Fanny Howe (1940–2025)

Howe's novel is a splinter of fragments, bright glass letting light of philosophy and theology shine through the voice of Henny, a woman whose complexity and vulnerability sits with me even as I've closed the book and set it on the shelf. There is a density within Howe's prose and each paragraph feels on the verge of tipping over into a remarkable discovery.

Appreciating poetry is akin to fine wine-tasting or jazz collecting. It can seem like a mystery to the uninitiated, but a consuming passion to the lovers. I’ll be honest: my poetry acumen is woefully inadequate, but I still enjoy reading it. There were times in this book that I knew the words were important—even beautiful—even if I couldn’t explain why.

This is a book that wrestles with the grand topics of life: war, love, and religion. This book deserves to be read out loud. Even show more when the traditional way of understanding language disintegrates, the cadence feels somehow appropriate.

I’m afraid that’s the best review this poetry rookie can offer for this book. I enjoyed it, even if I’m unsure quite why. show less

Gone is a fumbling, grasping at the contours of the divine. I wish all theological journeys had such beauty and mysticism of the common.

Howe's writing always turns a screw loose in my brain and for that I'm forever grateful. There's such moments of frenetic beauty in this collection but if I'm being honest I had no idea what was happening in the poems most of the time.