Sometimes a novel is not so much a book as a contemplation, a meditation, a prayer. Rachel Morton’s debut THE SUN WAS ELECTRIC LIGHT (UQP 2025) is a poignant, painful, spare, literary portrait of grief, loss and aching yearning.
Written in the most simple prose, this clear-eyed and closely observational novel (tellingly endorsed by Helen Garner) invites the reader to question the meaning and purpose of life, the value of friendship, the intimacy of true love, the weight of place and the finding of self. It is a quiet story, without fanfare. Not a lot happens in terms of plot. And yet it pulls the reader onwards through our connection with the engaging and compelling characters.
The book is written from the perspective of Ruth, who has moved to a quiet, rural lake town in Guatemala, escaping her busy and hectic life in New York. She meets two women who could not be more different: Emilie, who is pragmatic, calm, considered and full of plans, and Carmen, who is wildly and worryingly enthusiastic, full of energy and drama, someone who lives on the edges of life. There is also Dwain, a character who drifts in and out of Ruth’s life over the years, usually appearing to be something he’s not.
Morton’s descriptions are eclectic and charming. When she first meets Emilie, she says: ‘Her skin was olive and her body was strong, and she had a slowness to her that reminded me of mudbricks or maybe of homemade bread. Next to her I felt like a sherbet, full of jesters and somersaults.’ Every page is littered with metaphorical gems.
Over several years, Ruth’s life whittles down to the bare basics. She goes through periods of depression and grief, sadness for her own small life and her lack of ambition or courage. She has times of wellness, when she is called upon to help others around her cope with terrible things. All the while, she is a visitor in a strange land despite her efforts at belonging. She teaches English at a school; she nannies for a wealthy family; she carves wooden statuettes; sometimes she does nothing but sleep and eat and walk, or swim in the lake.
So little happens and yet it is all beautifully portrayed in lyrical, literary prose that drapes upon the reader like a mist. Reading Morton’s words is like swimming, or floating, or dreaming. She invokes a sense of identity, belonging and home, and of difference, in a subtle but powerful way.
What happens is not predictable, and there are some surprises, but events are nevertheless authentic and believable. With a rich emotional complexity, Morton weaves a story that remains, until the final pages, a complicated question about what we need and expect from life, how we find meaning in work and relationships, and how the place we live can not only exact a toll but also provide a haven.
In a book about wanting more, Morton gives us less; yet paradoxically what she offers adds up to something greater than we imagine. A deftly constructed, beautifully phrased story about love, connection, belonging and loss, THE SUN WAS ELECTRIC LIGHT is for anyone who enjoys the quiet contemplation and intimate interiority that certain fiction gifts us. For readers who enjoy the work of Angela O’Keefe and Amanda Lohrey.