I picked this book up because there are many facets of Jane Kenyon’s life that fascinate me. I first became aware of her when some poetry friends and I were discussing depression and writing/art. It seems as though a lot of creative people (at least the ones I know) suffer from depression, and I think there is a tendency to romanticize it and view the illness as a catalyst for the creativity, which then turns into an excuse to not seek help. The big cliché of a question always is, could one still write if one were medicated or (gasp) happy? Jane Kenyon was manic depressive (usually depressive) and heavily medicated most of her adult life, and still produced some amazing poetry—most often when well. (Which makes perfect sense—how productive are we when we’re depressed, anyway?) Thus, due to this somewhat obvious revelation, she became something of a role model for me and I began heavily consuming her poetry.

As I began learning more about her, I discovered her life with her husband Donald Hall was exactly the kind of relationship I secretly wish for if I ever decide to become a recluse and live on writing full-time. Both writers, they lived and worked in a farm house in a tiny town in New Hampshire. They had breakfast together and then spent their days in their separate offices at opposite ends of the house, just writing or reading, occasionally taking breaks to share the results of their labors or have lunch together. They supported each other but had independent careers. Somehow they seemed to find the kind of balance I think would be ideal but seems so elusive: an independent yet supportive, equal partnership—and all among this totally romantic farmhouse setting. Also, it is usually agreed that Jane Kenyon was the better poet of the two, and while it seems like there is often some bitterness or competition between couples who write, Donald Hall gracefully admits that she was the far better writer, even though she was something like 20 years younger than he.

As is life, however, their existence was far from perfect. In addition to dealing with Jane’s manic depression, they both had several cancer scares. Each recovered until Jane developed a chronic form of leukemia in January of 1994. Written by her husband, this book tells the story of those fifteen months as Jane became sick, underwent chemotherapy and a bone-marrow transplant in Seattle, and eventually succumbed to the disease in April of 1995. I think the most striking thing about this story (besides convincing me that I will never ever undergo a BMT) was Jane’s incredible strength and will to live—this from a woman who spent large portions of her life feeling suicidal. You also get a better picture of just how much they loved each other and the rare sort of relationship they were so lucky to share. This book is intensely emotional and heartwrenching, sometimes disgusting (there are a lot of medical details in here that made me feel a bit woozy), and highly recommended.