Yiyun Li's Things in Nature Merely Grow is a book unlike any other I've read before. I had no idea what to expect going into this, and requested it purely on the basis that it discussed loss. As Li writes, 'there is no real salvation from one's own life; books, however, offer the approximation of it.'

Li rejects the word "grief" and instead describes her loss as her being in an abyss; this, along with almost everything else in this book, resonated with me deeply, and it felt so different to read somebody tackling life with so much logic and care for the words they choose. I saw a review of somebody describing Li and her writing has "stoic", and I can't think of a better word to describe both of those. I highlighted so much, which I rarely do.

Being able to put my own feelings into words is something I have struggled immensely with. If I can just write this down, I think, then it'll be out of my head and somewhere else. But that's not how it works, and this book has helped me better understand some of my own feelings that I couldn't quite explain before. I don't think it's meant for that, and is by no means a self-help sort of book, but I'd read this a thousand times over just to not feel alone in my loss.

No review will do this book justice; just read it. I can't believe I've never read anything by Yiyun Li before, which I will change ASAP.

Thank you to NetGalley and FSG for the ARC.

Thanks to NetGalley and Farrar, Straus & Giroux for the ARC!

“Words may fall short, but they cast long shadows that can sometimes reach the unspeakable."

Yiyun Li’s "Things in Nature Merely Grow" both respects and refutes language’s failure to carry pain, offering readers the comfort of recognizing that sometimes there is none to be found.

Yiyun Li lives with unspeakable loss. Both of her sons have committed suicide, placing her squarely in the abyss. Everything about her life is now defined by the worst-case scenario coming true, or, as she puts it, “extremity.” She wakes up every day and continues to go to work because there’s no other alternative. There’s nothing to be said, and yet something must be said.

I suspect readers unfamiliar with Li’s work will be shocked—maybe even horrified—by the sharp edges of the author’s pragmatism. She believes that euphemism, including the word “grief” itself, is a waste of perfectly inadequate language—it’s a harsh reality that people kill themselves; it’s reasonable to use language that forces us to feel the full weight of the situation. Anything softer is, as Li suggests, an imagined narrative, and what is suicide if not the ultimate disruption of the narratives we prescribe?

For readers of "Where Reasons End," there’s a familiar disinterest in probing the question of “why,” but the occasional brightness of her dialogue with Vincent—her older son—is absent here. As she notes, her relationship with James, her second son, was entirely different, characterized more by the unspoken spaces between them. Whereas Vincent would have enjoyed “his” book, James would have resented this one. Despite the different relational dynamics, it’s clear that the author has a profound respect for her children’s autonomy, allowing her to eschew anger in favor of an empathy so deep that it will make many readers squirm.

One might be tempted to view suicide as the brothers’ common destination, but Li views it more like a medium, not ending the relationships but transforming them. As always, the author is attuned to what we often overlook—the slight, rhythmic variations in someone’s life after loss. Suicide is seismic, but the pain is felt in the little things. We read of shared lexicons that must be buried with the dead—verbs that stop moving the world in the way they once did.

Regardless of one’s personal experience with suicide, it’s surprisingly cathartic to read about personal extremity in a time of social extremity. The world ends every day and still it goes on—we’re just all more aware of it now. Li’s writing has always clawed away at the veneer we place over the world, but "Things in Nature Merely Grow" is the first time she has done so with deliberately instructive intent. In one of the late chapters, she writes with gentle wrath about all the well-intentioned forms of selfishness that led people to reach out to her following James’s death. Loss is universal, but more importantly, it is also always singular. Sometimes the most we can do for someone is acknowledge how little we can do for them.

"Things in Nature Merely Grow" is Yiyun Li at her best, and it’s the kind of book that asks readers simply to receive it—to walk toward loss when it's the only action we can take.

This book is devastating and yet essential reading. I had read an excerpt in The New Yorker before reading the book. This narrative is unflinching in its close look at deep suffering and the terrible pain of suicide.

Wow, this book will stick in your head. A grief memoir about her children’s suicides, Li finds radical acceptance. This book has such beautiful prose. While I read this one pretty quick, I would like to reread it slowly. I don’t feel like this one should be read quickly.

