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Small Rain
A medical crisis brings one man close to death – and to love, art, and beauty – in a profound and luminous novel by award-winning author Garth Greenwell.
A poet’s life is turned inside out by a sudden, wrenching pain. The pain brings him to his knees, and eventually to the ICU. Confined to bed, plunged into the dysfunctional American healthcare system, he struggles to understand what is happening to his body, as someone who has lived for many years in his mind.
This is a searching, sweeping novel set at the furthest edges of human experience, where the forces that give life value – art, memory, poetry, music, care – are thrown into sharp relief. Time expands and contracts. Sudden intimacies bloom. Small Rain surges beyond the hospital to encompass a radiant vision of human life: our shared vulnerability, the limits and possibilities of sympathy, the ideal of art and the fragile dream of America. Above all, this is a love story of the most unexpected kind.
A poet’s life is turned inside out by a sudden, wrenching pain. The pain brings him to his knees, and eventually to the ICU. Confined to bed, plunged into the dysfunctional American healthcare system, he struggles to understand what is happening to his body, as someone who has lived for many years in his mind.
This is a searching, sweeping novel set at the furthest edges of human experience, where the forces that give life value – art, memory, poetry, music, care – are thrown into sharp relief. Time expands and contracts. Sudden intimacies bloom. Small Rain surges beyond the hospital to encompass a radiant vision of human life: our shared vulnerability, the limits and possibilities of sympathy, the ideal of art and the fragile dream of America. Above all, this is a love story of the most unexpected kind.
Audiobook
First published September 3, 2024
About the author
Garth Greenwell
16 books1,270 followersGarth Greenwell is the author of What Belongs to You, which won the British Book Award for Debut of the Year, was longlisted for the National Book Award, and was a finalist for six other awards, including the PEN/Faulkner Award, the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. A New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice, it was named a Best Book of 2016 by over fifty publications in nine countries, and is being translated into a dozen languages. His short fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, A Public Space, and VICE, and he has written criticism for The New Yorker, the London Review of Books, and the New York Times Book Review, among others. He lives in Iowa City.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 174 reviews
September 6, 2024
I just LOVE Garth Greenwell! He is an expert when in it comes to turning human consciousness into language, and in "Small Rain", he ponders the experience of suddenly becoming life-threateningly ill and being stuck in a hospital. The unnamed Kentucky-born narrator and protagonist is a writer who lives in Iowa City with his partner, a Spanish poet and professor named L (and you guessed it: It's an alter ego of Greenwell himself, L representing his partner Luis Muñoz). After feeling debilitating pain for days, L finally convinces him to seek medical help - and as it turns out, he suffers from infrarenal aortic dissection, a rare and dangerous occurrence: A tear in the main artery of the body. While doctors with various specialties spend weeks attempting to find the cause and containing the disease, our narrator feels helpless and scared, with all kinds of thoughts racing through his head. This experience of being separated from life is heightened by the fact that Covid is raging and the only person allowed to visit the narrator is L (who, naturally, is also terrified).
In a way, Greenwell gives us a chamber play, with a protagonist confined to a room he only leaves to undergo scans etc., and frequently even confined to his bed. Doctors and nurses come and go, some of them building caring, temporary relationships with their patient, but L is the only person connecting him to what he knows as normalcy, and his mind is haunted by the things that have constituted his life until now: We learn about his dysfunctional family and his love for his half-sister G, former mental and physical ailments, how he got from being a voice major to studying in Iowa where he met L, how they literally build a home together, stabilizing structures and weathering storms, but he also ponders the political situation in America as well as music and poetry.
One of the texts he analyzes is Westron Wynde, the lyrics to a 16th century song that contains the lines "Westron wynde when wyll thow blow / the smalle rayne downe can Rayne" - so that's where the novel's title stems from, a poem the narrator sees as "an object of contemplation, of devotion even, inexhaustible", tricky but "more beautiful for it, for the difficulty". And that of course also goes for its sibling, this novel: It's puzzling and full of cracks, and the cracks are where Greenwell traditionally seeks meaning (do yourself a big favor and read Cleanness and What Belongs to You). Also, the book is a devotion to the mess we call life, and especially to L, who appears not as an idea or a metaphor, but as a three-dimensional, complex person.
What a wonderful, multi-faceted, deep text. Did I mention that I love Garth Greenwell?
In a way, Greenwell gives us a chamber play, with a protagonist confined to a room he only leaves to undergo scans etc., and frequently even confined to his bed. Doctors and nurses come and go, some of them building caring, temporary relationships with their patient, but L is the only person connecting him to what he knows as normalcy, and his mind is haunted by the things that have constituted his life until now: We learn about his dysfunctional family and his love for his half-sister G, former mental and physical ailments, how he got from being a voice major to studying in Iowa where he met L, how they literally build a home together, stabilizing structures and weathering storms, but he also ponders the political situation in America as well as music and poetry.
One of the texts he analyzes is Westron Wynde, the lyrics to a 16th century song that contains the lines "Westron wynde when wyll thow blow / the smalle rayne downe can Rayne" - so that's where the novel's title stems from, a poem the narrator sees as "an object of contemplation, of devotion even, inexhaustible", tricky but "more beautiful for it, for the difficulty". And that of course also goes for its sibling, this novel: It's puzzling and full of cracks, and the cracks are where Greenwell traditionally seeks meaning (do yourself a big favor and read Cleanness and What Belongs to You). Also, the book is a devotion to the mess we call life, and especially to L, who appears not as an idea or a metaphor, but as a three-dimensional, complex person.
What a wonderful, multi-faceted, deep text. Did I mention that I love Garth Greenwell?
September 18, 2024
I avoid books that have anything to do with the pandemic, but this one proved that a medical emergency during COVID can be about other things than COVID. I think it helped that I've read Garth Greenwell's previous books, and the protagonist is the same character at another point in his life. I'm not sure how a reader new to this author will connect.
I do think this is the closest book that reminded me of an episode from ER or House, but with the patient as the main character. I'm still going to give it 4 stars because some moments didn’t keep my attention, including the one that inspired the title. But this is the book that made me realize Garth Greenwell is one of my favorite authors.
I do think this is the closest book that reminded me of an episode from ER or House, but with the patient as the main character. I'm still going to give it 4 stars because some moments didn’t keep my attention, including the one that inspired the title. But this is the book that made me realize Garth Greenwell is one of my favorite authors.
September 10, 2024
Although Greenwell’s exceptionally-accomplished novel has autobiographical underpinnings, he’s adamant it be regarded as fiction, not autofiction – a genre he views as suspect perhaps because, for him, it blurs the boundaries between personal experience and the transfiguration of experience through art. Greenwell’s story's narrated by an unnamed man in the throes of a medical emergency, heralded by sudden, previously-unimaginable pain. But this emergency’s unfolding in the early days of the Covid pandemic, and the narrator’s more concerned with avoiding overflowing hospitals than seeking treatment. But when it’s clear this pain’s not going away, he’s forced to act. After hours in a dingy, crowded emergency room, it transpires the narrator’s aorta’s so damaged it’s a miracle he’s still alive, let alone still standing. But the explanation for his condition eludes him and his doctors. He’s an enigma that gives him near-celebrity status for the team of professionals rushing to his bedside.
And so, the narrator’s transplanted from the world of the living into a liminal space, the otherworldly territory of the sick. The pandemic means hospital visitors are restricted, so human contact’s primarily with medical staff: the outside’s only glimpsed through windows, so that a sighting of a sparrow perched on a nearby ledge becomes something marvellous. Isolation stirs a series of reflections: some based in memory, others in thoughts about a self the narrator can no longer take for granted. Outside, he’s a poet slowly building a reputation in literary circles, a southerner now living in Iowa City. A choice founded in his relationship with fellow poet L. who teaches there – L.’s character mirrors aspects of Greenwell’s own partner, poet Luis Muñoz. The bond between narrator and L., albeit shifting from earlier passion to comfortable domesticity, highlights the strangeness of being assigned a new identity as patient rather than person; subjected to intimate acts ‘stripped of intimacy,’ scrutinised, handled and assessed by a succession of strangers. Strangers in turn evaluated by the narrator: those who might provisionally act as friends; those who appear caring; those who seem closer to callous. All underlining the narrator’s incredible vulnerability: reduced to a mass of arteries, organs, and limbs that operate as junctions between his body and the machinery he now needs to function.
