From the first moment you see the cover of Jeremy Page’s Sea Change, you can tell it’s headed for tragedy. The ancient fence, holding back a wild horse with hoof up in mid-stride; the long, darkened expanse of grass meandering down to a dying willow tree; the man, seemingly adrift on a sandbar of grass in an incongruously placid river – all immediately let you know that the sunshine and lollipops you were hoping for are not set to arrive.
Maybe it’s how much time I spend orchestrating dog photo shoots. Maybe it’s how quickly fall, my favorite season, has passed. Maybe it’s the smell of Skye’s dinner (guacamole) wafting over the table as I write this post. But, lately, I’ve come to hate the tight ball of tension in my stomach as I read about an idyllic afternoon and wait for the coming catastrophe. Thankfully, my wait is short – the main character’s life is shattered just a few pages in, when a wild horse comes across a family picnic and kills his daughter.
It was shortly thereafter, while reading about his life five years hence, that I discovered I hate more the endless sorrow that follows the initial calamity. The protagonist (Guy) has moved onto a boat and tries to stave off his depression by writing a journal of his life. Only the life he portrays on the page isn’t the one he’s leading, but rather what might have been, had his daughter lived and his wife stayed by his side. And if they all decided to take a bit of a drive across America.
There’s more to the story – including a possible new love interest and a possible new daughter, who just made me feel uncomfortable inside – but nothing lifts you out of the cloud of melancholy that has becoming your reading blanket.
If you’re looking for beautifully depressing prose then you should check out Sea Change. As for me? I’m going to purchase the next lighthearted comedy I find.
‘Cause real life can be depressing enough.
But real life never provides hilarious vampire spit-takes.
Or, tragically, pet owls,
Megan
p.s. Wondering why it’s called Sea Change?
It’s taken from a song in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, which reads:
“Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell.”
p.p.s In the same act, the same character also says “hell is empty, and all the devils are here,” and I’m eagerly awaiting that novelization.
*This post is sponsored by BlogHer. The depressing opinion is my own.*
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