All the light we cannot see by Anthony Doerr – The saddest book I plan to read this year

War is death and devastation. But, war is also the loss of innocence, mostly the loss of innocence, the hardening of the soul. The uneasy status quo that nothing matters anymore, no one cares anymore.

War transcends humanity, plunging us into the deep end of the quagmire, the cesspool where nothing is wrong but nothing is right either.

Anthony Doerr has transformed me into a minor philosopher overnight, as I mull over the devastations the greatest war of the century left in its wake, is leaving in its wake.

All the light we cannot see is written in present tense, a present that is tense as a wire in shock, making everything sound more urgent and more now now than the almost century old story it is.

What was I thinking, picking up a novel set in the middle of World War 2? That it’s some cute little story off the French Riviera, a fairy tale? Although much of the words in this book dupe me into feeling so, the sea of Saint Malo roaring in my ears, while the salty winds blow through my nose and mouth.

All the light we cannot see is the saddest book I plan to read this year. But, it is also one of the most beautiful books I might have stumbled upon in a while.

It is beautiful not just because it tugs at my heart strings. Tug it does.

But it is beautiful because Doerr uses language beautifully to contrast between Germany’s Werner and France’s Marie Laure, between the grey regiment and the fragrance of baked bread, between disciplined death and museums of awe.

It is beautiful because everyone has a role to play, even the whelks and the snails do, in a way.

It is beautiful because, with all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.

I recommend it but consider yourself sufficiently warned about the unease you will feel in the pit of your stomach as you experience the book, as you finish it.