The narrator’s time’s punctuated by hospital routines and procedures with brief intervals created by L.’s daily visits. As time passes, the narrator retreats into meditations on the art and literature important to him. Small incidents set off fertile chains of association, as his doctors mentally dissect and parse his body, the narrator parses and dissects his favourite poems – the incomprehensible language of medicine countered by the known of literature. Two separate realms which first clash then slowly intersect - unlike the ongoing clashes between hospitals battling Covid and swathes of American society refusing to admit to its existence. A situation that angers and baffles the narrator whose analysis of his situation mingles with concerns about his society, a culture of distinctly ‘American unreason.’ The sense of being undone by his body parallels impressions of America as a ‘coming-apart country’ rife with conflict and falsities: racist policing; climate denial in the face of ongoing ecological devastation. So that Greenwell’s remarkably-convincing portrait of a body in crisis broadens into a compelling examination of contemporary America’s ills.
Although the narrator here clearly connects to the ones featured in Greenwell’s earlier novels, this works perfectly as a standalone piece. Greenwell’s influences are wide-ranging drawing on the so-called literature of illness including Virginia Woolf’s discussions of living with pain. For me there were echoes too of Mark Doty, Anne Boyer’s writings on cancer and capitalism, and Denton Welch grappling with hospitalisation after a catastrophic accident. Greenwell’s prose is disciplined, measured yet strangely hypnotic – as is his meticulously detailed account of his narrator’s medical treatments. But this is also a book about what might console and sustain in the face of overwhelming precarity: tenderness, the recognition, acceptance, and celebration of love. Greenwell’s dubbed it as above all a message to his partner Luis. Yet Greenwell’s narrative steers admirably clear of sentimentality, it’s fluid, gripping, relatable and, in its early stages, sometimes close to unbearably tense.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Picador for an ARC
Rating: 4/4.5 rounded up
And so, the narrator’s transplanted from the world of the living into a liminal space, the otherworldly territory of the sick. The pandemic means hospital visitors are restricted, so human contact’s primarily with medical staff: the outside’s only glimpsed through windows, so that a sighting of a sparrow perched on a nearby ledge becomes something marvellous. Isolation stirs a series of reflections: some based in memory, others in thoughts about a self the narrator can no longer take for granted. Outside, he’s a poet slowly building a reputation in literary circles, a southerner now living in Iowa City. A choice founded in his relationship with fellow poet L. who teaches there – L.’s character mirrors aspects of Greenwell’s own partner, poet Luis Muñoz. The bond between narrator and L., albeit shifting from earlier passion to comfortable domesticity, highlights the strangeness of being assigned a new identity as patient rather than person; subjected to intimate acts ‘stripped of intimacy,’ scrutinised, handled and assessed by a succession of strangers. Strangers in turn evaluated by the narrator: those who might provisionally act as friends; those who appear caring; those who seem closer to callous. All underlining the narrator’s incredible vulnerability: reduced to a mass of arteries, organs, and limbs that operate as junctions between his body and the machinery he now needs to function.
The narrator’s time’s punctuated by hospital routines and procedures with brief intervals created by L.’s daily visits. As time passes, the narrator retreats into meditations on the art and literature important to him. Small incidents set off fertile chains of association, as his doctors mentally dissect and parse his body, the narrator parses and dissects his favourite poems – the incomprehensible language of medicine countered by the known of literature. Two separate realms which first clash then slowly intersect - unlike the ongoing clashes between hospitals battling Covid and swathes of American society refusing to admit to its existence. A situation that angers and baffles the narrator whose analysis of his situation mingles with concerns about his society, a culture of distinctly ‘American unreason.’ The sense of being undone by his body parallels impressions of America as a ‘coming-apart country’ rife with conflict and falsities: racist policing; climate denial in the face of ongoing ecological devastation. So that Greenwell’s remarkably-convincing portrait of a body in crisis broadens into a compelling examination of contemporary America’s ills.
Although the narrator here clearly connects to the ones featured in Greenwell’s earlier novels, this works perfectly as a standalone piece. Greenwell’s influences are wide-ranging drawing on the so-called literature of illness including Virginia Woolf’s discussions of living with pain. For me there were echoes too of Mark Doty, Anne Boyer’s writings on cancer and capitalism, and Denton Welch grappling with hospitalisation after a catastrophic accident. Greenwell’s prose is disciplined, measured yet strangely hypnotic – as is his meticulously detailed account of his narrator’s medical treatments. But this is also a book about what might console and sustain in the face of overwhelming precarity: tenderness, the recognition, acceptance, and celebration of love. Greenwell’s dubbed it as above all a message to his partner Luis. Yet Greenwell’s narrative steers admirably clear of sentimentality, it’s fluid, gripping, relatable and, in its early stages, sometimes close to unbearably tense.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Picador for an ARC
Rating: 4/4.5 rounded up
July 14, 2024
This novel doesn't feel like any other novel, a very high compliment. It is strange to read a book that documents something so clearly and perfectly and realize that you cannot remember finding it in any other book or film. The something it documents is, broadly, how it feels to be in a hospital in America in the 21st century. But, of course, within that are so many other things. The fragility and strangeness of the body, the loss of autonomy and all the fear and anxiety that go with it, the ways your mind and your body can seem two entirely unconnected things, and the strangely specific world of a hospital in the summer of 2021.
A hospital is a place without privacy, without intimacy, and often there can be a near complete loss of the sense of self between physical suffering, medication, etc. Greenwell's novel, like his previous ones, follows an unnamed writer who is quite similar to Greenwell himself, though this time we are firmly in America, the writer lives in Iowa City with his longtime partner L, teaching and writing. His medical crisis is sudden and inexplicable, leaving him suddenly alone in the ICU waiting for a resolution, thrown into a limbo state of not being able to eat or walk or sleep or even think all that clearly some of the time. In the novel, we sometimes follow every little detail of his interactions with a doctor or nurse, we sometimes follow his thoughts as they move through time. It is not a novel with chapter breaks or any breaks, really (an artistic choice I respect given the way everything bleeds together but which makes this a very hard book to read before bed!) without a real plot.
In the past, I have been surprised at how much I enjoy Greenwell's writing. Books with little plot and more of an emphasis on prose are often not my style. In his previous two novels what really won me over was the queer life and sex. In this book there is very little sex (maybe a normal amount for a normal novel, but his novels have never been normal when it comes to sex in the best way) but I still found myself captivated. Perhaps because sex is just the body and so much of this book is about the body.
Greenwell writes very realistic fiction, and here he depicts so specifically a time and place, the fears and joys of it, that it often feels less like a novel and more like you are actually present as it all unfolds. It's a truly impressive and important work, feels like something I would put in a time capsule as a way to communicate what it feels like to be alive right now.
A hospital is a place without privacy, without intimacy, and often there can be a near complete loss of the sense of self between physical suffering, medication, etc. Greenwell's novel, like his previous ones, follows an unnamed writer who is quite similar to Greenwell himself, though this time we are firmly in America, the writer lives in Iowa City with his longtime partner L, teaching and writing. His medical crisis is sudden and inexplicable, leaving him suddenly alone in the ICU waiting for a resolution, thrown into a limbo state of not being able to eat or walk or sleep or even think all that clearly some of the time. In the novel, we sometimes follow every little detail of his interactions with a doctor or nurse, we sometimes follow his thoughts as they move through time. It is not a novel with chapter breaks or any breaks, really (an artistic choice I respect given the way everything bleeds together but which makes this a very hard book to read before bed!) without a real plot.
