorn as a child would require a kind of
process of analysis and reflection to try to make sense of these events. It’s
not my place to evaluate whether they are right or wrong or what kind of
influence this had on Li. If anything, it seems to have made her more sensitive
and considerate in how she raised her sons, valuing their qualities and nourishing
their interests and passions.
Li uses the metaphor of gardening to also move towards
radical acceptance, and this metaphor is also where the title comes from. In
nature, plants and flowers grow and die. There are other factors that often
make their growth more challenging- animals, weeds, weather, and while we can
tend to gardens and try to cultivate conditions that allow our plants to
thrive, we cannot control everything about nature. We cannot have continuous
growth throughout the year. Plants die off in the fall and winter, only to grow
again in the spring. Li acknowledges that while weeding and creating deterrents
for animals may be important, she also cannot remain angry or upset at their
nature. I appreciated this metaphor for parenting.
We are always trying to cultivate the best environment and opportunities for
our children to grow. However, we cannot control everything. And while it is in
our nature to grow, it is also in our nature to die. It is a sad reality, but a
fact nonetheless, and a fact that accepting may relieve us of some anger or anxiety.
Li also explains that she doesn’t see grief as a process with an endpoint. It is
something that will be her with always, just as she continues to view herself
as a mother of two sons. I agree with Li’s explanation of grief; while my
situation is nowhere near Li’s, even though my father has been dead for some
time, there’s still a kind of hole or emptiness. While this hole was much
greater in the time right after he died, it’s gradually reduced in size over
the subsequent years. Yet, there’s always going to be reminders about his
absences. My kids have never met him, and they always have questions about him.
My wife never met him either, and she’s asked how they might get along. I
wonder how he would view my home, what advice he might give, what he would
think about the world right now. It’s not something that makes me sad or
nostalgic, but just something that is there- a slight opening or void that is a
part of me. For me, Li’s explanation of grief of having no terminal point is
relevant in this regard. I also appreciated the book from this perspective. It’s
not like a manual explaining what to do or how to act in the event of loss, but
Li explains how she continued to engage in her regular activities right after James’
death. She mentions going to a piano lesson in the week after James’ death, and
talking with her teacher, and struggling with learning the pieces, but seeming
to do well with a strange collection of piano exercises from Hanon that a
friend described as “demented”. She doesn’t mention that these pieces relieved
her or brought her joy, but rather it was something to do, something she could
focus on to occupy her. In another section, she presents some practices she
felt were important, and these included things like hydration, exercise, and getting
up at a regular time. When my dad was in the hospital dying, I felt a similar
kind of way, and it is actually how I started running. I just had all this
nervous energy, and I felt like I couldn’t be at the hospital until I ran a few
miles before hand, burning off some of the energy, but also making me more
willing to accept how close death was to me. I also realized that I didn’t want
to just sit around and ruminate, and that I needed to keep busy and occupy
myself. I remember not really crying until a few weeks after his funeral, when
it finally hit me. It’s definitely important to experience that kind of
emotion, but at the same time, Li also mentions not allowing herself the time
to ruminate in bed. I really appreciated this insights for helping someone navigate
this unimaginable loss.
Finally, the other part of the book that stood out to me was
how reading and writing factored into Li’s days after James’ death. She has
mentioned reading Tolstoy in Where Reasons End, but in this book she mentioned
several other works she frequently turned to after James’ death. Li references
Greek and Shakespeare’s tragedies, but also noting that “Those ancient Greeks
sing their grief at the highest pitch, which, as Carson pointed out, is rage.
Their grief and their rage are nearly untranslatable, as though feelings in
extremity can only be physical sensations— the language assails the readers with
a blind and blunt force.” As she further explains, she didn’t necessarily lose
her words, but they said something she had not and expressed their grief in
another, more violent manner. While sometimes literature may present this kind
of grief as a madness, Li’s reference to Constance’s grief in King John
shows that our outward signs of grief can often be misconstrued, especially
when the vocabulary of grief is so ill-defined by others. I really appreciated
Li’s literary references to grief and loss throughout the book, as they help us
understand how others may process grief. Not everyone may seek comfort in words
(words, words, words), but reading and writing allow us not to ruminate. It’s
interesting also since I recently read Sarah Chihaya’s brave memoir Bibliophobia
about how books and reading can be both an experience in joy and exploration
but also can bring terror and depression. Chihaya cites one of Li’s other books
about Li’s own experience with depression and her suicide attempts. I haven’t
read that book yet. I’ve almost been a little intimidated to engage with it.
Yet, for Li, books, works of literature, plays, music, and other forms of art
can be part of the process leading to radical acceptance. Recognizing that we
aren’t alone in this, and being able to approach the facts of the situation and
not impose our own reasons or blame for the events may help in this process. I’ll
have to go back through this book to look at the reading list. While I may not
want to read all of these works, it’s always good to receive recommendations. I’ll
also have to revisit this book at other times; it’s such a beautiful book filled
with touching moments, but also an awareness that things in nature grow. It’s
not a manual, but it’s also not quite a memoir. It’s almost like meditations,
where Li is able to deeply reflect on her sons’ lives and deaths. I’m very
grateful for her willingness to be so honest and reflective, so thoughtful and
considerate when the world may not always be the same.
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