This book tore me open. I was struck by Li’s precise, unflinching use of language; as the book unfolds, it becomes clear that only exact words could bear the weight of such loss. She strips away sentimentality and writes directly about the grief of losing her second child, James, to suicide, years after losing her first in the same manner. Li refuses the comfort of empty clichés or familiar images. Her prose respects the reality of her loss and her sons’ absence. It feels as if the only honest way to confront this experience was to grant the text the same attention and care she once gave her children: through silence, forbearance, and space. There is a sense of calm and stoicism in the writing, not because the experience is calm, but because the author refuses to distort it. As with her previous books, one comes to Li for clarity, for discipline in thought and form, and for a kind of moral seriousness that refuses consolation when none is possible.

Thank you, NetGalley, for the advance copy.

Yiyun Li does a phenonemonal job describing an unfathomable situation. She writes about the loss of both of her sons and how much she valued them on their short time on earth. Another one of her Li's gifts is how she describes what others' said to her in her time of grief and what worked and what absolutely did not work. I found myself gasping at some of the comments made by others that she recounted. I could not put this book down and have already recommended it to others.

Many thanks to Farrar, Straus, and Giroux and NetGalley for allowing me to read an advanced copy of Yiyun Li’s profound new book Things in Nature Merely Grow. Li is one of my favorite writers. I’ve mostly read her short stories and novels, but I ended up reading Where Reasons End about 2 years ago. That book, as she describes it in Things in Nature Merely Grow, was dedicated to her son Vincent, who died by suicide 8 years ago at the age of 17. It’s hard to categorize the book since it blurs so many lines as Li extends conversations, arguments, and questions she discussed with her son, Vincent. In some ways, it seems to capture his essence, but in others, it allows her to continue to speak with him, through her writing. It’s beautiful, haunting, and like Li’s other writing, incredibly moving. I can’t remember if Li explained the meaning of the title, but it seemed to suggest that keeping that connection with Vincent is more important than finding reasons why he decided to take his life. It also suggests that her continued conversations and questions with Vincent occur outside of logic and reason, and that both to accept his absence and continue to remain connected work outside of logic. Li’s latest book, Things in Nature Merely Grow, also examines the loss of her other son, James, who was Vincent’s younger brother. James also decided to take his own life, and while Li discusses both sons in this book, she also doesn’t dedicate the book to James, noting that it wouldn’t have been what he wanted and a book wouldn’t necessarily be able to capture James’ essence the same way her earlier book attempted to capture Vincent’s essence. Li’s book transcends boundaries of classification and operates in its own place, both celebrating the individuality of her two sons and acknowledging their absences due to suicide. Where Vincent was verbose and at times argumentative, James was contemplative and quiet, often speaking with a slight smile, which for Li was filled with possible interpretations, sometimes in opposition to each other.
Li also explains that while Vincent lived a life of emotion, James lived a life of logic and reason. As a result, Li seems to take a step back from the loss of both children and examine the facts. I found this approach to loss unparalleled. I can’t imagine what I would do in this situation, but Li’s ability to identify the facts and state them provides a way to work towards the radical acceptance she describes as helping her process her son’s death. I’m even struggling with the words to describe this, as Li also mentions other’s challenges with attempts to console her. Sometimes people reveal their true intentions, and this was some of the most shocking parts of the book. People asking for editorial help, people possibly using her employment at Princeton as an in for their children; it was truly shocking. Nevertheless, Li’s radical acceptance also seems to help her navigate the difficulties and drains of interacting with people after a loss. Also as a writer and astute observer of people, Li seems to be an empath and can seem to intuit others’ feelings. I’m not sure if I would have been able to be as composed as her.