In the past, I have been surprised at how much I enjoy Greenwell's writing. Books with little plot and more of an emphasis on prose are often not my style. In his previous two novels what really won me over was the queer life and sex. In this book there is very little sex (maybe a normal amount for a normal novel, but his novels have never been normal when it comes to sex in the best way) but I still found myself captivated. Perhaps because sex is just the body and so much of this book is about the body.
Greenwell writes very realistic fiction, and here he depicts so specifically a time and place, the fears and joys of it, that it often feels less like a novel and more like you are actually present as it all unfolds. It's a truly impressive and important work, feels like something I would put in a time capsule as a way to communicate what it feels like to be alive right now.
June 2, 2024
✰ 3 stars ✰
“Maybe there are only ever provisional truths, about the big questions I mean, the questions about how to live, maybe only competing truths, and maybe that isn’t the same thing as no truths at all, maybe we have to take them as they come.”
If there is one thing reading Small Rain taught me is that before requesting an ARC, it would be advisable to get a scope of the author's writing style, before having to read a latest release of theirs. So that I can assess beforehand whether or not their writing style suits my palette, or at least I can have something to compare with, to determine whether or not it follows the similar pattern of their previous works. 😮💨 I have not read a novel by Garth Greenwell before; but the blurb sounded promising and intriguing enough for me to want to give it a try - which I did. And what I surmised is that I probably won't be inclined to read more of their works, but that does not mean I don't appreciate what he was trying to portray in his story.
“That feeling, the feeling of being loved, the surprise of it, had faded over the years, with domesticity and its constant minor frictions, its impediments to freedom; but it was still there, and it flooded me now.”
His latest work follows an unnamed Kentucky-native English teacher, as he relays his time spend in an Iowa hospital amidst the COVID pandemic, where he has been admitted for emergency treatment to the highly life-threatening infrarenal aortic dissection that if they had not caught sooner, could have resulted in immediate death. It is the way that he wrote it - by keeping the protagonist nameless - by referring to the people important to him in his life with only their initials - by only addressing the nurses and doctors assigned to his treatment with their full names - makes this approach a very familiar and hard-hitting one to those who have experienced such a feeling. 👌🏻👌🏻 'You’re trying to make me feel small, the man said, you’re trying to use your intellect to make me feel small, and it’s not going to happen.' The feeling of not knowing what is going to happen to you - by being completely helpless against not only the ignorance of his medical team, by not knowing whether or not he'll heal - that innate fear that clings to one's heart as they try to cope - the embarrassment of being confined to the bed - forced to reveal all one's vulnerabilities and intimate exposures. 😓
It was viscerally described, to the point that all the moments where said protagonist felt his humiliation and shame made me uncomfortable for him, capturing with vivid exposure what it feels when one is a hospital patient. The writing amplified it more so, perhaps by the lack of quotation marks when dialogue is initiated - to the palpable suffering of excruciating pain and daunting fear that a misstep could cost him his life - 'an ER doctor’s dream, you come in thinking you have something simple but it turns out to be much more interesting' - the anger and desire to hurt those who hold his life in his hands and fearing that they aren't taking him seriously. 😢 I admit some of the medical jargon and detailed descriptions of his treatment made me a bit uncomfortable and squeamish, along with the claustrophobic vibe of being confined to the bed, but if it were - then does that not mean the author succeeded in capturing it perfectly?
“Why should I feel aggrieved, I thought, if you want injustice, look there, dying at forty-five or fifty isn’t unjust. So you haven’t seized every moment of your life, who has; people die young every day, I said to myself, younger than you, why act like it’s such a tragedy.”
There was definitely a lack of love for nurses and doctors, worsened by how he had to face so much of it alone at first - no one to express their concerns for him - no one to ask about his well being and how long till he'll come out of his condition with updates about his progress - except for the occasional visit from his Spanish-speaking partner, L that presented even more of a language constraint for speaking up for him. But, towards the end of his ordeal, that irritation and judgmental views shifted to those of appreciation and gratitude - one that shined in how the nurturing care of those he had become so familiar with was one that he would miss out on. 😕 That he did not know if simply saying thank you would be enough; I liked that subtle inclusion. 'It’s like teaching, I guess, a relationship that engendered intensity but had transience built in, so that the sign of its success was its ending.' That despite their shortcomings and the unfortunate circumstances he had to face, we can't deny or ignore how much responsibility rests upon them - especially during a crisis as it is - it is not fair to be so callous in their regard of how they are doing whatever it takes to help him heal as swiftly as possible. 😟
What kept it from being confined simply to his dealings with the incompetency and innate fear - his fierce desperation to heal was how with each current event gave us a reflection on his life - how a significant moment that somehow related to whatever he was going through at that time. It was that simple touch - those certain breaks that interrupted the flow of it being one long story - the gentle reminders of how between dealing with regular checkups and well-meaning caregivers, who irk more than help, provide an insightful look to the memories of his childhood, his studies, his relationships both with his family and L made it a much more personal story. 🥺 Yes, it does make for very long-winded sentences of uninterrupted monologues, which I do agree is showing the stream of consciousness that shows his own conscience as he battles his illness and the capabilities of those his life has been entrusted with. 'Why do we love what we love, why does so much fail to move us, why does so much pass by us unloved.' It's that stage of either grieving for missed opportunities or yearning for the chance to live again - the look back on regrets and mistakes and the hope that you can have the chance to make up for them. It's such a natural instinct - the power to live - to survive any disease that comes our way. 🙏🏻 🙏🏻
And that's what stood out for me; this balance the author crafted where it reads like something any person can relate to - an honest and expressive look at what any patient goes through when they are at this pivotal and extremely vulnerable moment where life and death could go either way and it's not only a battle against those who are entrusted to care for him, but also to look back on one's own life, to think about the mistakes made in one's journey and hoping for the promising of reaching a new destination, if all goes well. 😢 'They were terms I could understand, being lost or saved by what one made or failed to make; and I had brought forth so little, I had laid up all my treasures for that future time I wouldn’t have now, maybe, the time that had been cut short.' And yes, at times, I did feel that the prose was meandering off a little too much into self-reflection that did not really amount to anything, but then I would be pulled back in, by the gripping intensity of whatever challenge the protagonist was facing at that time - be it, a faulty assessment or a neglectful inclination that prevented the plot from staying stagnant. 👍🏻
“I know it might be hard to hear but all of that can be a blessing, it can clarify what you care about, how you want to spend your time; and I remembered what L had said on his first visit, that it could remind us how we wanted to live.”
The other part that certainly merits a mention is the relationship between the narrator and L - one built on years of love and support - of trusting in each other through the good times and the bad - all those past arguments and insecurities - the tension that could have led to something more - for when it comes to the time to be there for each other - there is a beautiful heartfelt bond of believing that everything will be alright. 'I was surprised by how much I missed him, more than missed, how much I longed for him.' ❤️🩹❤️🩹 Even though it was only a couple of weeks in the hospital, the author gave us plenty of background into their history that made them into well-fleshed out characters that spoke more than just their initials - this deep-rooted love and affection that was sincere and palpable, when they made it through the roughest parts of their lives only to make it safely back into each other's hearts. How this difficult trial helped shape their love into something stronger and deeper that neither of them had any desire to ever break apart from. 🫂 🫂
So, to reiterate my initial thoughts - the writing was not to my tastes, but I do believe that there is a very concrete story buried underneath prose that takes awhile to get the hang off, but one that is deeply impactful and relatable that is both sympathetic and empathetic to those who have lived such an experience. It is summed up quite perfectly by the protagonist, himself - 'one of my favorite poems, authorless, mysterious, the first two lines unparsable: Westron wynde, when wyll thow blow, The smalle rayne downe can Rayne. As he explains its context and meaning behind it, you definitely get a wider appreciation for the rather puzzling and difficult to comprehend at times way in which Garth Greenwell wrote the story - wandering and wavering, yet underneath it all, 'isn’t the poem more beautiful for it, for the difficulty, for the way we can’t quite make sense of it - so that the poem becomes not just a message but an object of contemplation, of devotion even, inexhaustible.' 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
*Thank you to NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for an honest review.
