Yiyun Li’s Reflections on Loss

In a profoundly personal account following the suicides of her two sons, Yiyun Li grapples with the depths of her experience, avoiding terms like “mourning” or “grief” because they feel inadequate. “My husband and I had two children and we lost both,” she reflects, emphasizing a stark absence.

Li provides somber facts about her sons: Vincent died in 2017 at just 16, and James passed away in 2024 at 19. James, a talented linguist studying at Princeton, taught creative writing from works by Li. She mentions the weight of these facts she holds dear. The natural world is filled with sadness, she notes, yet her descriptions of the “deep by” where she lives manage to be both inclusive and humane.

Language plays a crucial role in her narrative. After moving from China to the United States in 1996 to study immunology at the University of Iowa, she shifted to a creative writing program, gaining guidance from notable figures like Marilynne Robinson. Her literary rise was swift, earning acclaim for her novel set in post-Mao China and a compelling short story collection. Choosing to write in English was a pivotal decision for her. She consciously let go of Chinese and now writes solely in English, viewing this choice as significant.

Society, it seems, expects grieving mothers to conform to certain behaviors.

Following Vincent’s death, Li published a novel, *Where the Reason Ends*, which explores a heartfelt, sometimes combative dialogue between a mother and her deceased son. She addressed her own “unanswered questions,” realizing how little solace existing literature offered her. Writing for James is another challenge altogether. “It must be done through thought,” she concludes, acknowledging that it remains but an “approximation of understanding.”

James is depicted as a brilliant but somewhat elusive young man with a gentle smile and a quirky sense of humor. A few months before he died, he obsessively reread Albert Camus’ *Caligula* and engaged with online productions in various languages. Li now ponders, “Men die. And they are not happy,” contemplating this as a key to James’ mindset.

She knows there’s no way to pinpoint why someone chooses to take their own life but wrestles with lingering questions—did James’ decision relate to Vincent’s passing? To process this complexity, she echoes painful thoughts: “Children die, they are not happy.” “Children die, and the parents live.”

While this account isn’t a traditional memoir, it delves into her childhood and her mother’s cruel, psychologically damaging behavior towards her. This glimpse into her past helps explain why distancing herself from her native language and homeland became an act of self-preservation. The narrative touches upon her own struggles with suicidal depression, addressed in her 2017 memoir. Rather than distancing readers, her writing evokes almost unbearable closeness through everyday details that humanize her sons—like Pokémon, pancakes, and family moments. These fragments illustrate profound love and are incredibly moving.

Society and literature seem to impose expectations on how grieving mothers should behave. “The tragic mother from Greece and Shakespeare expressed her grief more intensely than I ever could,” she writes, recognizing that her analytical approach to grief may invite skepticism or even hostility. By the book’s end, she confronts the harsh treatment she received from the Chinese media, highlighting the horrifying notion that “traitors deserve punishment.” While she claims not to be angry, her resentment is palpable. Her love for her sons stands strong, yet her relationship with China evokes cruelty and neglect. She critically examines the hurtful comments people make during grief, making her book essential to understanding how to engage with those who are hurting. Yet, she also acknowledges immense kindness from lifelong friends throughout her journey.

For Li, sadness is not a useful term—it suggests a resolution or a release, which feels misleading. She portrays a reality where wounds don’t heal neatly, and growth doesn’t occur automatically. Nevertheless, she embraces life as a mother, offering a meditation on acceptance that has the potential to bring solace from the depths of despair.