Her books are an excavation, an attempt to give shape to her own pain, like a moth who longs to catch the candlelight in its wings.
She is the kind of writer for whom the act of writing is clearly more important than being read. Most of her novels contain some version of her sister, some version of her mother, some version of herself, some version of the restrictive Canadian Mennonite community in which she was raised. Miriam Toews gets so close to the fire that the pages of her books may as well be singed. I’ve heard it theorized that every great artist circles her own central fire, a core trauma too bright and too hot to touch yet whose light is caught, refracted, in her works.
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