How to Read an Unwritten Language (Scribner, 1995), a novel. Nominated and longlisted for the 1997 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, and included in the 1996 Magill’s Literary Annual as one of the 200 outstanding books in any genre of 1995, the novel also appeared on the Wordstock bestseller list. The paperback edition (Warner Books, 1996) was listed as a “New and Noteworthy” paperback by The New York Times Book Review.

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“I was utterly entranced by the keen and idiosyncratic vision of How to Read an Unwritten Language. Philip Graham has created a fable for our time, of a family torn apart by tragedy, and the son who sets out into the world to redeem his life by a series of trials. A truly original novel, tough-minded and compassionate, and above all beautifully written.”
–Lynne Sharon Schwartz

“Evocative, lyrical prose and a keen eye for unexpected detail hold the reader spellbound through this odd, poignant tale of a sensitive man’s quest to understand himself and his loved ones by cracking the code of their lives’ elusive symbolism . . . Through Michael’s gentle voice, first-novelist Graham (author of a short-story collection, The Art of the Knock, and two other books) fashions a resonant narrative that explores the value of storytelling to make life bearable and the unending struggle to make sense of those closest to us.”
–Publisher’s Weekly (starred review), August 7, 1995

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“Graham began by writing prose poems, graduated to short stories and has now produced a novel. It’s a special sort of a novel–mystical, philosophical and respectful of the language of inanimate objects.”
–Michael Silverblatt, host of KCRW’s Bookworm

You can listen to the radio interview with Philip Graham about How to Read an Unwritten Language at Bookworm.

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Excerpt from chapter 16, “Suicide Songs,” of How to Read an Unwritten Language :

When the time came, Kate packed her half of our dividing house with a light touch, filling each box almost tenderly before taping the cardboard flap shut. I worked more slowly, noticing that she took special care not to pack any objects I’d collected–did she somehow understand that they held secrets, like the illustrations she kept inside herself?

Yet there was something from my collection that I wanted her to have, a secret gift that would be my rueful farewell: a long brown bootlace that once belonged to a young woman whose lush blond hair, I’d been told, was her own halo. While resting one afternoon in a park, she’d caught sight of a friend she secretly loved, unexpectedly approaching along one of the cobblestone paths. Though caught off guard, she quickly untied the lace of one of her boots and used it to tie back her hair. She greeted him as he walked by, and when he stopped to chat she casually reached back and loosened the knot, her hair tumbling undone for this man who now, suddenly, had nowhere else to go.

While Kate continued her meticulous, patient packing, I climbed the stairs to our nearly empty bedroom and searched in her closet for her slim leather boots, hoping she hadn’t yet packed them. There they were, in a dark corner beneath a line of dresses, one boot lying sadly on its side. I picked it up and examined the lace–it was nearly the same color and only slightly thicker than the one I held in my hand.

I quickly exchanged them, my fingers fumbling at the button hooks, satisfied with this small presence I was bestowing on Kate. Each autumn through winter she’d wear these boots, tightening them in the mornings and then going about her day, but in the evenings she’d unloose those laces, and the subtle energy of the one I’d just given her might make her pause for a moment, as if she heard someone speaking from far off, not yet recognizing that stirring within as the urge to finally let herself go. And one day, as all laces do, this lace would snap, perhaps finally breaking the spell of her own inner knot .