Redhill's text is full of this kind of crisp, stylized imagery, textual echoes of Hallam's photographs. "The medicine that flowed through David's veins could probably change your name," notes one passage. Later, "the street lights came on like the whole city having an idea." Redhill, who has published six volumes of poetry, has the gift of finding the moment, the image, that illuminates something much larger. It is this same ability for which his characters, past and present, are searching, as much as they, themselves, seek to be found. Says David,

You can't be direct with people if there's something important you want them to understand. If you say to them, There is something here of great value, they will stare at you until you produce it, and then they will wait for you to name it and catalogue it and square it away for them. But if you say, I believe there may be something here, then there is a chance, however faint, that they will want to look for it themselves..."

Consolation is as layered as the city, with strata of meaning. Each plunge into the book reveals something deeper below: a family story, a story of redemption, a story about goodness, a story about how, by measures large and small, the past doesn't go anywhere. Redhill's novel serves to remind us of the past which we conceal within, the same way it is concealed in Toronto's ground. Beneath our surfaces, whether raggedy or immaculate, there is something more, something visible only if we are willing to pause our perpetual motion to spend a moment looking for it.

Likewise, the closer you look at Redhill's novel, the more mesmerized you will be. Beautifully written, with characters as layered as any archaeological site, Consolation is a nuanced look at how we deal with grief, family and change, about what the past says about what it means to be human.