Bunctius' Book Review of
"The Sea of Light" by Jennifer Levin

The Sea of Light was initially published in 1993. I was much younger then, and I suspect a great deal dumber. Nonetheless, it struck a chord, for reasons which elude me now but were perhaps prophetic more than relevant at the time. Gabrielle suggested that I choose a favorite book to review first, and I instantly decided upon this one.

Jennifer Levin, who wrote The Sea of Light, later penned a book I haven’t read called Water Dancer, and then vanished. I’m sure she’s out there, trying to teach young and eager minds “how to write” in some small New England academic haven, an endeavor which Mark Helprin once supposed would be about as easy as stringing oak trees together in bails like hay.

I reread The Sea of Light this past weekend, trying to recall what it was that drew me to it and kept it at the top of the list of books I recommend to people for the past decade. Having read straight through it again, I have come to the conclusion that writing it must have been as difficult, as emotionally exhausting, as reading it is. If I had peered into my own head, found the story told in this book, and written it down, I might never have written another word.

In fact, I don’t think I’ll read the next book I’m reviewing until I’ve taken a week, or two, or three, to digest The Sea of Light again, from this older, presumably less dumb, perspective.

This book is hard. There are no two ways about it. Yet it is not hard in an unkind way or evil way, just hard the way life sometimes is. It weighs a lot, metaphorically speaking. It tells several stories, from several points of view, but primarily it tells the story of two survivors. One young woman survives a plane crash that costs the lives of those she loves most. One middle aged woman survives the loss of her lover to cancer. The two of them lead a parallel existence, the younger one as an athlete (swimmer) trying to make a comeback, and the elder as her newfound coach. Both of them are pounding their heads daily against the brick wall that is learning how to love the living again. They almost can’t remember how to touch other people, and they certainly can’t remember how to let themselves be touched.

Throw into this mix the voices of those around these women - the athlete’s father, a Cuban immigrant who has spent his life trying to create a “white” world for his WASP wife and their darker skinned children, and yet must turn to his Cuban heritage to try to heal his daughter; the hapless but ever optimistic daughter of Holocaust survivors who falls hopelessly in love with the damaged swimmer; and the delightfully mainstream and sarcastic younger brother, who points out when you least expect to hear his voice, let alone wisdom, that we are all refugees, in one way or another.

Levin is consistently wordy, analytical, determined to express in black and white the kinds of things that most of us can’t even acknowledge that we feel, let alone articulate. But she very often succeeds. What it is her characters feel is at turns painful, confusing, exhilarating, relieving, and surprising.

If there is a lesson or moral or fundamental point to be found in this story, it comes from the middle aged coach. She describes a revelation that has struck her, on the difference between permanence and significance. She points out that, while we would all like the things we accomplish, or people we love, to be permanent, what they are in fact is significant. Their lack of permanence suggests an inherent futility in the process of living itself, and yet the significance of certain things redeems the process.

This book does what life does. The lack of permanence is hammered home by events that seem astoundingly unfair, yet the significance of certain gestures and moments shines through, very quietly.

It still tops my list of recommended books, but I won’t be reading through it again for at least another decade.

The Sea of Light, by Jennifer Levin is available in paperback from Plume (a subsidiary of Penguin), through Amazon and major bookstores.

You can contact Bunctius at bunctius@dcdykes.com.

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