My dear book-lover,

Did you enjoy Daniel’s search for answers? And what treasures lay hidden in your own Cemetery of Forgotten Books? If there’s anything you’d like to share, just send me an electronic letter.

The next book I want to share with you is not as mysterious as the story of the ever-elusive Julián Carax, but no less dramatic — and just as heart-wrenching.

The Solace of Solitude

M.L. Stedman’s novel The Light Between Oceans begins in 1918, when Tom Sherbourne, who returns to Australia after serving in World War I, takes up his position as lighthouse keeper on the remote island of Janus Rock. Tom, taciturn and diligent, clearly carries the pain and trauma of his years at war. Unlike many who returned home after the war, Tom has a strong moral compass and a very clear sense of right and wrong. He craves the solitude and structure that the work on Janus Rock will give him, as he hopes to find peace by disconnecting from the world.

Just before he sets off for his solitary life on Janus Rock, Tom meets Isabel. There’s a stark contrast between the two characters: Tom is quiet and seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders; Isabel looks at the world with curiosity, optimism, and unclouded innocence. They fall in love and quickly fill the solitude of their remote home with their happiness.

When Solitude Turns to Loneliness

But their happiness slowly begins to fade as Isabel suffers miscarriages and stillbirths. It’s not only the death of her unborn children that causes her such pain. She also grieves the loss of her dream to raise a family and, with it, the loss of the future she imagined. Her pain is even sharper because she has to carry it alone; she withdraws from Tom, and he slowly loses the ability to connect with her.

As they lose themselves in their pain and trauma, a miracle happens — an infant girl and a dead man are washed up in a dinghy on the shore of Janus Rock. And though Tom knows it is his duty to report the event, though a part of him whispers that this is wrong, he hesitates. Isabel, believing the girl was a gift from God, begs him to stay silent. Tom writes no report. They keep the girl. They name her Lucy.

For the next few years, they live as though Lucy were their own daughter and get to have the family they’ve always wanted. Until — by a series of coincidences — the girl’s true family is revealed.

The Road Not to Be Taken

This moment is the novel’s turning point, though the direction is never clear as we’re wading through a moral fog we can’t dispel. Four forces pull against one another: Isabel, who cannot bear to lose the child she has raised; Tom, who believes it is wrong to keep a child from her family; Lucy’s biological family, who are still grieving their loss; and Lucy herself, unaware of the truth and unable to decide for herself.

The novel is deeply psychological. Every possible road the story could take from there seems both right and wrong. Every path runs into a dead end. There is no fair solution. None of the options allow everyone to have a happy ending. Our senses of morality, fairness, and empathy are in checkmate. Ironically, the very things we uphold as guiding lights — morality, fairness, and empathy — falter here; even the lighthouse that gives the novel its name cannot cast a beam through this moral fog.

The characters are faced with a set of questions they all need to answer and everyone’s answer is different: Can I be happy while doing something wrong? Does achieving my own happy ending justify placing someone else in misery? Will I sacrifice my own happy ending to do the right thing?

On Account of Happiness

And these, my dear mind-wanderer, are the questions I want to leave you with today. What are we allowed to do, on account of our own happiness? And, if you’ve already read the novel, what did you think of the ending? I’d love to hear from you.

Before I leave you to ponder these questions, feel free to visit my Contribee page, if you’d like to help keep the lantern lit on this journey through time and story. Think of it as dropping a coin in the storyteller’s hat — no pressure, just a small gesture of appreciation.

And if you know someone who loves to get lost in good stories and explore the world through books, feel free to pass this newsletter along. There’s always room for a fellow traveler.

See you at the next campfire,
Kalypso