Author: Bruce Nash
Published: July 1, 2025, by Atria Books
Format: Kindle, Hardcover, 240 Pages
Genre: Labeled as a Mystery, but it's actually Women's Fiction, Aging
Source: My thanks to Netgalley and the Publisher for the opportunity to read an advanced copy of this book.
Blurb: Rose may be in her eighties and suffering from dementia, but she’s not done with life just yet. Alternately sharp as a tack and spectacularly forgetful, she spends her days roaming the corridors of her assisted living facility, musing on the staff and residents, and enduring visits form her emotionally distant children and granddaughters. But when her friend is found dead after an apparent fall from a window, Rose embarks on an eccentric and determined investigation to discover the truth and uncover all manner of secrets…even some from her own past.
My Opinion: After reading the mixed reviews, I’m glad I gave All the Words We Know a full chance. It’s not a book that will resonate with everyone, and that’s precisely what makes it worth reading. Though it’s technically labeled detective fiction, that feels like a misdirection. The mystery here isn’t about solving a crime, it’s about unraveling a life. Women’s fiction or literary fiction centered on aging would be a far more fitting genre tag.
The story is told through Rose, a narrator whose unreliability is both intentional and heartbreaking. She’s in the early to middle stages of dementia, and we know that from the start. But what we don’t know, and what Bruce Nash keeps us questioning, is how much Rose truly remembers, how much she’s been told to forget, and whether she’s confusing the two. Or maybe she’s not confused at all. Maybe she’s playing everyone. That ambiguity is what drives the novel, and it keeps you turning pages with a mix of dread and hope.
The unfolding leans heavily on homophones, which makes the written word essential. I wouldn’t recommend the audiobook version since so much of the nuance would be lost without seeing the language on the page. Nash uses repetition not as a flaw but as a feature. It mirrors the looping patterns of Rose’s mind, and while it can be disorienting, it’s also deeply immersive. You’re not just reading about dementia, you’re experiencing it from the inside.
Rose herself is a marvel. At times, she says things that sound racist, and it’s uncomfortable. But it’s also complicated. Is this her true nature surfacing without the usual filters? Or is it a symptom of her condition, a breakdown in the brain-to-mouth barrier? Either way, you learn to love her. She’s sharp in ways that sneak up on you. She might fumble for everyday words, but then she’ll drop the Latin name of a bird or a plant with effortless precision. You start to suspect she was once a teacher, a botanist, maybe an ornithologist. She’s not just a woman losing her memory; she’s a woman whose mind still holds treasures, even if she can’t always access them.
The setting, a care home, adds another layer of tension. Familiarity is a commodity, and what Rose can afford shapes what she’s allowed to remember. Her son’s evasiveness, her children’s skepticism, and the institutional haze all raise the question: who gets to decide what’s real? And who benefits from that decision?
This book is funny in the way that only truth can be. It’s heartbreaking in the way that only love can be. It’s terrifying in the way that only memory loss can be. And it’s weepy in the way that only a garden, real or imagined, can make you feel. By the end, I couldn’t swear to Rose’s name, even she says it’s unimportant, but good enough. And if the garden she sits in is only in her mind, then for every day she has left, I say let her have it. Let her have all the words she knows.
My Opinion: After reading the mixed reviews, I’m glad I gave All the Words We Know a full chance. It’s not a book that will resonate with everyone, and that’s precisely what makes it worth reading. Though it’s technically labeled detective fiction, that feels like a misdirection. The mystery here isn’t about solving a crime, it’s about unraveling a life. Women’s fiction or literary fiction centered on aging would be a far more fitting genre tag.
The story is told through Rose, a narrator whose unreliability is both intentional and heartbreaking. She’s in the early to middle stages of dementia, and we know that from the start. But what we don’t know, and what Bruce Nash keeps us questioning, is how much Rose truly remembers, how much she’s been told to forget, and whether she’s confusing the two. Or maybe she’s not confused at all. Maybe she’s playing everyone. That ambiguity is what drives the novel, and it keeps you turning pages with a mix of dread and hope.
The unfolding leans heavily on homophones, which makes the written word essential. I wouldn’t recommend the audiobook version since so much of the nuance would be lost without seeing the language on the page. Nash uses repetition not as a flaw but as a feature. It mirrors the looping patterns of Rose’s mind, and while it can be disorienting, it’s also deeply immersive. You’re not just reading about dementia, you’re experiencing it from the inside.
Rose herself is a marvel. At times, she says things that sound racist, and it’s uncomfortable. But it’s also complicated. Is this her true nature surfacing without the usual filters? Or is it a symptom of her condition, a breakdown in the brain-to-mouth barrier? Either way, you learn to love her. She’s sharp in ways that sneak up on you. She might fumble for everyday words, but then she’ll drop the Latin name of a bird or a plant with effortless precision. You start to suspect she was once a teacher, a botanist, maybe an ornithologist. She’s not just a woman losing her memory; she’s a woman whose mind still holds treasures, even if she can’t always access them.
The setting, a care home, adds another layer of tension. Familiarity is a commodity, and what Rose can afford shapes what she’s allowed to remember. Her son’s evasiveness, her children’s skepticism, and the institutional haze all raise the question: who gets to decide what’s real? And who benefits from that decision?
This book is funny in the way that only truth can be. It’s heartbreaking in the way that only love can be. It’s terrifying in the way that only memory loss can be. And it’s weepy in the way that only a garden, real or imagined, can make you feel. By the end, I couldn’t swear to Rose’s name, even she says it’s unimportant, but good enough. And if the garden she sits in is only in her mind, then for every day she has left, I say let her have it. Let her have all the words she knows.
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