“Maybe there are only ever provisional truths, about the big questions I mean, the questions about how to live, maybe only competing truths, and maybe that isn’t the same thing as no truths at all, maybe we have to take them as they come.”
If there is one thing reading Small Rain taught me is that before requesting an ARC, it would be advisable to get a scope of the author's writing style, before having to read a latest release of theirs. So that I can assess beforehand whether or not their writing style suits my palette, or at least I can have something to compare with, to determine whether or not it follows the similar pattern of their previous works. 😮💨 I have not read a novel by Garth Greenwell before; but the blurb sounded promising and intriguing enough for me to want to give it a try - which I did. And what I surmised is that I probably won't be inclined to read more of their works, but that does not mean I don't appreciate what he was trying to portray in his story.
“That feeling, the feeling of being loved, the surprise of it, had faded over the years, with domesticity and its constant minor frictions, its impediments to freedom; but it was still there, and it flooded me now.”
His latest work follows an unnamed Kentucky-native English teacher, as he relays his time spend in an Iowa hospital amidst the COVID pandemic, where he has been admitted for emergency treatment to the highly life-threatening infrarenal aortic dissection that if they had not caught sooner, could have resulted in immediate death. It is the way that he wrote it - by keeping the protagonist nameless - by referring to the people important to him in his life with only their initials - by only addressing the nurses and doctors assigned to his treatment with their full names - makes this approach a very familiar and hard-hitting one to those who have experienced such a feeling. 👌🏻👌🏻 'You’re trying to make me feel small, the man said, you’re trying to use your intellect to make me feel small, and it’s not going to happen.' The feeling of not knowing what is going to happen to you - by being completely helpless against not only the ignorance of his medical team, by not knowing whether or not he'll heal - that innate fear that clings to one's heart as they try to cope - the embarrassment of being confined to the bed - forced to reveal all one's vulnerabilities and intimate exposures. 😓
It was viscerally described, to the point that all the moments where said protagonist felt his humiliation and shame made me uncomfortable for him, capturing with vivid exposure what it feels when one is a hospital patient. The writing amplified it more so, perhaps by the lack of quotation marks when dialogue is initiated - to the palpable suffering of excruciating pain and daunting fear that a misstep could cost him his life - 'an ER doctor’s dream, you come in thinking you have something simple but it turns out to be much more interesting' - the anger and desire to hurt those who hold his life in his hands and fearing that they aren't taking him seriously. 😢 I admit some of the medical jargon and detailed descriptions of his treatment made me a bit uncomfortable and squeamish, along with the claustrophobic vibe of being confined to the bed, but if it were - then does that not mean the author succeeded in capturing it perfectly?
“Why should I feel aggrieved, I thought, if you want injustice, look there, dying at forty-five or fifty isn’t unjust. So you haven’t seized every moment of your life, who has; people die young every day, I said to myself, younger than you, why act like it’s such a tragedy.”
There was definitely a lack of love for nurses and doctors, worsened by how he had to face so much of it alone at first - no one to express their concerns for him - no one to ask about his well being and how long till he'll come out of his condition with updates about his progress - except for the occasional visit from his Spanish-speaking partner, L that presented even more of a language constraint for speaking up for him. But, towards the end of his ordeal, that irritation and judgmental views shifted to those of appreciation and gratitude - one that shined in how the nurturing care of those he had become so familiar with was one that he would miss out on. 😕 That he did not know if simply saying thank you would be enough; I liked that subtle inclusion. 'It’s like teaching, I guess, a relationship that engendered intensity but had transience built in, so that the sign of its success was its ending.' That despite their shortcomings and the unfortunate circumstances he had to face, we can't deny or ignore how much responsibility rests upon them - especially during a crisis as it is - it is not fair to be so callous in their regard of how they are doing whatever it takes to help him heal as swiftly as possible. 😟
What kept it from being confined simply to his dealings with the incompetency and innate fear - his fierce desperation to heal was how with each current event gave us a reflection on his life - how a significant moment that somehow related to whatever he was going through at that time. It was that simple touch - those certain breaks that interrupted the flow of it being one long story - the gentle reminders of how between dealing with regular checkups and well-meaning caregivers, who irk more than help, provide an insightful look to the memories of his childhood, his studies, his relationships both with his family and L made it a much more personal story. 🥺 Yes, it does make for very long-winded sentences of uninterrupted monologues, which I do agree is showing the stream of consciousness that shows his own conscience as he battles his illness and the capabilities of those his life has been entrusted with. 'Why do we love what we love, why does so much fail to move us, why does so much pass by us unloved.' It's that stage of either grieving for missed opportunities or yearning for the chance to live again - the look back on regrets and mistakes and the hope that you can have the chance to make up for them. It's such a natural instinct - the power to live - to survive any disease that comes our way. 🙏🏻 🙏🏻
And that's what stood out for me; this balance the author crafted where it reads like something any person can relate to - an honest and expressive look at what any patient goes through when they are at this pivotal and extremely vulnerable moment where life and death could go either way and it's not only a battle against those who are entrusted to care for him, but also to look back on one's own life, to think about the mistakes made in one's journey and hoping for the promising of reaching a new destination, if all goes well. 😢 'They were terms I could understand, being lost or saved by what one made or failed to make; and I had brought forth so little, I had laid up all my treasures for that future time I wouldn’t have now, maybe, the time that had been cut short.' And yes, at times, I did feel that the prose was meandering off a little too much into self-reflection that did not really amount to anything, but then I would be pulled back in, by the gripping intensity of whatever challenge the protagonist was facing at that time - be it, a faulty assessment or a neglectful inclination that prevented the plot from staying stagnant. 👍🏻
“I know it might be hard to hear but all of that can be a blessing, it can clarify what you care about, how you want to spend your time; and I remembered what L had said on his first visit, that it could remind us how we wanted to live.”
The other part that certainly merits a mention is the relationship between the narrator and L - one built on years of love and support - of trusting in each other through the good times and the bad - all those past arguments and insecurities - the tension that could have led to something more - for when it comes to the time to be there for each other - there is a beautiful heartfelt bond of believing that everything will be alright. 'I was surprised by how much I missed him, more than missed, how much I longed for him.' ❤️🩹❤️🩹 Even though it was only a couple of weeks in the hospital, the author gave us plenty of background into their history that made them into well-fleshed out characters that spoke more than just their initials - this deep-rooted love and affection that was sincere and palpable, when they made it through the roughest parts of their lives only to make it safely back into each other's hearts. How this difficult trial helped shape their love into something stronger and deeper that neither of them had any desire to ever break apart from. 🫂 🫂
So, to reiterate my initial thoughts - the writing was not to my tastes, but I do believe that there is a very concrete story buried underneath prose that takes awhile to get the hang off, but one that is deeply impactful and relatable that is both sympathetic and empathetic to those who have lived such an experience. It is summed up quite perfectly by the protagonist, himself - 'one of my favorite poems, authorless, mysterious, the first two lines unparsable: Westron wynde, when wyll thow blow, The smalle rayne downe can Rayne. As he explains its context and meaning behind it, you definitely get a wider appreciation for the rather puzzling and difficult to comprehend at times way in which Garth Greenwell wrote the story - wandering and wavering, yet underneath it all, 'isn’t the poem more beautiful for it, for the difficulty, for the way we can’t quite make sense of it - so that the poem becomes not just a message but an object of contemplation, of devotion even, inexhaustible.' 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
*Thank you to NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for an honest review.
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September 10, 2024Review coming soon!
August 8, 2024
Extraordinary. The apex of auto-fiction, naturalism, realism. A human experience in novel form. The closest thing to lived experience I’ve ever read. More sung than written, scored rather than punctuated.
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August 17, 2024A kaleidoscopic literary page turner about a man’s mystery illness during the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic. I really loved this book because it got really deep in ways I didn’t expect. There was the main plot of the middle aged gay narrator describing his pain and time in the hospital, closer to death than he had ever been before. This really propelled the narrative forward. Garth Greenwell is such a gifted writer. As nurses and doctors try to investigate his history to see what might have caused an aortic rupture in his body, the narrative breaks into small reflections and introspective asides of his history and the moments that have made up his life as he also searches for the cause.
