Meghan Gilliss

This is a heartbreaking, desolate read.
Tuck is a young mom to 2 year old Agnes, trying to navigate a world where her husband, Paul, is an addict. She does everything she can to keep them alive, and Paul clean. They live on a remote Maine island where her grandmother lived. Now that her grandmother has died, they only can squat there until the bank takes the property. Tuck can't locate her father to probate the will.
Tuck details her struggles, her hopes, her dreams, her need to keep Agnes safe.
It is a beautifully written story, but very sad.… (altro)

Have you ever seen a race horse struggle to restrain its awesome power? Or a runner who can easily put the pedal to the metal, but has hold back in an effort to race smart? This is the way I felt reading Lungfish. Deceptively simple passages in incredibly short chapters made me want to speed-read; to buzz through the sentences at a hundred pages a minute. To do that would be to miss the scenery of gorgeous language flashing by. To not slow down and savor the smart language would be to deprive myself of one of the best books of the year.
Lungfish oozes mystery. There is a hinting of things. What is wrong with Paul? The use of the word "better" implies there is something worse. You shouldn't think of the word 'trickery' that could at play, yet you do. You do. Is the narrator asking Paul to improve a behavior? Be a better person? Or is it his health? The possibility he could be better at something hangs heavy. Especially when a word like perfunctory is used to describe a kiss between two people in a relationship. Then consider the act of hiding from the law. Questioning what happens when the executor arrives. The narrative does not speak in linear terms, only winding and twisting innuendo, slippery as seaweed newly exposed by the outgoing tide. Early on there is an unexplained sadness that permeates the entire story, the way a thick fog will dampen a wool sweater to a newfound heaviness. You want the fog to lift, the sunshine to come streaming in, and loud laughter to break the silence.
Instead, we as readers circle the plot in a strange swaying dance, like a slow moving game of musical chairs. Only when the song comes to an abrupt halt, we grab for the final sentence and wait for the silence to end so we can read on. Careful not to slip on the seaweed of secrets.… (altro)