The Longitude of Grief

by Matthew Daddona

Overview

Matthew Daddona's debut novel, The Longitude of Grief, follows Henry Manero and generations of dispirited loners as they navigate inherited trauma in a kaleidoscopic study of the familial bonds that entangle and entrance us all.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9798218246433
Publisher:	Wandering Aengus Press
Publication date:	05/14/2024
Pages:	242
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.66(d)

About the Author

Matthew Daddona is the author of the poetry collection House of Sound, which Publishers Weekly called "ruminative...a glimpse into a mind on the search for answers." A multi-hyphenate writer, his work has appeared in dozens of publications, including The New York Times, Newsday, Electric Literature, Whalebone, Tin House, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. He lives on the North Fork of Long Island, where, in addition to writing, he shucks oysters, installs irrigation systems, and volunteers as a firefighter. The Longitude of Grief is his first novel.

Editorial Reviews

2024-03-23
Daddona’s immersive debut is both a coming-of-age story and a portrait of a community.

Becoming an adult can mean many things—some of them logical, others inherently paradoxical. In telling the story of a young man named Henry Manero, Daddona’s novel seeks a balance between the two. It has an immediately striking first sentence: “Henry Manero was born with one of those small hands that was hard to get used to unless you knew him.” From there, the reader learns more about Henry, then a sophomore in high school—his self-destructive approach to smoking, for one, and that he’s being raised by his mother, Alma. The novel’s first half occasionally pivots to fill in details on supporting characters, whether the story of a local anti-war activist or that of the troubled childhood of Henry’s estranged father, Benjamin. Much of the novel focuses on Henry’s attempts to understand what masculinity means to him. The novel abounds with men on the brink of doing awful things, including a moment in which Benjamin fails to be critical enough of his own thoughts: “It was only natural, Benjamin convinced himself, that he had daydreamed of a teenage girl.” Henry narrates the second half of the novel in the first person, and the version of him we meet here is older, both more aware of the injustices his mother and his friend Janine have endured and developing his own creative voice. It’s through his bond with an older man named Josef that Henry comes into his own, but the flawed world around him remains challenging to navigate. There are big ideas aplenty in here—and some bleak moments of moral horror as well.

A philosophical, intentionally digressive exploration of masculinity, toxic and otherwise.

Kirkus Reviews