This book was a stark reminder of not taking health for granted. To be human and healthy we have everything. Once that is stripped away, we must face our mortality, which is a truly frightening aspect of being alive. But what made the book beautiful was that it became a meditative exploration of life itself and an ode to the soul inside the shell of our bodies. Highly recommend!
This book was a stark reminder of not taking health for granted. To be human and healthy we have everything. Once that is stripped away, we must face our mortality, which is a truly frightening aspect of being alive. But what made the book beautiful was that it became a meditative exploration of life itself and an ode to the soul inside the shell of our bodies. Highly recommend!
August 18, 2024
4,5
Garth Greenwell had his share of misfortune in 2020. 'Small Rain' is an autobiographical account of a period he spent on the intensive care of a hospital in Iowa City, with a life-threatening condition. It wasn't COVID, but it was 2020 and the pandemic was still at its height.
Greenwell speaks about the care he received, the pain, fear and uncertainty he felt, but there are thoughtful digressions too, on American healthcare, on a divided society, on poetry and teaching poetry in an age of social media, on human contact, on buying a house and living together. It is a Covid-novel too in a sense and it was good te be reminded of the care workers.
Auto-fiction is a genre I usually enjoy, and I appreciate Greenwell's clear prose and his openness (as in previous works) very much.
I recommend the audiobook read by the author who has a very sympathetic voice.
Garth Greenwell had his share of misfortune in 2020. 'Small Rain' is an autobiographical account of a period he spent on the intensive care of a hospital in Iowa City, with a life-threatening condition. It wasn't COVID, but it was 2020 and the pandemic was still at its height.
Greenwell speaks about the care he received, the pain, fear and uncertainty he felt, but there are thoughtful digressions too, on American healthcare, on a divided society, on poetry and teaching poetry in an age of social media, on human contact, on buying a house and living together. It is a Covid-novel too in a sense and it was good te be reminded of the care workers.
Auto-fiction is a genre I usually enjoy, and I appreciate Greenwell's clear prose and his openness (as in previous works) very much.
I recommend the audiobook read by the author who has a very sympathetic voice.
August 30, 2024
At first glance, this novel feel starkly different from Greenwell's earlier fiction. "What Belongs to You" and "Cleanness", both set in Bulgaria, explore the gritty spaces of gay kink, anonymous sex and sadomasochism. In contrast, "Small Rain" feels like a middle-aged sequel (all his novels are autofictional to some extent), the story of a gay man in Iowa (once a teacher in Bulgaria) who has developed a life-threatening case of aortitis. When he arrives at the hospital, at the very beginning of the COVID pandemic, he is a baffling mystery to his doctors. His nurse tells him repeatedly, "you are very interesting", as if he were an object of curiosity rather than a patient of care. Most cases of aortitis occur in the elderly but he has no medical preconditions and no obvious infection. He is shuttled from the ER to ICU, subjected to a battery of blood tests, ultra sounds and cat scans, and his skin becomes a checkerboard of bruises from all the IV drips, injections and catheters inserted into his arms, legs and stomach—this is worlds away from Eastern European fetish dungeons of his earlier novels. But nonetheless, Greenwell distinguishes himself as a poetic authority on intimacy and voyeurism except, in this novel, these themes are foregrounded in the hospital ward rather than the bedroom. Specialists visit, followed by a train of medical students, and constantly examine and question him at all hours. The narrator is watched, prodded, massaged, and needled, and he has to become used to strangers helping him walk, move and urinate. The hospital is a paradoxical site: cold and impersonal but still intimate and tactile. In that respect, the hospital actually isn't so different from the cruising spot—a place where a man is more of a body and less of a person. The sexual passivity of the gay man in "Cleanness" becomes the clinical passivity of the patient in "Small Rain". In one particularly poignant moment, he describes how the "particularizing attention of the doctors, the precise data they collected about my body had nothing to do with me". It's eerily like a one-night hook-up, the man reduced to an assemblage of flesh to be gazed at and quickly handled.
I thought this was a beautiful novel that turned the excruciating uncertainty and long waiting-times of hospital care into a poetic meditation on the body and suffering. In the hospital, language seems to break down. He is asked to rate his pain on a scale but he's not sure if his "8" corresponds to what his doctors understand by "8" (and as Wittgenstein would say, pain is a fundamentally private sensation that cannot be communicated, that cannot transcend our intersubjective boundaries—no one can directly share their own internal experiences; no one can objectively feel someone else's pain). Greenwell's novel is in some ways an attempt to make sense of this pain and his fragile physical and mental health. The narrator's own body is an enigma to him—a machine, a piece of circuitry, a complex object he had never thought about until it became dysfunctional. The doctors use a vocabulary that sometimes stuns and sometimes distresses him. His doctor mentions the possibility of a "false lumen" and he immediately thinks how beautiful it sounds; a nurse describes poppers as "vasodilators" and he just thinks, "what a beautiful word". The technical jargon and Latinate flourishes (the "lumen" and "vena cava") of the specialists are, in his literary mind, a source of verbal wonder rather than a clear-cut explanation. But the metaphors the doctors use are equally disturbing to him: one says that they will be "carpet-bombing" his veins and he is alarmed. He's not sure what is happening to his own body or what the treatments are doing exactly—the doctor-speak is shrouded in the hermetic verbiage of the medical textbook or garbled by some vulgar hyperbole. The hospital exposes everything he doesn't know about himself—his internal anatomy, his mental fragility, the limits of his language.
This makes it all sound highfalutin and philosophical and I'm not giving the novel full justice. It's a highly readable story that dramatizes the bewildering failures and obstacles of healthcare in America, the insurance companies refusing to pay for a procedure, the inexperienced nurse obstinately unwilling to listen to his pleas, the dispassionate doctors dismissing his questions; it's a reminder of the COVID era—the paralyzing uncertainty, the mounting death tolls, the culture war over masking, the state-by-state policies, the contradictory health advice, a collective trauma which already seems to be selectively disappearing into partisan amnesia. It's also a love story, a man isolated in a room, waiting for his boyfriend to be allowed to visit him. A beautiful story.
I thought this was a beautiful novel that turned the excruciating uncertainty and long waiting-times of hospital care into a poetic meditation on the body and suffering. In the hospital, language seems to break down. He is asked to rate his pain on a scale but he's not sure if his "8" corresponds to what his doctors understand by "8" (and as Wittgenstein would say, pain is a fundamentally private sensation that cannot be communicated, that cannot transcend our intersubjective boundaries—no one can directly share their own internal experiences; no one can objectively feel someone else's pain). Greenwell's novel is in some ways an attempt to make sense of this pain and his fragile physical and mental health. The narrator's own body is an enigma to him—a machine, a piece of circuitry, a complex object he had never thought about until it became dysfunctional. The doctors use a vocabulary that sometimes stuns and sometimes distresses him. His doctor mentions the possibility of a "false lumen" and he immediately thinks how beautiful it sounds; a nurse describes poppers as "vasodilators" and he just thinks, "what a beautiful word". The technical jargon and Latinate flourishes (the "lumen" and "vena cava") of the specialists are, in his literary mind, a source of verbal wonder rather than a clear-cut explanation. But the metaphors the doctors use are equally disturbing to him: one says that they will be "carpet-bombing" his veins and he is alarmed. He's not sure what is happening to his own body or what the treatments are doing exactly—the doctor-speak is shrouded in the hermetic verbiage of the medical textbook or garbled by some vulgar hyperbole. The hospital exposes everything he doesn't know about himself—his internal anatomy, his mental fragility, the limits of his language.
