Vigil felt less like a conventional story and more like an examination of loneliness, grief, and the way people construct meaning when they’re desperate to feel connected. George Saunders seems far less interested in plot than in observing human behaviour, and I found that both fascinating and frustrating.

What stayed with me wasn’t necessarily the events themselves, but the psychology behind them. The protagonist’s need to impose order on uncertainty, and the way loneliness can distort perception and justify increasingly irrational beliefs, felt painfully believable. It’s an uncomfortable reminder that our minds are remarkably good at creating narratives that protect us from difficult truths.

At the same time, I struggled with the emotional distance created by the writing. I admired the restraint and the ideas being explored, but I never became fully invested in the story itself. I found myself appreciating it intellectually more than emotionally.

It’s one of those books that I respect more than I enjoyed. I can see why it resonates with readers who enjoy literary fiction that prioritises observation over momentum, but I personally needed a stronger emotional anchor.