Eventually, as Dan starts to slide further into his own grief, he suddenly shares a new fishing spot with Abe, one which he’s reluctant to reveal the providence of. One of his co-workers, Dan, experiences an even greater loss and soon finds himself joining Abe for fishing trips two men without their women seeking the silent contrition one finds when landing a big one is all that matters. In addition to his destructive coping mechanisms, he finds solace in fishing, casting a line out and spending an afternoon with only the nature of woodsy Upstate New York as company.

When the narrator, Abe, introduces himself, he’s already been through absolute hell from watching the love of his life gradually fade and eventually claimed by cancer. Knowing this feeling is the key to understanding the characters of John Langan’s The Fisherman, in which people across time deal with the pain of loss, and the terrifying lengths they will go to defy God, nature and fate. Every small movement, every moment, happy or sad, triggers the searing bite, the reminder things will never be the same again. I believe it’s more accurate to describe grief as a hot coal, smoldering and buried deep within you – something that leaves the rest of your body unaffected but constantly presses down on your very core. A popular new-ageism describes grief as a stone, either in your pocket or your shoe, something you carry around with you that you’re never quite rid of.

The fisherman book john langan