Silence by Lucia Berlin

Hello Darkness, my old friend.

While I usually enjoy Lucia Berlin’s semi-autobiographical and fragmented storytelling, Silence didn’t quite land for me. Sure, it has some heartfelt moments, but the lengthy digressions and meandering tangents (this happened, then that happened, etc...) detract from the pathos, especially when it comes to the narrator’s final realization about her own struggles with alcoholism.

Like many of Berlin’s stories, Silence explores recurring themes of addiction, loneliness, and the weight of the past. The female narrator reflects on her tumultuous childhood (another hallmark of Berlin’s work) where her mother is abusive, her uncle is an alcoholic, and her grandfather is sexually abusive. It’s some heavy material, yet Berlin’s signature lightness of tone keeps it from feeling overwhelmingly bleak or melodramatic. She doesn’t dwell in tragedy; instead, she presents it matter-of-factly, letting the reader absorb the weight of it without unnecessary embellishment.

Despite the darkness, there are scattered moments of joy: becoming best friends with the Syrian girl next door, experiencing her first crush, working in an antique shop. These brief glimpses of warmth contrast beautifully with the harsh realities of her upbringing, making the story feel deeply human. 

That being said, I wish the story had a stronger sense of cohesion. The fragmented structure works in many of Berlin’s stories, but here, it makes the ending feel somewhat muted. The narrator’s self-awareness about her own alcoholism should be this emotionally powerful moment, but instead feels like just another moment in a series of loosely connected events. Berlin is at her best when her narratives are sharp, raw, and tightly focused through a minimalism. While Silence has all the ingredients of a great story, it never quite fully comes together in a way that delivers the emotional impact it seems to be aiming for. It’s a solid piece, but not one of her strongest.