A Journey Beyond: My Thoughts on After Life by Gayle Forman
When I first saw the cover of After Life by Gayle Forman, its poignant imagery beckoned to me, whispering promises of a heartfelt exploration of life, death, and everything in between. As someone who often finds beauty in stories of transformation and second chances, I was eager to dive into this narrative. Yet, as I turned the pages, I found my feelings tangled in a web of appreciation and frustration.
Forman weaves a tale that centers around Amber, a girl who navigates the murky waters of her past after her untimely death. The concept is tantalizing—a deep exploration of regret, revelation, and relationships. There are moments that shimmer with grace, especially the scenes involving Arnold at the animal shelter, which offered a tender glimpse into the healing power of connection. The relationship between Amber and her younger sister, Melissa, is touching, presenting the bond of siblinghood with genuine warmth.
However, this beauty doesn’t overshadow some significant narrative missteps. My heart sank as I grappled with the representation of Dina, Amber’s former friend. There was a troubling thread in the way Dina, a Black character, was portrayed. Why was she consistently associated with animals in such an uncomfortable manner? The narrative seemed to lack the necessary sensitivity, leaving me perplexed. The choice to have Dina stand by Amber—even after being subjected to a truly monstrous act of betrayal—further spotlighted the imbalance in their character development. Rather than allowing Dina her due, she became an emblem of loyalty without her own internal narrative, which felt stifling.
As I continued, Amber’s character left me feeling conflicted. While I wanted to empathize with her journey, constant flashbacks painted her more as a mid-tier character than someone deeply engaging. Discovering the lengths Amber went to in her friend-ditching act—deliberately exposing Dina to a life-threatening allergen—made me reevaluate not just her character, but the foundation of this narrative. Was she simply mischaracterized, or did the story inadvertently cast her in a monstrous light while trying to portray growth?
Calvin, Amber’s high school boyfriend, added another layer of discomfort. His actions towards a still-seventeen Amber as an adult, particularly the blurred lines of consent, cast a shadow over the romanticized narrative the book seems to push. Yet, rather than addressing the implications of such interactions, the book allows these moments to linger without consequence, leaving me questioning the author’s intentions.
Despite these grievances, I appreciate the ambition behind After Life. Forman’s writing style is approachable, making it easy to flow through the narrative, though I wished for more depth and introspection in character arcs. The emotional stakes, while high, skirt the edges of multiple cliched tropes, leaving much to be desired in terms of originality.
In conclusion, After Life is a book that seeks to explore heavy themes of mortality, redemption, and forgiveness. Readers who enjoy emotional journeys surrounding life’s complexities might find reflection within its pages. However, those sensitive to representation and character depth may leave feeling unsettled, much like I did. Ultimately, my journey through this narrative has been both enlightening and frustrating. I can’t help but wish for a more nuanced examination of its themes. If you decide to read it, go in with an open mind, ready to grapple with both its beauty and its flaws.