I’m putting a mild spoiler warning because I plan to be honest, raw, and from the gut in my review. Without any constraints so if you thought about picking up the book but you don’t want to know anything about it, please read forward keeping this in mind.
I want to do it in an unrefined way to honour his memory and to reach back to the part in me who was living and functioning the same way pretty much all her life before things turned out to have edges, and became triangles, and squares. Even though I know pretty well that life should be a circle.If we are talking about shapes.
I clearly remember the day when one of my co-workers brought the news, (from her phone), that Alan Rickman died. I remember where I stood, and I remember which shoe I was looking at because I kept looking at it for a while after hearing what happened. I also remember that it hit me harder than I thought it would. I always knew that I loved his work, and since I’m from the generation who grew up on HP, Snape was my favourite character, the one my heart always leaned to. I know that him playing in Robin Hood when I was even younger, left a long lasting impression on me, and I never understood why. Now I know that it was the simple fact of how good he was at what he was doing. Acting, or as the big ones say: Behaving.
I remember that after her voice (my co-worker) echoed in my head and I kept staring at the shoe, hoping for a wormhole to open where I could just slide through, and start this day again, I had to go to the back room and sit down for a second. And I also knew that I couldn’t act like this for long because work had to be done and after all I didn’t know him, didn’t I? So I went out and tried to behave like if I’m ok but my head was a haze, a thick fog that I couldn’t get through. And then life went on.
I read the books again (HP) and cried more than a grown up should have at the death of a fictional character but in the end moved on.
Until this book* came out and all the repressed feelings, the unacknowledged grief and endless anger about life just found its way out of my head and my body and I just gave in and read this book.
And it helped. A lot actually. Helped to appreciate art for being raw and guttural. To accept that life doesn’t wait for everyone no matter what and who you are. And we are moving on. And he was writing the same way after he knew what was going on. I don’t know if it was edited or not but I couldn’t feel a shift in his perception at all after going through all that hardship with his health. He wrote like nothing happened. And probably some people would say a lot of smart things about this but I have found strength, braveness and a sophisticated middle finger to the universe in that and it inspired me.
That life goes on. Goes on for me, for you, and for him. No matter where we are, what time it is, and who we are.
But the work stays.
The art stays.
The creation, the fingerprint of our soul stays and lives through in others.
And I think that’s worth living for.
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