A seismically moving account of living with the unimaginable
Things in Nature Merely Grow
Yiyun Li
4th Estate, $32.99
'There is no good way to state these facts,' Yiyun Li writes at the outset of Things in Nature Merely Grow. 'My husband and I had two children and lost them both: Vincent in 2017, at sixteen, James in 2024, at nineteen. Both chose suicide'.
Conceived as a fictional dialogue with her late son, Li's book for Vincent, Where Reasons End, appeared in 2019. Things in Nature Merely Grow, her attempt to describe James, is a revelation. Each book honours, in its address, the very different personalities of her two sons.
Vincent, Li writes, felt deeply. James, by contrast, was a thinker. When Vincent, long-haired and 'flamboyantly handsome', dies, James stops cutting his hair. A subdued child 'who resisted drawing any attention to himself', such acts, Li suggests, reveal how close each boy was to the other.
Li communes with James by abiding with the things he loved: geometry and Euclid, linguistic logic and Wittgenstein. Hers is an act of radical acceptance. She continues writing, continues teaching, continues gardening (gardening is a good discipline, she says, for a writer; it teaches patience). Life's activities are time-bound. They do not compete with her loss. How could they? Her children, she writes, are timeless.
Confronted by acquaintances, strangers, well-wishers and passersby, Li must consider how to speak of herself, 'a mother who no longer has children'. The word 'mother' becomes dissociative, its noun form politely parting ways with the verb form. She is a parent who can no longer parent.
Yet some verbs do not change. Li finds that the action 'to be' remains dutifully intact: 'Vincent was and is and will always be Vincent. James was and is and will always be James. We were and are and will always be their parents. There is no now and then, now and later; only now and now and now and now.'
Often she finds herself explaining her situation to those who lack the courage or ability to face it. Some friends refuse to believe loss has not also claimed some portion of Li's essence ('not all of them treat me as the intellectual equal of my old self', she says – a bleakly harrowing admission). One friend, astonishingly, tells Li her own child is at college and thus compares her situation to Li's since she is unable to see the child very often. Li is stoically upbraiding ('Sometimes people want to play a part in a tragedy that is, thankfully, not theirs personally'). How brave, how abhorrent, how stark, how impossible, I thought, this clarity.
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The Age
08-07-2025
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A seismically moving account of living with the unimaginable
GRIEF Things in Nature Merely Grow Yiyun Li 4th Estate, $32.99 'There is no good way to state these facts,' Yiyun Li writes at the outset of Things in Nature Merely Grow. 'My husband and I had two children and lost them both: Vincent in 2017, at sixteen, James in 2024, at nineteen. Both chose suicide'. Conceived as a fictional dialogue with her late son, Li's book for Vincent, Where Reasons End, appeared in 2019. Things in Nature Merely Grow, her attempt to describe James, is a revelation. Each book honours, in its address, the very different personalities of her two sons. Vincent, Li writes, felt deeply. James, by contrast, was a thinker. When Vincent, long-haired and 'flamboyantly handsome', dies, James stops cutting his hair. A subdued child 'who resisted drawing any attention to himself', such acts, Li suggests, reveal how close each boy was to the other. Li communes with James by abiding with the things he loved: geometry and Euclid, linguistic logic and Wittgenstein. Hers is an act of radical acceptance. She continues writing, continues teaching, continues gardening (gardening is a good discipline, she says, for a writer; it teaches patience). Life's activities are time-bound. They do not compete with her loss. How could they? Her children, she writes, are timeless. Confronted by acquaintances, strangers, well-wishers and passersby, Li must consider how to speak of herself, 'a mother who no longer has children'. The word 'mother' becomes dissociative, its noun form politely parting ways with the verb form. She is a parent who can no longer parent. Yet some verbs do not change. Li finds that the action 'to be' remains dutifully intact: 'Vincent was and is and will always be Vincent. James was and is and will always be James. We were and are and will always be their parents. There is no now and then, now and later; only now and now and now and now.' Often she finds herself explaining her situation to those who lack the courage or ability to face it. Some friends refuse to believe loss has not also claimed some portion of Li's essence ('not all of them treat me as the intellectual equal of my old self', she says – a bleakly harrowing admission). One friend, astonishingly, tells Li her own child is at college and thus compares her situation to Li's since she is unable to see the child very often. Li is stoically upbraiding ('Sometimes people want to play a part in a tragedy that is, thankfully, not theirs personally'). How brave, how abhorrent, how stark, how impossible, I thought, this clarity.
Sydney Morning Herald
08-07-2025
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A seismically moving account of living with the unimaginable
GRIEF Things in Nature Merely Grow Yiyun Li 4th Estate, $32.99 'There is no good way to state these facts,' Yiyun Li writes at the outset of Things in Nature Merely Grow. 'My husband and I had two children and lost them both: Vincent in 2017, at sixteen, James in 2024, at nineteen. Both chose suicide'. Conceived as a fictional dialogue with her late son, Li's book for Vincent, Where Reasons End, appeared in 2019. Things in Nature Merely Grow, her attempt to describe James, is a revelation. Each book honours, in its address, the very different personalities of her two sons. Vincent, Li writes, felt deeply. James, by contrast, was a thinker. When Vincent, long-haired and 'flamboyantly handsome', dies, James stops cutting his hair. A subdued child 'who resisted drawing any attention to himself', such acts, Li suggests, reveal how close each boy was to the other. Li communes with James by abiding with the things he loved: geometry and Euclid, linguistic logic and Wittgenstein. Hers is an act of radical acceptance. She continues writing, continues teaching, continues gardening (gardening is a good discipline, she says, for a writer; it teaches patience). Life's activities are time-bound. They do not compete with her loss. How could they? Her children, she writes, are timeless. Confronted by acquaintances, strangers, well-wishers and passersby, Li must consider how to speak of herself, 'a mother who no longer has children'. The word 'mother' becomes dissociative, its noun form politely parting ways with the verb form. She is a parent who can no longer parent. Yet some verbs do not change. Li finds that the action 'to be' remains dutifully intact: 'Vincent was and is and will always be Vincent. James was and is and will always be James. We were and are and will always be their parents. There is no now and then, now and later; only now and now and now and now.' Often she finds herself explaining her situation to those who lack the courage or ability to face it. Some friends refuse to believe loss has not also claimed some portion of Li's essence ('not all of them treat me as the intellectual equal of my old self', she says – a bleakly harrowing admission). One friend, astonishingly, tells Li her own child is at college and thus compares her situation to Li's since she is unable to see the child very often. Li is stoically upbraiding ('Sometimes people want to play a part in a tragedy that is, thankfully, not theirs personally'). How brave, how abhorrent, how stark, how impossible, I thought, this clarity.
