Why a  Parent Should  Never be a Child’s Biographer?

About Yiyun Li‘s new lyrical novel ‘Where Reasons End’

Why a  parent should  never be a child’s biographer,” states Yiyun Li in her new conversational novel, “Where Reasons End.” The narrator converses with the spirit of her son, Nikolai, who passed away at 16 by suicide. A parent should never be tasked with burying their own child; nor should they have to deliver their child’s eulogy. The book overflows with love, empathy, and yearning.

Through a series of imagined dialogues with Nikolai, occurring in a tranquil space outside of time and reality, Li constructs a recollection of their relationship. These conversations are a delight to read, unfolding naturally with intimacy, playfulness, and affection. As mother and son converse, their words create a familiar dance of teasing, critique, disagreement, forgiveness, and an attempt to understand each other. Both voices are astute and precise, yet it’s impossible to overlook that these conversations are channelled by a grieving mother, as the child, Nikolai, is no more.

At one point, Nikolai reassures his mother, saying, “I love you so much,” and expressing his wish not to have hurt her. His mother responds, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that at all. What’s hurtful is life.” The book is replete with such exchanges, though this example leans more towards sentimentality. Overall, the topics explored by mother and child tend to be philosophical, sparse, and quixotic. Li references Buddhist tradition, where a departed soul lingers for 49 days before moving on to the next realm. While Li does not believe in superstitions, her concern arises when the 49-day mark arrives during her mourning, fearing Nikolai’s departure from their conversation. His continued presence reveals more about the author than the fictional character of Nikolai.

They reminisce about Nikolai’s talent and fondness for knitting, his childhood drawings, T-shirts, and dreams. They struggle to recall which Elizabeth Bishop poem he memorized in sixth grade, with the mother revealing letters from Nikolai’s friends after they learned he wouldn’t return to school. She laments that Nikolai might have found life more bearable if she could have taught him to enjoy the frivolous and relinquish his unwavering perfectionism, a trait shared by both mother and son.

Li also describes the new house she and Nikolai’s father moved into, their first Christmas tree without him, and her difficulty with writing. The conversation frequently returns to the subject of writing, where Nikolai emerges as his mother’s harshest critic. While Li often expresses feeling muddled, Nikolai remains clear and unwavering in his words, appearing as if they are enshrined by supernatural omniscience and calm that can only be found in the afterlife. The mother doubts herself and questions how she could have been a better parent, while Nikolai stands firm in his decision to leave the world.

This is the essence of grief—a mother grappling with the impossible, attempting to decipher cryptic riddles about the cost of existence and the permanence of eternity. She reflects on another idea that she frequently circles back to: “To love is to trespass,” especially in the context of the love between a parent and a child. Maternal affection may be an overwhelming trespass, laden with wishful expectations and too much hope, making hope itself a complicated emotion, according to Li.

In “Where Reasons End,” Li writes, “I always imagine writing is for people who don’t want to feel or don’t know how to.” She questions whether a person commits suicide because they don’t want to live or because they don’t know how to live. The narrative reflects on Li’s childhood experience when her mother compelled her to learn to knit with old, non-elastic yarn, a practice she loathed. Yet, after Nikolai’s death, she finds herself sitting in his room, knitting and unraveling, echoing a practice imposed on her by her mother—a detail she doesn’t delve into further in the book.

Li emphasizes writing throughout the novel, and despite her literary achievements, she contemplates whether dedicating her life to reading and writing has been a waste of time. She questions the value of her solitary hours and considers if writing has become a burdensome task, worse than endlessly knitting and unraveling the same spool of yarn. In the midst of her musings, Nikolai’s love for reading and knitting echoes throughout the narrative, albeit not explicitly. There is an unconscious yearning for the discipline instilled by her own mother—the significance of work, meditation, study, practice, and precision. The value of time well spent.

Accepting the merits of hard work from any mother is challenging, but even more so when considering Li’s own background. She was a child math prodigy raised among nuclear physicists and scientists. Li migrated to the United States to study immunology at the University of Iowa, as her parents desired. They set exceptionally high standards for her, and her intellectual accomplishments are genuinely impressive. She accidentally stumbled into the prestigious Iowa Writers’ Workshop, switching her career path.

“Aesthetically, ‘Where Reasons End’ is an austere novel, with moments of substantial weight. However, some parts might feel redundant and repetitive, causing impatience in readers who question why the mother still dwells on her grief by page 82. This observation isn’t meant to be unkind but highlights the very insight Li is building towards—the notion that the gradual accumulation of small repetitions might hold value. It’s like muscles growing, a calendar filling up, or a scarf being knitted, then worn. Knit one, purl two. Page one, page two, page three. Through these meditative circles around impossible questions—Why did my child not want to live?—Li inches closer to understanding, offering some solace or the tiniest respite from her anguish and confusion.

Li also ponders, “How can I teach myself to want to live?” A question not for a mathematician but for an artist, a monastic nun, or a high temple priestess. To discover the answer, Li must engage with the departed. She’s hesitant to ask, aware that as the author, she is the sole source of the answer. In this novel, the mother seeks answers from her son, or more accurately, from his grave. She asks, and she listens attentively.

Near the end of the book, she remarks, “Eavesdropping used to be a crime.” To this, Nikolai reminds her of the times he’s heard her repeat this in her talks and lectures, saying, “Writing fiction is to eavesdrop on your characters’ hearts,” borrowing her own words. Li realises that she will never make that remark about eavesdropping again; it would sadden her. She is uncertain whether she has probed too deeply into Nikolai’s heart—trespassed, stolen, loved excessively—or if it’s the other way around, with Nikolai learning from her, his mother. This thought brings her happiness, however fleeting it may be.

Ultimately, “Where Reasons End” stands as a remarkable feat of empathy. Despite Li’s personal caution against parents writing about their children, she has harnessed something profoundly genuine and potent. Her empathy and courage are what make the book truly resonate. Anyone who has yearned to converse once more with someone who has departed will find comfort within these pages.”