Mo Duffy understands that explosions are a release of energy, and that during this reaction, energy is changed, not destroyed. When her world was shattered, she called upon these principles of quantum mechanics, which she had learned in her twenties. “I had this recurring image of my life, as if I’d seen it explode with my own eyes,” she writes. “There was nothing left, except radiant white light.” But what did this new form of energy mean for Duffy?
Lately memoirs have splintered into recollections of niche topics, so they often examine not an entire life but a segment of one. The narrower the focus, the more pointed the question of who the book is for. Duffy’s second entry in this genre, Radiant. White. Light, centres on the breakdown of her marriage. This collection of poems and stories is not a revenge narrative nor a testimony bristling with anger. The snag in the sixteen-year union is revealed on the first page: her husband wanted to be with a man...
Pamela Mulloy edits The New Quarterly.