The monster arrived at midnight. 

As they do.

So opens Patrick Ness’s A Monster Calls, a brilliant and moving exploration of grief and loss and of the different paths different people take in dealing with them. Twelve year old Conor has been watching his mother slowly succumb to terminal cancer, a disease that is famously not only a physical disease, but also a social one. As his mother’s condition worsens, Conor has been facing an ongoing struggle in coming to terms with his other’s mortality, and the stilted, painful way in which other people treat those with the disease and their loved ones. For Conor’s estranged father, cancer is an unmentionable, a barrier that sits between him and his son and that can only be dealt with in platitudes; while for the children at school it’s something that marks Conor out as “different”, resulting in his isolation from the others. Conor’s teachers attempt to mediate between him and the other children, but in doing so end up treating him differently as well, offering him special rules and attention not afforded to the other children. For Conor, these issues are more pressing and evident than his mother’s inevitable death–an invisible, torturously slow death–and it’s with these that he tends to engage and react, acting out in the hope that someone will treat him as Conor, not as the boy whose mother is dying of cancer.

Conor’s life, thus, is already brimming with monsters and horror–it’s hard not to see the spectre of death as an omnipresent monster–so when a true monster begins to haunt his dreams in the night he is largely unperturbed. What could this monster possibly do to scare him given what he is already facing? But the monster takes a surprising approach, deciding instead to tell Conor three stories. Each story is brilliantly, tragically ambiguous in terms of its morals and ethics, and for black-and-white Conor, they are a revelation. The monster’s presence allows Conor to engage with his thoughts about right and wrong and about the consequences of lashing out or meting out punishment or revenge. The monster is blunt and forthright, affording Conor no special privileges, but rather expecting something more rational and adult from him than what he has so far been exhibiting. As the monster continues to visit, Conor’s reactions to the monster’s tales and teachings mimic the various stages of grieving, finally positioning him to face the true monster that has been haunting his dreams for so long.

Though the main theme of the story involves the death of Conor’s mother, there’s more to this slim volume than a “why we need to let go” moral. There’s so much in here about the changes that loved ones need to undergo and the compromises that need to be made when faced with death, and as we watch Conor try to come to terms with living with his eccentric ungrandmotherly grandmother and realising that his father won’t give up his new life for him, these really do hit home. Conor wants so desperately to be treated as though nothing has changed or is changing, as doing so is to acknowledge that is mother is really dying, and it’s heartbreaking to watch him slowly come to terms with the new life that he simply can’t deny any longer.

There’s also the notion of stories as catharsis, which I think is a key element of this book. Everyone Conor knows is so reticent when it comes to discussing their emotions and of his mother’s inevitable death, and it’s only with the monster (who indeed is likely a figment of Conor’s imagination) that anyone is willing to speak to him at length and to challenge him to share his own perspectives and views. Illness is a taboo subject, and it’s essential that people be able to speak openly about how they’re feeling.

This is one of those novels that encourages deep reflection in the reader, and I suspect that if you’ve personally been touched by death or serious illness, you’ll find A Monster Calls very affecting indeed. It’s simply and elegantly written, and though the subject matter is obviously challenging, Ness injects just enough levity that it’s accessible. Humour is, after all, one of the many ways in which we deal with loss, and it’s used here to excellent effect without seeming cheap or trite. The story itself is thoughtful and deeply moving, but when combined with the eerie, oozing illustrations of Jim Kay, it becomes something else again. Kay’s mad, scratchy drawing seem to crawl over the pages, threatening and foreboding and beautifully complementing Ness’s words, and the overall effect is superb.

Rating:

With thanks to Walker Books Australia for the review copy

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