Natasha Trethewey was 19 when her stepfather shot her mother. Decades later, she returns home as a highly decorated poet – and writes a breathtaking book about memory, language and racism.
Because everything I’m about to write here has the potential to frighten all readers, it must be stated in advance: “Memorial Drive” by the American writer Natasha Trethewey, who is unknown in Germany, is a brilliant narrative work. And despite the heavy subject matter, even though a writer is writing autobiographically about a femicide, the almost 250 gliding pages contain feather-light poetry as well as precise journalistic research, dreams and protocols, memories softly shaped by consolation and reality precisely presented with sources. And so this book floats above the tragic facts as a great work of art.