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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of death by suicide, suicidal ideation, child death, child abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, and mental illness.
In her memoir Things in Nature Merely Grow, Yiyun Li dismantles the conventional script for bereavement by positing intellectual engagement as a more rigorous, honest, and sustainable alternative to what is commonly called “grieving.” Although she does not deny the reality of sorrow, she explicitly rejects the expectation that loss must be processed primarily through feeling or narratives of healing. Instead, Li turns to the structured disciplines of philosophy, mathematics, and music as a means of coexisting with the deaths of both her sons. Although this intellectual path is not an escape from pain, it is a deliberate method for survival, a way to mark time within an unchangeable reality, and, ultimately, an act of respect for her children.
Li directly challenges the cultural vocabulary of mourning, refusing to use the word “grieving” and critiquing the familiar narrative arc in which suffering eventually leads to acceptance or transcendence. She views such frameworks as attempts to impose meaning on a reality that remains permanent and irreducible. Rather than seeking comfort, she adopts a philosophical stance, adapting Montaigne’s famous maxim to her situation: “To philosophize is to learn to live with deaths” (26). This approach redefines the goal of bereavement. Instead of moving on from loss, Li seeks to inhabit the abyss with clarity and discipline. Philosophy becomes a means of confronting reality without illusion, allowing her to acknowledge the permanence of her sons’ deaths while continuing to live within that knowledge.
To build a framework for this new existence, Li immerses herself in structured pursuits that occupy her mind with logic, repetition, and pattern. After James’s death, she begins studying Euclid’s geometry and practicing the mechanical exercises in Hanon’s The Virtuoso Pianist. These activities are not meant to be therapeutic in an emotional sense; rather, they are a way to “do things that work” (90). By directing her attention towards theorems, patterns, and technical exercises, she avoids becoming trapped in cycles of rumination while maintaining a sense of order in daily life. The value of these practices lies in providing a necessary structure through which she can endure her sons’ deaths. Through disciplined intellectual activity, Li remains present in a reality that defies emotional comprehension.
Ultimately, Li’s commitment to intellectualism becomes a specific expression of love for her son James. Throughout the memoir, she contrasts her sons, observing that Vincent “lived feelingly,” whereas James “lived thinkingly” (84). This distinction shapes both her memories and the form of the memoir itself. Li recognizes that the imagined dialogue she wrote for Vincent would fail to honor James’s character and worldview. Instead, she resolves to write a book grounded in fact, logic, and reflection. By choosing to remember James “through thinking rather than feeling” (131), she aligns her method of mourning with the way he lived. In doing so, intellectual engagement becomes more than a survival strategy; it becomes a final act of mothering and remembrance. Through philosophy, logic, and disciplined thought, Li creates a way to remain faithful both to reality and to the son whose life she seeks to honor.
Things in Nature Merely Grow is a sustained argument for the necessity of “radical acceptance” in the face of incomprehensible loss. Confronting the unalterable facts of her sons’ suicides, Yiyun Li posits that honesty requires abandoning the comfort of euphemism, the search for metaphysical answers, and the desire for alternative outcomes. She finds that traditional paths toward healing or closure are inadequate and misleading, so she instead sees this acceptance as the fundamental condition for living with integrity inside a fractured reality. For Li, to accept the facts of death without flinching is an act of intellectual courage and an important form of respect for the dead, whose choices must not be softened, romanticized, or explained away.
The foundation of this radical acceptance is a commitment to precise and direct language. The memoir opens with the line police use to deliver bad news—“There is no good way to say this”—which Li praises as an “accurate and effective” statement of fact (3). She consistently rejects euphemism, insisting using words like “died” and “suicide” because she believes that softening the truth diminishes reality. When other mothers suggest telling their children that her son Vincent died in an accident, she refuses, arguing that such a lie would be a “violation of Vincent’s memory” (23). For Li, using clear, factual language is a moral imperative; she asserts that failing to call a fact by its name is the first step toward “cruelty and injustice” (23). Her commitment to accuracy reflects a broader belief that reality must be confronted directly, no matter how painful it may be.
