Written by Liz Boccolini
The Friend, Sigrid Nunez’s eighth book, follows a woman who has agreed to care for her deceased friend’s Great Dane, Apollo, even though her Manhattan apartment does not allow pets. Originally reluctant to take on caring for Apollo, the woman finds herself developing a close relationship with him, and that relationship helps her through her grief.
The Friend is written as if the narrator is writing to her friend, who committed suicide. No major character except Apollo is named, and while this may seem off-putting, names are not really missed in this story. The book is basically a long, one-sided conversation, where the narrator is simply called “I” or “me,” and her friend is called “you.” The friend’s wives are called Wife One, Wife Two, and Wife Three, which actually makes it easier to remember who is who than if they all had names. The journal style of writing, which jumps from topic to topic, can be confusing at times. Since no one is named, sometimes I lost track of who the narrator was talking about. But overall, the style was effective in offering a window into the narrator’s grief, her thoughts, and her feelings.
The book focuses heavily on the relationships we, as humans, have with animals. The narrator wonders many times whether animals are aware of their own feelings, positing questions such as: Are animals aware that they’re dying? and Do animals enjoy certain types of music?
About halfway through the book, the narrator describes her experience having her cat euthanized. The cat is old and has a cancerous mass, and the narrator and the vet decides that the cat would most likely not survive the operation. She describes the scene at the vet’s office:
“And now the cat, who until that moment had kept herself very still, grew alert. She stretched out a paw and touched my wrist. She lifted her head, wobbly on its frail stalk of a neck, and gave me a disbelieving stare.
“I’m not saying this is what she said, I’m saying this is what I heard:
“Wait, you’re making a mistake. I didn’t say I wanted you to kill me, I said I wanted you to make me feel better.”
Many times, the narrator feels guilty for what she imagines Apollo to be thinking or feeling. When she goes to her job as a university professor, she leaves Apollo home. “He greets me at the door (has he been by the door the whole time?), but with a drowning look that says it hasn’t been easy, the waiting. (How good is his memory? If very good, as dogs’ memories are said to be, what grief being locked up alone might bring him. And—heart-shredding thought—is it still for you that he waits by the door?)”
However guilty she might feel, the narrator becomes sure that Apollo loves her as much as she loves him. “Why couldn’t they [dogs] have eureka moments, epiphanies, and so on?” she asks.
“In the beginning I sometimes caught him staring at me only to turn away when I looked back. Now he often rests his block of a head on my knees and tips his eyes at me with a speaking expression.”
The narrator’s relationship with Apollo develops as any human acquaintance might. At first, they are strangers, introduced by some third party, this time out of necessity. They aren’t sure how they feel about each other, but over time they come to like, trust, and then love each other.
The book also touches upon perceptions of suicide in different cultures and within different beliefs. At one point, the narrator tunes in to a radio show about suicide. “All the usual word-stones were cast: sinful, spiteful, cowardly, vengeful, irresponsible. Sick. No one had doubted that the suicide had been in the wrong. A right to commit suicide simply did not exist.”
She also reads books about suicide in the hopes of understanding it better. “I did learn some interesting things,” she says. “For example, that certain ancient sages held that voluntary death, though generally to be condemned, could be morally acceptable, even honourable, as an escape from unbearable pain, melancholy, or disgrace—or even just plain old boredom.”
The narrator also mentions some of the many writers who have committed suicide, and even stumbles upon a book that says, “Writing in the first person is a known sign of suicide risk.” Yet we often hear that writing is a form of catharsis. The narrator never gets a definitive answer as to whether writing is a healing process or a suicide risk, though she tries. She mentions her friend, who is writing a memoir, telling her, “I hate the idea of writing as some kind of catharsis, because it seems like that can’t possibly produce a good book.” The narrator quotes writer Natalia Ginzburg, who said, “You cannot hope to console yourself for your grief by writing.”
Yet there is Virginia Woof, who the narrator also quotes: “I suppose that I did for myself what psychoanalysts do for their patients. I expressed some very long felt and deeply felt emotion. And in expressing it I explained it and then laid it to rest.” If this is true, then what does the narrator make of the fact that Woolf eventually drowned herself at age 59?
If the narrator is indeed writing to her deceased friend, as the style of writing suggests, then what does that say about her? Is she explaining her feelings and laying them to rest, as Woolf says? Or is she also at risk of suicide? The narrator never mentions considering suicide, but one of the lessons of this book is that we often don’t suspect suicide before it happens, which was certainly the case with the narrator and her friend.
Overall, The Friend is an enjoyable look into the bond between humans and animals (and the bond between humans), and animals’ roles in supporting people through their grief and anger, whether or not the animals know they are doing so.
The Friend is available from Amazon, Book Depository, and other good book retailers.
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Synopsis | Goodreads
A moving story of love, friendship, grief, healing, and the magical bond between a woman and her dog.
When a woman unexpectedly loses her lifelong best friend and mentor, she finds herself burdened with the unwanted dog he has left behind. Her own battle against grief is intensified by the mute suffering of the dog, a huge Great Dane traumatized by the inexplicable disappearance of its master, and by the threat of eviction: dogs are prohibited in her apartment building.
While others worry that grief has made her a victim of magical thinking, the woman refuses to be separated from the dog except for brief periods of time. Isolated from the rest of the world, increasingly obsessed with the dog’s care, determined to read its mind and fathom its heart, she comes dangerously close to unraveling. But while troubles abound, rich and surprising rewards lie in store for both of them.
