AURELIA, AURÉLIA

A profound meditation on grief via unglued memories and literary fragments.

Central to this brief yet stunning book is the death of Davis’ husband, who succumbed to cancer after a long struggle. The acclaimed novelist is well versed in loss. “I’d given death a lot of thought,” she writes. “It was one of my favorite topics, in liturgy and literature.” An attentive reader and erudite writer, Davis plumbs her internal archive in search of solace and clarity in the face of ineffable tragedy. She writes about her husband in the bardo, a Buddhist term that describes the liminal space between life and death—a place, she explains, where “narrative seems to happen but doesn’t.” Her husband’s memory thrums throughout the memoir, somehow both a presence and an absence. The prose is equally undefinable, caught between poetic and concrete. Like “the story unfolding inside my husband’s organs,” she writes, “there was a narrative involved that didn’t follow conventional rules.” Cross-fading vignettes abound with little correlation but remain haunted by a sense that something invisible threads them together. Digressions about Virginia Woolf and Flaubert, the TV show Lost, and Beethoven’s bagatelles all miraculously align. Coincidences buzz with fated significance, unmoored and transformed over time. The titular Aurelia was a ship Davis once rode across the Atlantic; as an adult, she would discover a novella by Gérard de Nerval with the same name, but with an accent. “Aurelia,” she explains further, “is the Latin translation of the Greek word for chrysalis…emblem of metamorphosis and hiddenness.” Regarding memory, she writes, “when someone you have lived with for a very long time dies, memory stops working its regular way—it goes crazy. It is no longer like remembering; it is, more often, like astral projection.” These disparate moments transform the memoir into something that flows more like a guided dream, rendered in daring, vulnerable prose, steeped in death but brilliantly transformative.

A transcendent work of literary divination.