Complementing her insistence on linguistic clarity is a deliberate refusal to engage in what she deems useless questioning. After James dies, Li concludes that the search for “whys and hows and wherefores” is futile, as such questions function as “counterarguments against a fact” (24). In life, unlike in fiction, events do not necessarily have satisfying explanations, and tragedy does not typically reveal a hidden lesson. She therefore embraces radical acceptance as the only discipline that can sustain her. This is an active intellectual choice to engage with reality as it is, rather than as one wishes it to be. By refusing to dwell on alternate possibilities or imagined outcomes, Li honors James’s decision as a final, irreversible fact instead of attempting to reinterpret or contest it through the lens of what might have been.
Additionally, radical acceptance for Li does not mean withdrawing from life. Throughout the memoir, she continues to write, garden, swim, study geometry, and practice piano. She refers to many of these activities as “placeholders,” daily acts that structure time without pretending to solve the insoluble reality of her sons’ deaths. These routines demonstrate that acceptance is not synonymous with surrender. Rather than resisting reality or seeking to escape it, Li chooses to remain fully present within it. Her actions reveal that acceptance is a discipline requiring constant effort, one that allows her to continue living while acknowledging that some losses can never be repaired or transcended.
This practice of radical acceptance redefines Li’s entire existence. The abyss of her loss is becomes her permanent “habitat,” underscoring the belief that she is forced to navigate a life governed by a new, stark knowledge. By choosing to inhabit this abyss without struggling against its fundamental nature, Li demonstrates that survival is not about recovery or returning to a former self. Instead, it is about adapting to a permanent condition and learning to live within it with as much lucidity, honesty, and integrity as possible. Through radical acceptance, Li develops a philosophy that rejects false comforts in favor of truth, arguing that reality, however painful, is the only ground on which a meaningful life can continue.
A central theme in Things in Nature Merely Grow is the philosophical inquiry into what makes life worth enduring despite its unavoidable suffering. Throughout the memoir, Yiyun Li examines how different people answer this question, particularly through the lives and deaths of her two sons. Rather than treating their suicides as inexplicable tragedies, Li approaches them as responses to a fundamental philosophical problem: whether the moments of beauty, meaning, and connection available in life are sufficient to justify its hardships. While Vincent and James, in her eyes, arrive at different conclusions for different reasons, Li ultimately argues that each person must determine for themselves whether life’s rewards outweigh its burdens. Her own survival depends upon accepting that the answer may not be the same for everyone.
Li portrays her elder son, Vincent, as a person who lived through intense feeling and for whom life’s worth was measured by its capacity for perfection, beauty, and poetry. A flamboyant and demanding soul, Vincent expected the world to meet his high standards. When it inevitably failed to do so, life became increasingly difficult to inhabit. Li concludes that “Vincent died because he did not feel that life could meet him: in poetry, in music, in beauty, in courage, and in perfection” (111). His suicide is therefore presented as the consequence of disappointment with a world that could not satisfy his aesthetic and emotional expectations. For Vincent, suffering ultimately outweighed the beauty that had once made life meaningful.
James’s conclusion, by contrast, seems to have stemmed from reason rather than feeling. Li repeatedly characterizes him as thoughtful, philosophical, and analytical. Unlike Vincent, James seems to have found life entirely manageable. Li compares his attitude toward existence to his attitude toward mediocre cafeteria food: it was “perfectly livable” in the same way it was “perfectly eatable” (140). However, for his philosophical and private mind, mere livability was not enough. Drawing connections between James’s intellectual interests and his rereading of Albert Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus shortly before his death, Li theorizes that he calmly evaluated existence and found it lacking sufficient purpose or value. His decision reflects a philosophical judgment that endurance, by itself, does not justify continuing to live. Through James, Li explores the unsettling possibility that a person may find life tolerable while still concluding that it is not worthwhile.
The contrast between her sons ultimately forces Li to articulate her own answer to the same question. Weeks before James’s death, she told him that one must endure the difficult 90% of life for the “ten percent of life” that contains “the real joy of living” (140). This belief becomes the memoir’s central philosophical position. Unlike her sons, Li concludes that moments of beauty, love, intellectual engagement, and human connections are sufficient to justify suffering, even when suffering becomes overwhelming. Her commitment to writing, gardening, swimming, and caring for the memories of her children demonstrates her determination to continue seeking value in a world permanently altered by loss. The memoir does not suggest that her songs were wrong; rather, it acknowledges the tragic reality that different people possess different thresholds for what makes life worthwhile. Through this exploration, Li uses her personal grief to meditate on one of humanity’s oldest questions: what, if anything, makes life worth continuing despite its inevitable pain.



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