“The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy” by Rachel Joyce
I spotted THE LOVE SONG OF MISS QUEENIE HENNESSY in Elliot Bay Bookstore in Seattle. When I saw it was the follow-up to THE UNLIKELY PILGRIMAGE OF HAROLD FRYE, which I reviewed last July, I bought it, and I’m glad I did.
Queenie Hennessy, in hospice in Berwick on Tweed, has a cancerous facial tumor and is waiting to die. She’s also waiting for sixty-five year old Harold Frye, who is walking across England to see her, his old employee and friend. Queenie loved Harold when she first laid eyes on him, and has not stopped for the twenty years since she left his life. She never let him know she loved him.
There are other secrets Queenie hasn’t told Harold. She believes she hurt him and his family terribly. Her secrets torment and haunt her, and she longs for relief. At the urging of one of the hospice nuns, she writes to Harold, telling him her story and her secrets.
This is a sad, lovely book. It’s saved from being morbid and depressing by the beautiful, lyrical writing, by the indomitable spirit of the hospice nuns, and by the motley, often hilarious crew of other hospice patients who support, frustrate, and enliven Queenie.
About about three fourths of the way through the book, I got a little frustrated. The author writes stunning descriptions of the places Queenie lived on her journeys, with detailed prose of her beloved sea garden in all its stages. Maybe I was too eager to find out what happened (now, that’s a compliment!), or I didn’t want distractions. But I tired of the descriptions and thought the author was indulging herself a bit, while I panted to find out Queenie’s secrets and what happens, from Queenie’s point of view, when Harold Frye finally arrives.
Death is alive in this book, giving poignant significance to the briefest conversations, the simplest actions, the most unwelcome thoughts. But THE LOVE SONG OF MISS QUEENIE HENNESSY is more about life than death, and more about hope than despair. It makes me treasure the moment, my loved ones, and the help we humans give each other.
Rachel Joyce calls this book a “companion”, rather than a “sequel” to THE UNLIKELY PILGRIMAGE OF HAROLD FRYE. I like that, because, like a relationship that adds up to more than two separate people, the two books offer much more than each provides alone.
This book is a treasure. I hope you read and love it as much as I did.
Queenie Hennessy, in hospice in Berwick on Tweed, has a cancerous facial tumor and is waiting to die. She’s also waiting for sixty-five year old Harold Frye, who is walking across England to see her, his old employee and friend. Queenie loved Harold when she first laid eyes on him, and has not stopped for the twenty years since she left his life. She never let him know she loved him.
There are other secrets Queenie hasn’t told Harold. She believes she hurt him and his family terribly. Her secrets torment and haunt her, and she longs for relief. At the urging of one of the hospice nuns, she writes to Harold, telling him her story and her secrets.
This is a sad, lovely book. It’s saved from being morbid and depressing by the beautiful, lyrical writing, by the indomitable spirit of the hospice nuns, and by the motley, often hilarious crew of other hospice patients who support, frustrate, and enliven Queenie.
About about three fourths of the way through the book, I got a little frustrated. The author writes stunning descriptions of the places Queenie lived on her journeys, with detailed prose of her beloved sea garden in all its stages. Maybe I was too eager to find out what happened (now, that’s a compliment!), or I didn’t want distractions. But I tired of the descriptions and thought the author was indulging herself a bit, while I panted to find out Queenie’s secrets and what happens, from Queenie’s point of view, when Harold Frye finally arrives.
Death is alive in this book, giving poignant significance to the briefest conversations, the simplest actions, the most unwelcome thoughts. But THE LOVE SONG OF MISS QUEENIE HENNESSY is more about life than death, and more about hope than despair. It makes me treasure the moment, my loved ones, and the help we humans give each other.
Rachel Joyce calls this book a “companion”, rather than a “sequel” to THE UNLIKELY PILGRIMAGE OF HAROLD FRYE. I like that, because, like a relationship that adds up to more than two separate people, the two books offer much more than each provides alone.
This book is a treasure. I hope you read and love it as much as I did.