In addition to navigating other people, Li also spends time reminiscing about the challenge of parenting. I found her memories of taking care of her sons while she was finishing up her MFA at Iowa’s Writer’s Workshop also amazing. She mentioned how much of child care in the early years is both intuitive and reactive. “One does not master the skills of taking care of a baby by reading a manual or taking a few classes. One fumbles and blunders, never certain if one has done everything right. One weeps from exhaustion or frustration, and one worries and loses sleep over anything, small or large.” An outcome of this kind of reaction and attempts at appeasing this helpless, tiny human are frustration, exhaustion, and many times fear and anxiety as well. I was amazed to learn that Li brought James as an infant to class with her, and continued to teach a week after giving birth. I was also in graduate school when my son was born, and I remember how hard it was to find the time to teach and grade after putting him to bed, hoping that he would just sleep through the night. These moments in the book when Li reflects on her sons’ lives and her care and nurturing of both of them in different ways were some of the best parts of the book. It’s both touching and also imbued, for me, with a sense of longing in the sense of the Portuguese word saudade, which doesn’t really translate into English. I remember after my dad died, someone mentioned this word to me, explaining that it was a word that widows of sailors lost at sea often used. It’s that feeling of loss and nostalgia, with a lack of understanding or full knowledge of the whereabouts of the person who was lost. Again, Li doesn’t mention this word, and also doesn’t seem to wish for things to be different, and therefore, the memories are beautiful ways to communicate the qualities and differences of her sons, not necessarily to feel nostalgic. If anything, as I was reading these detailed glimpses of their childhoods, I could relate to similar memories of behaviors, predilections, or mannerisms that seemed to communicate more about our own hopes and beliefs, and possibly our anxieties, about our children’s futures. Li’s observations and recollections are detailed, nuanced, and subtle, capturing a quick conversation or response from her sons, observing how they eat different foods at a café after a weekend activity, as well as the books they encountered and how these texts influenced their lives. As a result, reader can witness the sense of care and wonder Li demonstrates for her sons, noting and appreciating their differences and providing them with the space and support they needed to develop into authentic selves. Li contrasts these memories with her own experiences growing up in China, trained to be a mathematician, but secretly seeking to memorize ancient poems. She details some of the harshness that she experienced when she attempted to be her authentic self or express her own unique ideas in a society and culture that seemed to value conformity and accepting the norms over challenging them with one’s individuality. She shared some of these memories with her sons, and in one memory, explained that as a special guest in James’ 2nd grade class, she shocked his classmates because she said that she didn’t like candy as a child. The story behind her distaste for candy is shocking, but it pales in comparison to the cruelty inflicted by her mother, who claims that Yiyun was the daughter she loved most. Li’s mother’s love can only be expressed through demands, control, and domination. In another story recalling her childhood, Li describes one of her mother’s methods to elicit compliance (and possibly guilt or shame) was to claim that Yiyun had a twin with whom her mother preferred to spend time, since this daughter was the exact opposite of Yiyun. Li’s mother would lock Yiyun in a room while her mother and sister would pretend to converse and laugh with Yiyun’s twin. Even more heartbreaking is the way Li describes her reaction to this kind of cruelty. I can understand how growing up in this kind of environment would lead someone to the kind of radical acceptance Li acknowledges was necessary in dealing with the loss of her sons. I can see how the kind of absurdity in facing violence and scorn as a child would require a kind of process of analysis and reflection to try to make sense of these events. It’s not my place to evaluate whether they are right or wrong or what kind of influence this had on Li. If anything, it seems to have made her more sensitive and considerate in how she raised her sons, valuing their qualities and nourishing their interests and passions.
Li uses the metaphor of gardening to also move towards radical acceptance, and this metaphor is also where the title comes from. In nature, plants and flowers grow and die. There are other factors that often make their growth more challenging- animals, weeds, weather, and while we can tend to gardens and try to cultivate conditions that allow our plants to thrive, we cannot control everything about nature. We cannot have continuous growth throughout the year. Plants die off in the fall and winter, only to grow again in the spring. Li acknowledges that while weeding and creating deterrents for animals may be important, she also cannot remain angry or upset at their nature. I appreciated this metaphor for parenting. We are always trying to cultivate the best environment and opportunities for our children to grow. However, we cannot control everything. And while it is in our nature to grow, it is also in our nature to die. It is a sad reality, but a fact nonetheless, and a fact that accepting may relieve us of some anger or anxiety. Li also