Taufiq Yves's Reviews > The Correspondent

This novel is made up entirely of letters Sybil wrote to family, friends, ex lovers, and even strangers - there isn’t a single line of third‑person narration.

Virginia Evans drops the traditional all‑knowing narrator and hands all the puzzle pieces to us. As readers, we have to play detective, piecing together Sybil’s life from shifting dates, subtle changes in greetings, and scattered hints.

That slow, piecemeal reveal feels fresh and immersive, even giving off a bit of voyeuristic thrill. Honestly, the book’s biggest strength lies in its narrative form.

Potential Spoilers Ahead

But no matter how clever the form is, it can’t hide the coldness of Sybil. She is really hard to empathize with - at times she just made me angry. Her lifelong habit is pouring emotions into letters and sealing them away. It looks sensitive and delicate on the surface, but it’s really just avoidance. She’s trapped in guilt and self‑pity, hurting her loved ones along the way.

She kept crucial truths from her ex‑husband, treated him with distance, and froze their relationship for years. When he was dying and reached out with a letter, she ignored it. After he passed, she didn’t even attend the funeral. Instead of reflecting, she felt wronged, claiming he hadn’t kept his promise to never leave her. That victim mentality, set against the harm she caused, makes her suffering feel more like self‑indulgence.

Her so‑called “late‑life awakening” comes way too late and feels calculated. At 79, when her eyesight fails and she can’t live independently, she suddenly decides to “live fully.” She enjoys the pursuit of an old friend while conveniently cozying up to a widowed neighbor when she needs help. That is survival instinct, not awakening.

Even worse is her moral absence. A desperate young mother with a child comes to her for help, but Sybil, consumed by her own grief, coldly turns her away - thinking others should suffer too. That choice indirectly leads to tragedy. It’s a short episode, but it completely shatters her image as a “sensitive intellectual woman.”

And then there’s the ending, which is the most controversial part. Evans gives this evasive, hurtful woman a nearly perfect wrap‑up: late‑life romance, world travel, family reconciliation, universal forgiveness. As if simply deciding to change at 80 erases all past sins. To me, that logic is naïve and cheap. Hundreds of pages of moral tension collapse in the final chapters. I’m forced to confront a, selfish soul, only to be handed a sugary happy ending at the last minute.

So yes, to me - the book’s formal experiment works - the letters build a unique literary world, but in terms of character and content, it’s really disappointing, even infuriating. Sybil’s self‑centeredness, avoidance, and moral indifference cancel out the charm of the form.

I think Evans wants us to believe that anyone, even at 80, can find redemption and happiness if they choose to change. That ending may comfort readers who crave warmth, but rationally, it’s too fairy‑tale, too idealized, and it dodges the hard truths of human flaws and moral dilemmas. A more honest, imperfect ending would have fit Sybil better and dug deeper into the darker side of humanity.

In the end, no matter how beautiful the letters are, they can’t write true redemption.

2.4 / 5 stars