This makes it all sound highfalutin and philosophical and I'm not giving the novel full justice. It's a highly readable story that dramatizes the bewildering failures and obstacles of healthcare in America, the insurance companies refusing to pay for a procedure, the inexperienced nurse obstinately unwilling to listen to his pleas, the dispassionate doctors dismissing his questions; it's a reminder of the COVID era—the paralyzing uncertainty, the mounting death tolls, the culture war over masking, the state-by-state policies, the contradictory health advice, a collective trauma which already seems to be selectively disappearing into partisan amnesia. It's also a love story, a man isolated in a room, waiting for his boyfriend to be allowed to visit him. A beautiful story.
October 5, 2024
Knocked the wind out of me
September 6, 2024
Maybe one of the defining post-COVID novels. A sociological consideration of the medical establishment, Middle America, frailty, death, love, and many other big themes that appear idiotic when listed sequentially. Sections of this make you feel the wonder of poetry, not because the writing itself is a wonder, but because Greenwell wonderfully succeeds in expressing the sensuous and intellectual and historical and present beauties that poetry (and literature (and art) at large) engenders. Very moving in its open-hearted compassion and grace.
September 10, 2024
I've read all of Garth Greenwell's novels, and this one has to be the most accomplished yet. By a strange coincidence, since the narrator of Greenwell's novel suffers from an arterial rupture of unknown cause, the novel is best read alongside Annemarie Mol's The Body Multiple: Ontology in Medical Practice, an ethnography of atherosclerosis. In Greenwell's case, the body multiple is also enacted through a series of references to art, poetry, music-the poet's body is constituted by his memories and experiences as well as by medical, nursing, and pharmacological practices. And also by care (Mol's The logic of care can again be a companion text). The novel offers a detailed phenomenology not only of the (multiple) body in pain (another companion: The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World), but also of the infrastructures of care, whom they support and and how. On a very personal level, while I'm terrible at reading poetry, those few pages on Oppen almost convinced me to give it another chance.
September 25, 2024
i lost track of how many times and how many ways this one made me cry 🥲
September 22, 2024
Dear Wonderful Goodreads Readers: I have suffered through this awful novel so that you don't have to. I urge you in the strongest possible terms not to buy into the hype. This may be the worst novel published in 2024.
Reading SMALL RAIN is like being trapped in an escape room in which all of the fun puzzles and quirky themes have been removed and you’re left staring at soulless cinderblock walls. You slam your fists against the concrete to the point of bleeding, only to hear Garth Greenwell’s faux patrician voice over the PA system. A copy of Small Rain spits out from a secret slit onto the floor. “We’ll let you out when you finish reading.” “I don’t want to read this shit. Let me out now!” “No, you fucking mook. I am Garth Greenwell, certified literary genius. You cannot leave until you get to the last page. You will genuflect to me and provide me with four pints of your blood and your social security number.” “What’s the alternative?” “You will die in this room.”
And because you value your own life, you slog your way through an interminable and truly awful novel set In Iowa City during the summer of 2020 in which an unnamed poet tears an aorta and ends up in the hospital. And stays in that hospital. With occasional visits from his partner L. And he stays in the hospital. And he stays in the hospital. And does nothing but stay in that hospital without really revealing all that much about himself other than that he is a precious prick who talks about his days teaching in Bulgaria (hey, just like Greenwell himself!) when he’s not mixing up foreign accents (the poet speaks fluent Spanish but he can’t recognize a Colombian accent?) or throwing fits before the nurses.
In fact, Greenwell is so superficial that we learn far more about the house that the poet and L. live in than we do about their relationship. There is a meet-cute flashback in an Iowa City joint, but the only thing we learn about this pair is that the two talked about poetry for two hours and that L. in the initial courtship days didn’t speak English very well (despite being a professor?). And they are big on “alternative nights,” which extends to cooking and speaking in different languages. In other words, we have nothing but vapid shorthand and very little reason to care about this couple because Greenwell serves up nothing but boilerplate. In fact, L. is so underwritten that he is almost as stereotypical as Manuel from Fawlty Towers. But Fawlty Towers, at least, had the benison of being hilarious on multiple viewings. It is believed that Garth Greenwell is so humorless that he has not laughed once since the Clinton Administration.
I have more to say. Much more. You can read my full essay here:
https://www.edrants.com/garth-greenwe...
Reading SMALL RAIN is like being trapped in an escape room in which all of the fun puzzles and quirky themes have been removed and you’re left staring at soulless cinderblock walls. You slam your fists against the concrete to the point of bleeding, only to hear Garth Greenwell’s faux patrician voice over the PA system. A copy of Small Rain spits out from a secret slit onto the floor. “We’ll let you out when you finish reading.” “I don’t want to read this shit. Let me out now!” “No, you fucking mook. I am Garth Greenwell, certified literary genius. You cannot leave until you get to the last page. You will genuflect to me and provide me with four pints of your blood and your social security number.” “What’s the alternative?” “You will die in this room.”
And because you value your own life, you slog your way through an interminable and truly awful novel set In Iowa City during the summer of 2020 in which an unnamed poet tears an aorta and ends up in the hospital. And stays in that hospital. With occasional visits from his partner L. And he stays in the hospital. And he stays in the hospital. And does nothing but stay in that hospital without really revealing all that much about himself other than that he is a precious prick who talks about his days teaching in Bulgaria (hey, just like Greenwell himself!) when he’s not mixing up foreign accents (the poet speaks fluent Spanish but he can’t recognize a Colombian accent?) or throwing fits before the nurses.
In fact, Greenwell is so superficial that we learn far more about the house that the poet and L. live in than we do about their relationship. There is a meet-cute flashback in an Iowa City joint, but the only thing we learn about this pair is that the two talked about poetry for two hours and that L. in the initial courtship days didn’t speak English very well (despite being a professor?). And they are big on “alternative nights,” which extends to cooking and speaking in different languages. In other words, we have nothing but vapid shorthand and very little reason to care about this couple because Greenwell serves up nothing but boilerplate. In fact, L. is so underwritten that he is almost as stereotypical as Manuel from Fawlty Towers. But Fawlty Towers, at least, had the benison of being hilarious on multiple viewings. It is believed that Garth Greenwell is so humorless that he has not laughed once since the Clinton Administration.
I have more to say. Much more. You can read my full essay here:
https://www.edrants.com/garth-greenwe...
September 6, 2024
I’ve had issues with Greenwell in the past, but this was excellent. Soft and slow, thoughtful; I love how the prose takes its time and lingers in each moment rather than moving towards a point. Some beautiful thinking on illness and wellness; pondering on meaning and what bestows it. At first I thought the writing was a bit over-pious (Greenwell writes very melodically, with a tendency to overreach in his lyricism), but as I relaxed into it I ended up really believing the first-person voice. Also, short and an easy one to get through.
September 27, 2024
Potentially the next NBA/pulitzer winner. Saving this to say I told you so.
May 30, 2024
This novel is terrifying in what it reveals about the frailty of the human body and the systems on which we depend so readily to protect it, but this terror is almost entirely occluded by the beauty and generosity of Greenwell’s prose. This narrator is so giving, so delicate and honest-a poet in the most traditional sense. His discussion of art and writing, which is really a discussion of how and why to live, is breathtaking. As always, Greenwell’s sentences are labyrinthine, and I’m sure I will discover so much more upon rereading this novel, but more so than in his previous novels (which I also loved) they weren’t so much twisting the reader around as leading us delicately to water. Love love love!
Thanks to NetGalley and FSG for the arc!
Thanks to NetGalley and FSG for the arc!
May 12, 2024
the amount of blessings i felt to receive this arc from netgalley ….. many ! blessings !
this book challenged me: dialogue? unstructured. scenes? they’re going to be going back and forth in time? main characters names? just initials. covid? fully raging! fear and health and sickness? high!!!
but despite it all, garth gets me every time with his sentence structure and how much his characters are holding onto life despite wanting so desperately to slip away from it all.
this was hard, and i’m glad to have done it.
this book challenged me: dialogue? unstructured. scenes? they’re going to be going back and forth in time? main characters names? just initials. covid? fully raging! fear and health and sickness? high!!!
but despite it all, garth gets me every time with his sentence structure and how much his characters are holding onto life despite wanting so desperately to slip away from it all.
this was hard, and i’m glad to have done it.
