Levels of Life / Julian Barnes

I first heard of Levels of Life on an episode of CBC Radio's Writers & Company podcast that featured a wonderful interview with Julian Barnes. I was in awe of his ability to speak so openly and articulately about his grief for his wife while holding onto his sense of humour, which was reason enough to make me want to read his book, but I also wondered if it could help me to grasp (if only a little) what my father was experiencing as a man about to lose his life partner of 50 years.

You put together two things that have not been put together before. And the world is changed. People may not notice at the time, but that doesn't matter. The world has been changed nonetheless.

[...]

You put together two people who have not been put together before; and sometimes the world is changed, sometimes not. They may crash and burn, or burn and crash. But sometimes, something new is made, and then the world is changed.

This book is a curious hybrid; part anecdotal biography, part memoir, it builds subtle parallels between ballooning, photography and love to create a stirring ode to life. As illustrated by the quotes above, there's a theme running through the book of combining two things, or two people, and what results from this association: the very real possibility that the world will change. At once poetic and straightforward, it creates striking images that remain imprinted on the mind long afterwards, such as describing grief as the negative of love, calling on the language of photography to express loss.

Divided into 3 sections — "The Sin of Height," "On the Level" and "The Loss of Depth" —, this diminutive volume introduces us to as many larger-than-life historical figures and their aeronautical passions: explorer Colonel Fred Burnaby, who crash-landed in rural France and scoffed down a rustic feast while expounding to his hosts on the superiority of the English; inventor Félix Tournachon (better known as Nadar), who took the very first pictures from the sky after several failed attempts and built himself a balloon with a basket that looked like a small cottage and included a washroom as well as its own darkroom; and actress Sarah Bernhardt, who toasted her flight with champagne, then wrote of her aerial adventure from the point of view of her chair.

It's only once he reaches the deeper level, in "Loss of Depth," that Julian Barnes tells us about his wife, Pat, with whom he shared his life for 30 years. This section is of course the most poignant for me, as it echoes many of my own feelings and the thoughts my father shared with me over the 3 months of my mother's illness.

There were 37 days — only 37 days — between Pat's diagnosis and her death. It took little more than a month to destroy Julian Barnes' dreams of quietly growing old together. He includes a touching quote  of how Nadar nursed his wife after she suffered a stroke; I imagine that he did this too, just as my father combed my mother's hair and wetted her lips while she was in hospital.

Every love story is a potential grief story. If not at first, then later. If not for one, then for the other. Sometimes, for both.

Be warned that this is an intimate account of grief. It ain't pretty and, if you've never lost a loved one, there are hard truths here that you may not want to know. How you resent other people's unawareness that the world is about to change (taking the bus to and from the hospital that last week, I foud myself multiple times wanting to shout to the other passengers that my mother was dying). How you can't bring yourself to care if the entire world goes to hell. How you must deal not only with your own grief, but also with the reaction — or lack thereof — of others (now I have some inkling of how people can be torn apart by such circumstances). How aggravating it is to hear people use euphemisms and verbal contorsions (it makes me absolutely livid). How your heart bleeds afresh not only with every "first": the first Christmas, birthday, Valentine's Day, wedding anniversary after, but with the second, and third, and fourth... How you'll always remember the "last": the last words you spoke to each other, the last thing you did together before the final hospital stay, the last meal you shared.

But there are also words of wisdom and solace. Julian Barnes reminds us that grief, despite being everywhere, remains unique. He observes that we grieve "in character" (this is certainly true for me: I took refuge in books, and am finding comfort in reading fiction and nonfiction that deal with grief). He also noticed how certain things that once appeared puzzling or purely histrionic can make complete sense, such as opera. Most of all, he articulates one key thought: the dead person has ceased to live, but not to exist.

I'm so deeply thankful that I was able to read Levels of Life at the very moment when I sat at my mother's bedside while her life slowly ebbed away, felt the inadequacy of the support I tried my best to offer my father and my sister, and fought the mental and emotional exhaustion of social anxiety aggravated by being forced to interact with nurses, doctors, other hospital personnel and countless strangers. It felt as though a friend stood right there with me through it all. What a precious gift.

This very unique essay is so masterfully crafted that I couldn't possibly do it justice. Its short little paragraphs make it easy to read at leisure without requiring much concentration, which can be scarce at stressful or distressing times. It's validating and acutely relevant to anyone who has lost or is about to lose a loved one, especially to an illness. I'd particularly recommend Levels of Life to anyone who enjoyed Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders.

In the sky near my apartment,
just a few days before I read this book...

[...] love is the meeting point of truth and magic. Truth, as in photography; magic, as in ballooning.

I purchased this book online.

Rating: *****