explains that she doesn’t see grief as a process with an endpoint. It is something that will be her with always, just as she continues to view herself as a mother of two sons. I agree with Li’s explanation of grief; while my situation is nowhere near Li’s, even though my father has been dead for some time, there’s still a kind of hole or emptiness. While this hole was much greater in the time right after he died, it’s gradually reduced in size over the subsequent years. Yet, there’s always going to be reminders about his absences. My kids have never met him, and they always have questions about him. My wife never met him either, and she’s asked how they might get along. I wonder how he would view my home, what advice he might give, what he would think about the world right now. It’s not something that makes me sad or nostalgic, but just something that is there- a slight opening or void that is a part of me. For me, Li’s explanation of grief of having no terminal point is relevant in this regard. I also appreciated the book from this perspective. It’s not like a manual explaining what to do or how to act in the event of loss, but Li explains how she continued to engage in her regular activities right after James’ death. She mentions going to a piano lesson in the week after James’ death, and talking with her teacher, and struggling with learning the pieces, but seeming to do well with a strange collection of piano exercises from Hanon that a friend described as “demented”. She doesn’t mention that these pieces relieved her or brought her joy, but rather it was something to do, something she could focus on to occupy her. In another section, she presents some practices she felt were important, and these included things like hydration, exercise, and getting up at a regular time. When my dad was in the hospital dying, I felt a similar kind of way, and it is actually how I started running. I just had all this nervous energy, and I felt like I couldn’t be at the hospital until I ran a few miles before hand, burning off some of the energy, but also making me more willing to accept how close death was to me. I also realized that I didn’t want to just sit around and ruminate, and that I needed to keep busy and occupy myself. I remember not really crying until a few weeks after his funeral, when it finally hit me. It’s definitely important to experience that kind of emotion, but at the same time, Li also mentions not allowing herself the time to ruminate in bed. I really appreciated this insights for helping someone navigate this unimaginable loss.
Finally, the other part of the book that stood out to me was how reading and writing factored into Li’s days after James’ death. She has mentioned reading Tolstoy in Where Reasons End, but in this book she mentioned several other works she frequently turned to after James’ death. Li references Greek and Shakespeare’s tragedies, but also noting that “Those ancient Greeks sing their grief at the highest pitch, which, as Carson pointed out, is rage. Their grief and their rage are nearly untranslatable, as though feelings in extremity can only be physical sensations— the language assails the readers with a blind and blunt force.” As she further explains, she didn’t necessarily lose her words, but they said something she had not and expressed their grief in another, more violent manner. While sometimes literature may present this kind of grief as a madness, Li’s reference to Constance’s grief in King John shows that our outward signs of grief can often be misconstrued, especially when the vocabulary of grief is so ill-defined by others. I really appreciated Li’s literary references to grief and loss throughout the book, as they help us understand how others may process grief. Not everyone may seek comfort in words (words, words, words), but reading and writing allow us not to ruminate. It’s interesting also since I recently read Sarah Chihaya’s brave memoir Bibliophobia about how books and reading can be both an experience in joy and exploration but also can bring terror and depression. Chihaya cites one of Li’s other books about Li’s own experience with depression and her suicide attempts. I haven’t read that book yet. I’ve almost been a little intimidated to engage with it. Yet, for Li, books, works of literature, plays, music, and other forms of art can be part of the process leading to radical acceptance. Recognizing that we aren’t alone in this, and being able to approach the facts of the situation and not impose our own reasons or blame for the events may help in this process. I’ll have to go back through this book to look at the reading list. While I may not want to read all of these works, it’s always good to receive recommendations. I’ll also have to revisit this book at other times; it’s such a beautiful book filled with touching moments, but also an awareness that things in nature grow. It’s not a manual, but it’s also not quite a memoir. It’s almost like meditations, where Li is able to deeply reflect on her sons’ lives and deaths. I’m very grateful for her willingness to be so honest and reflective, so thoughtful and considerate when the world may not always be the same.