September 6, 2024
One of the worst novels I’ve ever read. A remarkable accomplishment to produce something so utterly devoid of humor or levity and full of empty sanctimony.
April 8, 2024
This is stunning in every way. I can imagine that not all readers will enjoy the style, but the complete immersion in the protagonist’s mind and body is staggering. Greenwell handles voice, tone, and form in such a brilliant way.
Shelved as 'owned-tbr'
May 1, 2024I just got approved for the arc of this and I'm so happy 😊. I will read damn near anything Garth Greenwell writes
September 13, 2024
iowa city novels are uncanny. this is really good but a lot of the goodness is borrowed from poems, which makes me wonder slightly why not just cut out the middleman? the oppen section is lovely, the best in the novel by far. the taverner western wind mass is 10x more beautiful than this could have ever been, so maybe the lesson is be careful what you invoke. it’s weird seeing places you know in a book!
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September 21, 2024This novel is such a good example of what fiction can do better than anything else. I think any other art form would be inadequate to properly explore this experience. It is astounding how precisely and accurately this novel stages thought and consciousness, what it feels like to investigate ourselves —— our pain and feeling, the world —— and then question all of the judgements those feelings lead us to make, and THEN through the act of scrutinizing them feel certain again. These are very general statements about a novel that is ultimately extremely specific but that’s the type of thinking this narrator does for essentially the whole book. Garth has informed so much of my thinking about literature and art and reading this novel was such a thought-provoking and vivid continuation of that.
September 18, 2024
4.5 stars rounded up. There are moments in life when you know you’re bestowed the unique experience of engaging with something rare and beautiful. You know it is a precious thing that not everyone gets and your gratitude for being alive and stumbling into it’s presence swells within you. It makes you feel alive, like this bleak world, for a moment, has meaning. Some of the best literature gets me there, but honestly it is a rare experience despite trying to read as much as I can. Garth Greenwell’s writing takes me there and I am forever grateful to have stumbled upon him. His prose has a distinctive, intimate eloquence in honing in on human emotion to examine our vulnerability in such a touching and fulfilling way. You may never have experienced the exact situations or emotions his characters go through, but you find that the wall between character and reader evanescences with his writing.
In Small Rain, we follow a middle-aged gay writer who unexpectedly has a life-threatening and life-altering medical crisis, compelling him to navigate his own mortality and vulnerability within a US healthcare system just past the first swell of the COVID pandemic but still in the thick of it.
I was nervous to delve into this because, like many of us, the pandemic gave me PTSD and revisiting it can often strain scars freshly knit. While this did elicit all of the negative emotions I experienced during the pandemic, it felt like the writing acknowledged and validated those feelings in a therapeutic way, which was something I didn’t realize I needed. I didn’t foresee one minor theme being the rising facism and societal collapse we seem hostage to in the US at present. I connected strongly with that, and it made the novel feel prescient, like it had something important to say. This is viewed primarily through the lens of the healthcare system, which was a unique setting and appropriate vehicle. Because the narrator is a middle-aged Bulgarian-American and his partner is from a Spanish-speaking country, they give us a rather rare dynamic that is multi-cultural, queer, uncosmopolitan—and refreshingly—not narrated from someone in their teens or twenties.
The claustrophobic, frenetic situation the main character finds himself in—having an aortic dissection and being abruptly healthy one minute and precariously bedridden the next—was portrayed well, punctuated by the narrator’s thoughts back to other moments of helplessness in his life. This felt so real, authentic, and deeply human. This is juxtaposed against the the tender relationship dynamic between the protagonist and his partner and the relationships he builds with those in his care team. In this way, the novel gives you a compelling take on how we can fall into hopelessness while being rescued by the warmth of those who genuinely care. That sense of hope threaded into the story makes examining the emotionally-frought topics at the heart of of the novel palatable, while giving the narrative depth.
I’ll also say hat’s-off to the author for skillfully and delicately capturing the dynamic between a patient and the healthcare workers caring for them. You get to see the narrator at one point sticking up for himself while feeling the guardedness (for legal reasons) of the healthcare team who is dealing with the repercussions of one nurse’s mistake while simultaneously trying to convey to the narrator that they are on his side. The tension of that moment was executed perfectly. He also brilliantly captured how healthcare workers were fighting the extra tax on the system from the virus while putting their own lives at risk while also dealing with the radical right saying they were making it all up. I work in healthcare and find it’s often portrayal in media in an overly-dramatized or poorly-researched manner. Greenwell, however, pulled it off.
One minor critique is that the style got into stream of consciousness, with the main character dissecting poems in his head several times. Though I enjoyed the majority of these, there was one which I had difficulty following as someone who doesn’t have an academic-level knowledge of poetry. It mildly took me out of the writing, but I also find it endearing when authors I like ramble about things they love. I cherish Greenwell’s literary style, and believe those who value prose testing artistic boundaries with structure, device, narrative, and themes will see this novel’s merits. Overall, it was a pleasure to read, with the writing having a depth and tenderness that drew me in. Thank you to NetGalley and FSG for a free e-ARC in exchange for an honest review.
In Small Rain, we follow a middle-aged gay writer who unexpectedly has a life-threatening and life-altering medical crisis, compelling him to navigate his own mortality and vulnerability within a US healthcare system just past the first swell of the COVID pandemic but still in the thick of it.
I was nervous to delve into this because, like many of us, the pandemic gave me PTSD and revisiting it can often strain scars freshly knit. While this did elicit all of the negative emotions I experienced during the pandemic, it felt like the writing acknowledged and validated those feelings in a therapeutic way, which was something I didn’t realize I needed. I didn’t foresee one minor theme being the rising facism and societal collapse we seem hostage to in the US at present. I connected strongly with that, and it made the novel feel prescient, like it had something important to say. This is viewed primarily through the lens of the healthcare system, which was a unique setting and appropriate vehicle. Because the narrator is a middle-aged Bulgarian-American and his partner is from a Spanish-speaking country, they give us a rather rare dynamic that is multi-cultural, queer, uncosmopolitan—and refreshingly—not narrated from someone in their teens or twenties.
The claustrophobic, frenetic situation the main character finds himself in—having an aortic dissection and being abruptly healthy one minute and precariously bedridden the next—was portrayed well, punctuated by the narrator’s thoughts back to other moments of helplessness in his life. This felt so real, authentic, and deeply human. This is juxtaposed against the the tender relationship dynamic between the protagonist and his partner and the relationships he builds with those in his care team. In this way, the novel gives you a compelling take on how we can fall into hopelessness while being rescued by the warmth of those who genuinely care. That sense of hope threaded into the story makes examining the emotionally-frought topics at the heart of of the novel palatable, while giving the narrative depth.
I’ll also say hat’s-off to the author for skillfully and delicately capturing the dynamic between a patient and the healthcare workers caring for them. You get to see the narrator at one point sticking up for himself while feeling the guardedness (for legal reasons) of the healthcare team who is dealing with the repercussions of one nurse’s mistake while simultaneously trying to convey to the narrator that they are on his side. The tension of that moment was executed perfectly. He also brilliantly captured how healthcare workers were fighting the extra tax on the system from the virus while putting their own lives at risk while also dealing with the radical right saying they were making it all up. I work in healthcare and find it’s often portrayal in media in an overly-dramatized or poorly-researched manner. Greenwell, however, pulled it off.
One minor critique is that the style got into stream of consciousness, with the main character dissecting poems in his head several times. Though I enjoyed the majority of these, there was one which I had difficulty following as someone who doesn’t have an academic-level knowledge of poetry. It mildly took me out of the writing, but I also find it endearing when authors I like ramble about things they love. I cherish Greenwell’s literary style, and believe those who value prose testing artistic boundaries with structure, device, narrative, and themes will see this novel’s merits. Overall, it was a pleasure to read, with the writing having a depth and tenderness that drew me in. Thank you to NetGalley and FSG for a free e-ARC in exchange for an honest review.
