Maggie Nelson reviews Karen Green’s first book, Bough Down, which “bears witness to the 2008 suicide of her husband,” David Foster Wallace:
Upon first read, Bough Down feels disorienting and surreal — like entering a drugged wormhole of grief, pills, and barely tolerable engrams and emotions, which appear via allegory, hallucination, synecdoche, and blur. Upon rereading, however, the bones of the book’s structure become admirably clear. “June, black // Does it begin like this?” Green hovers at the start, before plunging into the day of Wallace’s death, her experience of finding his body, her dealings with the police, and the haze of public commemorations.
I can’t imagine that I don’t want to read this, but it does seem like it might be too much.