I have always loved radio. Growing up, much to my family and carpool’s annoyance, I insisted on tuning in to hear Paul Harvey’s commentary in the morning and his “Rest of the Story” segment in the afternoon. I loved the intonations of his voice and the way that he brought the news and the lives of historical figures alive. These days not much has changed, I still can’t get enough of those magical storytellers out there (those who use their voices as well as those who employ their pens). Today, Paul Harvey’s no longer alive, but radio remains (standalone and in podcasts), albeit increasingly marginalized. What inspired Anthony Doerr’s latest novel was the realization that electromagnetic waves surround us all on a daily basis –carrying phone calls, text messages, photos, and as before, radio broadcasts.

All the Light We Cannot See was far and away my favorite book of 2014 thus far. At its core are two incredible characters: Marie-Laure, a blind French girl from Paris, and Werner, an orphan from Germany. These two are on opposing sides of the war, but become connected through the waves of radio.

The story begins before the war in Paris with a little girl, Marie-Laure, who has recently gone blind. She spends most of her time with her doting father, who serves as the locksmith for the Museum of Natural History in Paris. Her blindness at first leaves her isolated; but, her father carves a scale model of the city that she follows with her fingers, learning her way around and to beginning to trust her other senses to guide her.

Meanwhile, Werner and his sister Jutta are being raised in a German orphanage. Werner becomes obsessed with radios, and begins to teach himself engineering. Though he is destined for work in the mines given his social status, his intelligence and drive provide an alternate path. The tale continues through the war leading to the moment that these two, swept up in the tides of war, cross paths in St. Malo, France.

The elements of this story integrated quite a few personal interests of mine, including:

1. Having visited both Paris and St. Malo, and given that I have a trip to Germany planned for the summer, the settings were definitely of particular interest.

2. The book is definitely on the literary side. The writing is beautiful and the cast of characters both rich and unforgettable. That being said, the subject isn’t a particularly light one as you might imagine, and this certainly doesn’t read like a beach novel if that’s what you’re looking for.

3. I pretty much love any and all things, fiction and non, that take up the subject of WWII. Before I even began reading, I was utterly sold on the subject.

4. I love when the stories I’m reading incorporate references to other books. For example, a character that I kept thinking about while I was reading this novel was Alma Whittaker, Elizabeth Gilbert’s heroine from The Signature of All Things. Alma is an isolated child, much like Marie-Laure, who becomes obsessed with the mosses growing at her family home (not unlike Marie-Laure’s fascination with mollusks). I kept recalling Alma’s enthrallment with Charles Darwin’s The Origin of Species, as Marie-Laure read and reread Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. Both Gilbert and Doerr’s novels made me want to run out and immediately begin these two classic works.

5. I hate sappy endings. I don’t like when everything works out perfectly and everyone lives happily ever after. It’s too unrealistic and I often feel like it cheapens the story. I like it when the story ends happily but not perfectly. I don’t want to give anything away, but I will say I was completely happy as I turned the last page.

This book is definitely not to be missed, I think there is some part that will appeal to any reader. It is on the long side, but the story is just so good that you’ll actually savor over the length (500+ pages), and if you’re anything like me, wish it had gone on further.

Still not convinced? Maybe the author himself can sell you on it:

If someone had recommended Elizabeth Gilbert’s new novel without any context, simply by trying to sell the outline of the plot, I probably would have said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” The Signature of All Things chronicles the life of a female botanist, a bryologist to be exact (new vocab word – this is someone who studies moss) in the nineteenth century. The novel charts her youth, growing up in Philadelphia, and her later travels to Tahiti and Europe. Presented with those facts, my reaction would likely have been something like this:

But, man, would I have been mistaken.

I was traveling back to the city this weekend from D.C. after Thanksgiving. I read half way through Sebastian Junger’s War and then ended up leaving it. So, I downloaded Elizabeth Gilbert’s latest figuring I had about 3 hours to sink my teeth into a 500 page book, at the very least I’d make some progress. I was honestly surprised at the pace at which this plot travelled. It was only about a three day read.

Elizabeth Gilbert is the author of the well-known Eat, Pray, Love. To be honest, I have neither read the book nor seen the film (have never had the desire). So while I cannot compare, I think Gilbert’s foray back into fiction was a definite success. She turned the story of a lonely academic woman who studies arguably one of the more erudite plant species into a page-turner. If that’s not talent…

Alma Whittaker, a scientist of Gilbert’s invention, was born into a lineage of botanists. Her father helped to cultivate her love of science and inquiry, and more specifically of the natural world. The reader watches the entirety of Alma’s life, from a lonely child exploring the land beyond her house to a scientist at the time of Charles Darwin. Though I was pretty at peace at the way the book story concludes, part of me hoped (and was disappointed) that this woman would have a bigger impact, that her moments of unhappiness, longing, and questioning would lead to an answer and to happiness. The character is contented, but the happiness is relative. My head likes the realism, but my heart hopes nonetheless for the fairy tale ending.

There is a very specific reason that religion and religious characters are featured in this novel, though I won’t go into more detail so as not to ruin the novel. At first, I did not mind that aspect, but as the story continue, I found myself slightly annoyed with that aspect. While Alma is not a religious character, her travels invoke a revelation and type of awakening. Though this was a positive development for her psyche, I was anxious for this chapter in her life to close.  

Men enter and exit Alma’s life. She is alone for most of the tale, which taken with the mores of the age, leaves Alma, the scientist, with countless unanswered questions about sex and sexuality. In this way, Alma actually reminded me a bit of Anne Frank. Sex is such a frank topic today, that it is always jarring for me to think about a time when the subject was taboo. Even for educated, so much went unexplained. I love when topics like this are weaved into the framework of stories, pushing the reader to open his / her mind and imagine.

So, if you read the description and you’re reaction is anything like mine was, ignore the impulses. Despite my minor complaints, I really enjoyed reading The Signature of All Things. I’m not particularly interested in botany and I’m a little bit over these strong female narratives (as mentioned in a previous post) at the moment; nonetheless, this story will take you in right away, and you won’t be able to break its hold until you’ve turned the final page.