Published by Random House on September 10, 2013
Paul Harding displays the power of his prose in the opening pages of Enon, as Charlie Crosby recalls the death of his daughter. The understated, deeply affecting descriptions of grief set the scene for the life that follows. Charlie blames himself for letting his daughter take the bike ride that ended in a collision with a car. After Charlie's marriage disintegrates, he becomes "a maker of dismal days." He spends them wandering the town of Enon, recalling the sweetness of the family life he has lost, seeing his daughter at different ages when he gazes at the town's children. As the months pass, he moves "deeper into the shade, further toward the border between this life and what lies outside it." He is embarrassed by his weakness, his inability to resolve his sense of loss. He has always believed that "life is not something we are forced to endure, but rather something in which we are blessed to be allowed to participate," but now he feels no gratitude for a life that "felt like nothing more than a distillation of sorrow and anger." He wants to believe that the joy of his daughter's life had its own integrity, that his life is better for having shared his daughter's life, but he measures his grief by the loss of that joy. Abuse of alcohol and pills heightens his condemnation of his failure of character.
While Enon is largely an internal monologue, it features richly developed minor characters: a cemetery caretaker who seems like "an archaic military experiment gone awry"; an elderly woman who fearlessly races down an icy hill on a sled; a poorly paid clerk who pines for his family in India while he spends his Sundays working at a convenience store. It is also a novel of place, the place being Enon, where Crosbys have lived since 1840. Charlie, taking a daily walk around the town, recalls his childhood fears of creepy woods and legendary boogeymen. We learn the history of Charlie's old house with its traces of the people who once lived there, including the grandfather who was instrumental in his life.
What do we do when "broken hearts continue beating"? Is grief a moral failing when it leads to self-destructive, irresponsible behavior? Harding leaves it to the reader to decide. Charlie, on the other hand, receives a lecture from the elderly sledding woman that seems right: at some point, particularly when it causes harm to others, grief can be selfish. There is a moral lesson in Enon, a lesson that Charlie learns about the nature of prolonged grief, about what his grief really is and why he can't release it. Although it isn't immediately apparent, the novel is ultimately redemptive and life-affirming in its perspective of "this awful miracle of a planet" we all share.
Harding's description of Charlie's thoughts, his attempts and inability to come to terms with his daughter's death, are achingly real. Enon is such a howl of pain that it is difficult to read in long stretches. Fortunately, Enon is the perfect length: long enough to tell the story but not so long that Charlie's anguish becomes overbearing. Regardless of its length, Harding's prose, sometimes stunning in its effortless beauty, would have kept me reading. This isn't a novel for readers who wish to disappear into a make-believe world that's filled with sunny characters, but for readers who want to understand the full range of life (including people who have given up on life), Enon is a work of great value.
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