J. R. Dawson’s The Lighthouse at the Edge of the World was never on my radar. I picked it up because I saw at it my local public library’s “recent releases” section, I liked the cover, and–after reading the synopsis on the book jacket–I was curious about what I might find inside.
On the surface, the book is a plot-driven, dual-perspective narrative about an encounter between two women in the space between worlds–the boundary between life and death. In the book, this space is embodied through the physical shore of Lake Michigan, and the story is centered on the city of Chicago. It is a fairly classic, almost archetypal story that unites traditional Jewish spirituality with regard to death, Greek mythology, a lesbian romance, and the hero’s journey. The Lighthouse at the Edge of the World is a combination of the Faust narrative and the legend of Orpheus; unlike those stories, this one has a redemption arc. Our characters are not lost, and the tale is better oriented toward today’s values.
I found the surface narrative to be far less compelling than Dawson’s atmospheric language and the thematic depths she submerges us in. This book is written with two major perspectives, although we do have a few short chapters written from the perspective of others.
The two major perspectives could not be more different. One character, Charlie, young woman living through the 2000. She is in her early 20s, around the age of a university student or just afters. The language used in her chapter reflects her viewpoint: she uses the language of anxiety, personal independence, and current trends. The other viewpoint, Nera’s, approaches the text as if it were written in the late 19th century. Her language has flourishes, but not so much to distract from the world being painted. In fact, her world is a beautiful, wondrous place to explore.
These two character perspectives are fundamental to Dawson’s story. Charlie is traumatized. She lost her sister in a mass shooting, and she does everything she can to bring her back. She is unable to grapple with her grief; she won’t process it, nor can others around her. Her cynicism and disillusionment colors her chapters, even as she possesses the miraculous capacity to witness ghosts. Nera, on the other hand, has been kept as a bird in a cage by her father, who has sought for her entire life to protect her from the tragic, horrible circumstances of the living world. Even though she was born a living human, she has no experience in the world outside the “in-between.”
Over the course of the story, we meet countless ghosts, as well as numerous “Haunts,” the spirits of deceased people who were unable–or unwilling–to release their attachment to life. As with any ghost story, our characters are metaphors for the experience of grief, trauma, and the past that remains with us.
Perhaps the ghostliest of characters is Harosen, Nera’s father, and the keeper of the titular “lighthouse at the edge of the world.” Harosen is a modern Charon, ferrying the deceased across the lake to the veil between worlds. Harosen is alive, but he may as well be dead. He is cold, self-protective, and is terrified of the outside world. Over the course of the story, we learn that he also has no recollection of any of his experiences in the world of the living, before he created the lighthouse. We do know that he moved to the shores of Chicago during the Great Fire, and the bulk of what we discover about his life comes not from him, but from his lover, David. Harosen simultaneously has a chokehold over the past, it is so close to him; yet, his memory fails him (and, oddly enough, this is by choice). Harosen, then, epitomizes the experience of deep trauma: he believes he learned lessons, but he is unable to get through them.
We meet other ghosts, like Edna, who reminds Nera to say a prayer as she brings the dead to their next phase. Nera and Charlie might also be read as ghosts, although they are very obviously alive. They either, like Charlie, hang onto the past so closely that there is nothing but the past. Nera, on the other hand, has no real history at all. In every case, there is something eerie here, as Mark Fisher defined it. Dawson’s book plays with presence and absence: both concepts appear both aesthetically and thematically.
In spite of all the pain depicted in this book (most of all, Charlie’s pain), Dawson offers us a pathway of how we might process and make sense of our own suffering. Charlie moves forward, and she has her setbacks, but she is able to overcome and find new reasons to live. This time, however, she develops a greater understanding of life’s ephemerality: rather than lead exclusively to suffering, the transience of things might empower us to give greater value to the little joys of everyday life.
Nera’s path is quite different from Charlie’s, although she–too–learns how to live. Her life had none of Charlie’s lost pleasures to begin with; while she does not suffer, she is forced to learn to appreciate life without any past experience. She hears about the world’s beauty from those residing in the lighthouse, but she has little context for these stories. With intimate knowledge of death (even if not of grieving), she is able to live without fear of loss: she is able to treasure each moment without gripping too tightly.
There are lessons here for readers like me: we, too, can live in this way.
We might differ from Charlie and Nera in that we have no idea what comes “after,” but we do not need to fear it. After all, does a light fear its “off” state while it is turned on? Of course not. I find it empowering to believe that death is the process of a drop making its way back to the sea: it comes with a feeling of wholeness. It is a horrible process for those who continue to live, as we must make sense of profound loss. But, we need not fear death itself; we can recognize its presence and live each moment in such a way that respects the passage of all things. At the same time, as the Japanese beautify that which is broken through wabi-sabi, we too can find beauty in the ephemeral.
The Lighthouse at the Edge of the World treats grief with a tenderness that many readers may need to experience, especially if s/he is currently mourning a loved one. I selected the book partially by chance, and I am thankful that I have now had the chance to walk through J. R. Dawson’s beautiful, broken world alongside some compelling characters. Altogether, it is an outstanding read.