Another installment in Li's deepest well of insight and grief. Li never shys away from telling us, as readers, to confront our cyclical thoughts about ourselves, others, and who we become together for a lifetime.

Thanks to NetGalley and the editors for the review copy.

Rating: ★★★★☆
Things in Nature Merely Grow is a quietly devastating read. Yiyun Li writes about grief with delicacy and insight that invites you to reflect in a way that it’s both beautiful and heartbreaking.

There’s a stillness to the book that mirrors the slow, often silent way people move through loss. And although I must admit that at times the book focused too much on the eldest son (Vincent) who already had a book dedicated to, rather than James I think it overall makes sense, as grief is something that takes time and is shown differently in different people.

Her prose is simple but raw and powerful at times, and that restraint makes the emotion stronger for me. It’s not a fast-paced novel, and at times it requires a bit of patience, but it’s well worth it. A thoughtful, tender reflection on what it means to keep going when everything has changed.

The only reason for rating 4 stars for me rather than 5, some sections felt slightly repetitive for my liking, but considering the theme is grief it may have been written like that on purpose.

I recommend it to readers that appreciate quiet and introspective fiction, specifically drawn to themes of grief, memory and emotional endurance.

This is a raw and deeply moving meditation on loss and acceptance. I'm not sure if this is a book for everyone, but if you're brave enough to let your heart break, then please do pick it up. Yiyun Li has written a deeply intimate examination of the loss of her sons.

Li lost her eldest son Vincent in 2017, when he was sixteen, and then six years later, she lost James, at nineteen - both to suicide. The kind of tragedy that one couldn't have imagined, but it happened to her. In this book, she writes about her way of processing the losses, reflecting on how Vincent's death could have affected James, and her acceptance of their choices. I admire the way she writes her thoughts and feelings the way they are - nothing fancy - and how she doesn't shy away from the unspeakable losses and what she has had to endure.

I know Li has said that it's not a grief memoir as such, but I do think that this will be one of the best contemporary grief memoirs many of us would have ever read.

“…Sometimes people ask me where I am in the grieving process, and I wonder whether they understand anything at all about losing someone. How lonely the dead would feel, if the living were to stand up from death’s shadow, clap their hands, dust their pants, and say to themselves and to the world, I am done with my grieving; from this point on it’s life as usual, business as usual.

I don’t want an end point to my sorrow. The death of a child is not a heat wave or a snowstorm, nor an obstacle race to rush through and win, nor an acute or chronic illness to recover from. What is grief but a word, a shortcut, a simplification of something much larger than that word?

Thinking about my children is like air, like time. Thinking about them will only end when I reach the end of my life.”

My first book by this author and definitely won’t be my last.

what a quietly impactful book. yiyun li works through the loss of both of her sons to suicide in such a profound and moving manner. she explores the idea of radical acceptance as a framework for the rest of her life, and the respect that she shows for her sons, their struggles, and their ultimate decisions is so stoic and full of restraint.

i think the restraint is what’s most striking about the book for me. she discusses the way that thinking has always prevailed over feeling for her, similar to her younger son james, and how that has affected the way she processes her loss. to read about someone going through the unimaginable and commit to navigating it in a way that works for them, without kicking and screaming, is awe-inspiring. i’m sure the narrative voice and almost analytical style will garner comparisons to joan didion’s works on grief.

i was also really touched by the way li depicts the relationship between her two sons - how close they were and how the death of her older son must have deeply hurt her younger son. thinking about these losses not only in the context of motherhood, but within the entire family structure, makes it even more heartbreaking.

this was my first time reading yiyun li and i’m definitely interested in checking out her other books now. the way she handled this subject was so strong and impressive.

Things in Nature Merely Grow by Yiyun Li
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Yiyun Li dedicates this book to her younger son, James, as it was written for him shortly after he died by suicide. Li's elder son, Vincent, also died by suicide 6 years earlier, and she wrote a novel and dedicated it to him (Where Reasons End, although I have not yet read that one). This memoir is less about grief and mourning and more a meditation on loss and her respect for her children such that she comes to develop a radical acceptance of their choice.
It is difficult to write or talk about this book (a feeling I seem to share with many reviewers) as Yi's words really must be read and digested; she writes:
"The verb that does not die is to be. Vincent was and is and will always be Vincent. James was and is and will always be James. We were and are and will always be their parents. There is no now and then, now and later, only, now and now and now and now"

WOW! i found this to be incredibly powerful and touching. yiyun li's writing is vulnerable, honest, and raw. this book made me feel a lot of emotions, primarily immense sorrow for the reality that yiyun li is living in (the abyss as she describes). things in nature merely grow is only half the story, as li recognizes and is hit with the brutal reality that all things also die. she is experiencing the worst of it all. two sons dead from suicide. this is not about grief, and i found her analysis of the faulty use of the word very relevant and true. these are not things you "grieve" and move on from. these are permanent states of being that are incredibly painful.