September 15, 2024
Very observant, moving, open and honest novel/memoir of a poet who gets extremely sick, ends up in hospital and meets with fear and thoughts of life and death. Very impressive, very well written and full of love.
Thank you Farrar Straus and Giroux and Edelweiss for the ARC.
Thank you Farrar Straus and Giroux and Edelweiss for the ARC.
September 13, 2024
In ‘Small Rain’ by Garth Greenwell, we watch a poet experience a medical crisis that nearly brings him to the brink of death. During his time in the hospital, while confined to his bed, he brings into focus and probes topics such as domesticity, art, time, the human condition, luck, hospital life, and more. An intimate, sincere, and resonant novel, accurate to the realities of American healthcare and the COVID pandemic, that is for anyone who searches for answers of meaning and clarity in life only to produce more questions than conclusions.
Anyone who has spent any length of time in an American hospital can resonate with the narrator's experience. It’s unmistakably accurate, from the unpredictability, invasiveness, terror, and casual absurdity of terms like ‘carpet bombing,’ ‘burn out,’ and ‘radioactive’ to the significance of acts of kindness and the randomness of luck.
I don’t want to reduce this book to a story about sickness, even though that is one of the guiding forces propelling the plot forward, as the narrator’s time in the hospital is to solve what caused his serious medical condition.
What makes this one of my more memorable reading experiences is the confrontation with so many of the topics that roam my brain and others I found so interesting, from the tension between the act of domesticity and desire for freedom to confrontation with mortality, which did make me think of my reading experience with Martyr!, the pitfalls of comfort, ramifications of technology, and how art can be a vessel to make sense of life and the world.
In life, we want to understand why—why did I get sick? Why don't I feel anchored in my life? Why do I know so little about vital things? Why do we become complacent? What gives time its value?
To get answers to these sometimes maddening questions, we poke, pry, and expose ourselves emotionally, physically, and sometimes to harmful 'radioactive' *wink* stuff in hopes of narrowing it down. And sometimes, in the end, as we see in Small Rain, it is still inclusive. There is no clear answer. “There are no arts to living.” We still don’t know what to believe. But this shouldn't temper the desire to find pleasure and hope and to keep trying and searching.
Anyone who has spent any length of time in an American hospital can resonate with the narrator's experience. It’s unmistakably accurate, from the unpredictability, invasiveness, terror, and casual absurdity of terms like ‘carpet bombing,’ ‘burn out,’ and ‘radioactive’ to the significance of acts of kindness and the randomness of luck.
I don’t want to reduce this book to a story about sickness, even though that is one of the guiding forces propelling the plot forward, as the narrator’s time in the hospital is to solve what caused his serious medical condition.
What makes this one of my more memorable reading experiences is the confrontation with so many of the topics that roam my brain and others I found so interesting, from the tension between the act of domesticity and desire for freedom to confrontation with mortality, which did make me think of my reading experience with Martyr!, the pitfalls of comfort, ramifications of technology, and how art can be a vessel to make sense of life and the world.
In life, we want to understand why—why did I get sick? Why don't I feel anchored in my life? Why do I know so little about vital things? Why do we become complacent? What gives time its value?
To get answers to these sometimes maddening questions, we poke, pry, and expose ourselves emotionally, physically, and sometimes to harmful 'radioactive' *wink* stuff in hopes of narrowing it down. And sometimes, in the end, as we see in Small Rain, it is still inclusive. There is no clear answer. “There are no arts to living.” We still don’t know what to believe. But this shouldn't temper the desire to find pleasure and hope and to keep trying and searching.
September 6, 2024
In “Small Rain” we find ourselves in peak COVID, everyone's stuck at home, and this poet's life goes totally haywire. He's in agony for days before finally dragging himself to the hospital with a mystery illness everyone is trying to figure out.. and that's where our story kicks off.
We're right there with him, feeling every twinge of pain and every wave of anxiety. The book jumps between what's happening now and trips down memory lane, really diving into what makes us tick as humans. It's all about the good stuff - art, memories, poetry, music, caring for each other - and how important they are when everything's falling apart.
The way time works in this book is pretty wild. It stretches out, then snaps back like a rubber band. People connect in ways you wouldn't expect. "Small Rain" takes us beyond just hospital drama, painting this big picture of what it means to be alive. It gets into how we're all in this together, how far empathy can take us, what art means to people, and this whole idea of the American dream.
Oh, and there's love in there too, but not your usual boy-meets-boy stuff.
Fair warning: the writing style is a bit out there. It's like your buddy is telling you this super personal story. I won't lie, it was tough going at first. But once I hit about two-thirds in, something clicked and it all started flowing.
Look, this book might not be everyone's cup of tea. But I bet there are folks out there who'll eat up both the story and how it's told. It wasn't an easy read, but I gotta say, I ended up really enjoying it.
We're right there with him, feeling every twinge of pain and every wave of anxiety. The book jumps between what's happening now and trips down memory lane, really diving into what makes us tick as humans. It's all about the good stuff - art, memories, poetry, music, caring for each other - and how important they are when everything's falling apart.
The way time works in this book is pretty wild. It stretches out, then snaps back like a rubber band. People connect in ways you wouldn't expect. "Small Rain" takes us beyond just hospital drama, painting this big picture of what it means to be alive. It gets into how we're all in this together, how far empathy can take us, what art means to people, and this whole idea of the American dream.
Oh, and there's love in there too, but not your usual boy-meets-boy stuff.
Fair warning: the writing style is a bit out there. It's like your buddy is telling you this super personal story. I won't lie, it was tough going at first. But once I hit about two-thirds in, something clicked and it all started flowing.
Look, this book might not be everyone's cup of tea. But I bet there are folks out there who'll eat up both the story and how it's told. It wasn't an easy read, but I gotta say, I ended up really enjoying it.
September 29, 2024
probably one of the most soothing books i’ve read this year.
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actually reflects my own experience in the ER pretty well.
hey i had to get a CT scan too! and was told i needed an IV put in in order to do that.
in the face of medicine, we are all the same. it doesn’t matter if you are privileged or rich; your body is still breaking down and you need to be seen and treated.
- decency isn’t too much to ask for, just helping when you see someone struggling.
- “it had become engrossing, the pain”: that’s what nobody talks about, the difficult of bearing pain, how it is so isolating, so alone
- the relief and passivity of being a patient; the moments before the catastrophe is named and thus cannot be real
- “an intimate act stripped of intimacy”
- recognizing the hierarchies in the hospital
- wait the details are actually so accurate: from the transfer out of the ER, to be rudely shaken awake, to trying to remain presentable, to the socks with rubber nubs on the soles —
- goes on an interlude about sparrows and poetics
- the body. the horrors and humiliation but also the wonder of the service it does for us, day in and day out. the washing, the upkeeping, the shame, the dignity associated with one’s body.
- the literal (physical act & practicality of) building of a house together, a home together, with your love.
- “pure life.” happiness of domesticity.
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actually reflects my own experience in the ER pretty well.
hey i had to get a CT scan too! and was told i needed an IV put in in order to do that.
in the face of medicine, we are all the same. it doesn’t matter if you are privileged or rich; your body is still breaking down and you need to be seen and treated.
- decency isn’t too much to ask for, just helping when you see someone struggling.
- “it had become engrossing, the pain”: that’s what nobody talks about, the difficult of bearing pain, how it is so isolating, so alone
- the relief and passivity of being a patient; the moments before the catastrophe is named and thus cannot be real
- “an intimate act stripped of intimacy”
- recognizing the hierarchies in the hospital
- wait the details are actually so accurate: from the transfer out of the ER, to be rudely shaken awake, to trying to remain presentable, to the socks with rubber nubs on the soles —
- goes on an interlude about sparrows and poetics
- the body. the horrors and humiliation but also the wonder of the service it does for us, day in and day out. the washing, the upkeeping, the shame, the dignity associated with one’s body.
- the literal (physical act & practicality of) building of a house together, a home together, with your love.
- “pure life.” happiness of domesticity.
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