There's nothing magical, in the genre sense, in Morrison's story. There are no magical rivers, enchanted messages, babies born with tails. Morrison's dissonance is real — people get disappeared, they suffer addictions, writer's block, crazy parents, crazier shamans, blank pages, corruption, the loss of loved ones. In this depiction of real Pan-American life — because all of this we are also explicitly suffering up North — Morrison finds his magic.
Without a grave to visit, how do we honor and care for our dead? Do we mourn for those who have disappeared, though they might still be alive? And what is the role of fiction, if it has a role at all, in confronting these problems and the world that spawned them? That Pages of Mourning raises such questions is a testament to its importance and ambition ... Morrison handles these interwoven narratives with great dexterity and an expert sense for the interplay of humor and dailiness alongside chronic grief.
From the start, one of the more charming elements of Morrison’s literary novel is the step it takes beyond mere self-awareness ... Morrison’s measured but expansive prose paints a moving picture of how artists use the
supposed alchemy of the creative process to confront grief.
Inventive and thrilling ... Gerard Morrison brilliantly interweaves Aureliano’s personal story of loss within the larger context of the devastation caused by drug trade violence, and what begins as a critique of magical realism turns into a begrudging acceptance of its enduring power.
Marinates in its literary navel-gazing while simultaneously amplifying its pedestrian horrors. This weird dissonance can distract from the genuinely moving human suffering ... A bleary-eyed ramble through generational grief, inherited hurt, and the collateral damage that nobody expects.