*thank you to the publisher for the eARC*

I enjoy Yiyun Li's poetry, so when I got the chance to get an ARC of her new memoir, Things in Nature Merely Grow, I was excited to dive in.

This memoir is a tribute to Li's younger son, James, who died by suicide in 2024 at 19 years old. Just a few years earlier, her other son, Vincent, also died by suicide. TiNMG is an attempt to capture the experience of living in the abyss after losing two children, of coming to terms with death, of the inadequacies of language and bemusement and annoyance that comes with people's assumptions or clichés. Li is a capable prose writer as well as a poet, and her command of language and metaphor are beautiful.

Even though she is an artist living through unimaginable tragedy, Yiyun Li is not overcome by pathos. Instead, she writes with a practical acceptance, focusing on the necessity of living after tragedy rather than dwelling on the emotions of the tragedy itself. Her tone mirrors the extreme pragmatism of her son, James, who was rarely emotional and filled his time with studying math, languages, and philosophy. It's such a departure from other memoirs about death—and even my own approach to mourning—that it was almost jarring. But I appreciated her perspective, and I loved her writing throughout.

When I received this advance copy, I was very interested and jumped into it originally. I was familiar with Li's essay in The New Yorker on the death of her sons, which exists in this book as well, and this was a brief, but haunting read. I finished it in a day because I wanted to do it justice and read it all the way through before I got busy with other tasks. As per usual, Li's writing is crisp, beautiful, and striking throughout--highly recommend this one!

It’s hard to describe how much I loved this book. After dealing with the death of both of her sons, Yiyuan Li describes how she moves through the abyss that is her life presently, and by doing so, narrates the radical acceptance she’s taken on. The book feels more like a peek inside a journal - there’s no direct through line - but I thought that worked wonderfully. At just under 200 pages, Li puts words to the many faces of living through tragedy.

In Things in Nature Merely Grow, Yiyun Li grapples with the suicide of her younger son, after having survived the suicide of his older brother. Her prose is spare but unsparing as she explores her son's life -- and whether there were hints that might have predicted his final act. it's a meditation about going through the motions and continuing to survive -- because what else can one do? it also avoids trying to draw any lessons or conclusions. Though, there is a brief chapter on what not to do if a friend is grieving. Highly readable, complicated, and ultimately moving because of, rather than in spite of, its lack of sentiment. Like all of Yiyun Li's work, it dares the reader to look away from its terrible beauty. Highly recommend.

My favourite from Yiyun Li so far, this was an unbelievably intimate and heartbreaking ode to her son. Li's writing is so personal that it almost feels like a breach of privacy to read her books, but that is also the mark of an extremely skilled author. This book follows on from Where Reasons End, and builds on it both in it's form (more analytical and concrete, like her son) and Li's grief journey. It felt special to be able to read this one.

Without a doubt one of the best books I’ve ever read. Such a compelling book with (obviously) deeply upsetting subject matter that occasionally hits you right in the gut. But mostly I feel like somehow everything will be all right? When I try to write down the particulars it feels like I’m not doing them justice, so I’m not going to attempt that, but I think everyone should read this. I feel better and stronger for having read it. This is one of those books that I’m just gonna have to buy several copies of so I can try to lower the barrier to making all my friends read it.

Yiyun Li is a well known novelist who writes beautifully. Her most recent non fiction about processing the loss of her second son to suicide, after having lost her first son to the same a few years back, is without a doubt heart wrenching, and excellently written. This book made me think about loss in ways I've never thought about before. This is not a sob story, this is not even about grief, it's more of understanding, reflecting and approaching the situation. Some people might even find this approach a bit disconnected and detached. But that's the point. She approaches this intellectually, logically and doesn't talk about the how or why but gives facts, pays tributes and moves towards radical acceptance.

Will post review on Goodreads,fable,insta in june