Beautifully written, this novel set in World War II France and Germany doesn’t take what I would have thought a traditional spin on war. It’s not about the conflict. It’s not about separated lovers. It’s not about history. It’s about the stories of two children, one in France, one in Germany. And it’s their stories—their uniquely individual but similarly heartbreaking stories of living through the war—that frame the dual plots.
It is in these stories this book shines. The unjust and harsh realities that faced Hilter’s youth set the stage for one, while living with blindness and fleeing Paris set the stage for the other. Neither is glamourous. Both are deeply emotional. Each is thought-provoking and heartwarming while at the same time full of melancholy. The pace for each is slow, delicately bouncing between the two stories and among different times. In other books, this might bother me, but in this tale, for me, the differences flowed with grace and ease.
A mystery sits on the sideline of the tales, giving extra lift to what otherwise might bog down the reader. So although the mystery is not, to me, the central part of the story, it provides a framework on which to hang the tales and tie things together. That worked well for me.
I took my time reading this book, enjoying looking in on the lives of Marie-Laure and Werner. And that worked just right. Trying to read this too quickly would have been too heavy, too slow, too dragging for my attention. Instead, it worked perfectly to take it in just a bit at a time, enjoying the language of the writer, language that evoked depth and emotion and warmth.
If you’re looking for a light read, this is not it. If you’re looking for something to savor and let unfold over time, All the Light We Cannot See delivers. Beautifully.