Hamnet

Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell
I have just put it down—finished the last page, read the final words, “Remember me,” and I cannot remember the last time I was so deeply moved by a story.
Spoilers ahead.

Hamnet is a tragedy. It is a love story. It is the story of a mother’s love for her son, and of a grief so heavy and ever-present that she cannot—and does not wish to—lift it, even for a breath of fresh air. It is the story of a brother’s love for his sister, and how he would sacrifice everything to trade places with her—and ultimately does. It is the story of a father’s love for his family, and of his inability to survive fully in the real world, so that he must create in order to exist. And it is the story of a sister who lives only a half-life, wandering the streets at night, hoping to catch a glimpse of the part of herself that is gone forever.

I don’t know why I waited so long to read this book. Perhaps because Hamlet is my favorite play, one that held so much meaning for me in childhood. But now I have read it, and I am glad I waited—for it met me exactly where I am.

One passage, in particular, lingers:
“And there is the ever-present fear that if he were to step off this whirling wheel, he might never be able to get on it again. He might lose his place; he has seen it happen to others. But the magnitude, the depth of his wife’s grief for their son exerts a fatal pull. It is like a dangerous current that, if he were to swim too close, might suck him in, plunge him under. He would never surface again; he must hold himself separate in order to survive. If he were to go under, he would drag them all with him.”

Hamnet is a novel about love in all its forms—and about grief not as something to be overcome, but as something lived alongside. It is quiet, devastating, and unforgettable.