How to even begin talking about this album? In many ways, it defies description. Even if I had never experienced the death of someone close to me, the emotional devastation wreaked by Carrie & Lowell would still be immense and undeniable. Sufjan Stevens writes about grief and loss and loneliness in ways that are as universal as they are personal, drawing shared meanings from intensely private experiences. Moreover, he conveys these emotions with the musical intimacy they deserve, trading in all of the bells and whistles of his latest releases for an acoustic minimalism that hasn't been so fully on display since 2004's Seven Swans. Allowing his sorrowful lyrics and beautiful melodies to speak for themselves, Stevens proves with Carrie & Lowell that he's one of the most important songwriting voices of the generation, even stripped down to his barest self.

While all of Carrie & Lowell is painted in the same sonic palette - largely voice and acoustic guitar, with smatterings of piano/keyboard and electronic ambiance - the songs do a remarkably good job of distinguishing themselves from one another, which is a testament to Stevens' melodic talents. They are helped, too, by the charmingly lo-fi production and Stevens' whisper-soft vocals, which lend an ethereal lightness to the album's atmosphere, even in its most starkly mournful moments. Combined, these elements prevent the album from becoming overwhelmingly dirge-like. For as often as it sounds like it physically pains Stevens to excise his emotional demons, there's also a quality of hopefulness in his catharsis that comes through in fleeting glimpses of brightness, like the subtly jubilant ending of "Should Have Known Better" or the nostalgic humor of "Eugene" ("He called me Subaru") or the sober serenity of "Blue Bucket of Gold." In this sense, the goal of Carrie & Lowell is not to indulge self-pity but to find a way out of the darkness, a gift to himself as much as the listener.

With such a consistent musical backdrop, the major focus becomes the lyrics, which are simultaneously among Stevens' simplest and his best. They are also, by a long shot, his most personal; although often obscured by metaphor and myth, they seem to offer the truest portrait of Stevens as a person yet, and the effect is often heartbreaking. Two constant narrative threads dominate the album, the first being the death of Stevens' estranged mother, Carrie, and his conflicted feelings toward her. Although he recognizes her abandonment ("When I was three/Three, maybe four/She left us at that video store"), he also desires to make amends now that it is no longer possible ("I forgive you, Mother/I can hear you/And I long to be near you/But every road leads to an end"). By "Fourth of July," his grief has become so vast that he imagines her comforting him in death like she never could in life: "Did you get enough love, my little dove?/Why do you cry?/And I'm sorry I left, but it was for the best/Though it never felt right/My little Versailles."

Simultaneously, the album seems to deal with the impact of a physically abusive and emotionally draining romantic relationship. "All of Me Wants All of You" plays out as a desperate plea to a detached lover ("You checked your texts while I masturbated/Manelich, I feel so used"), and "Drawn to the Blood" details a chilling physical encounter and the narrator's subsequent self-doubt: "The strength of his arm/My lover caught me off-guard . . . For my prayer has always been love/What did I do to deserve this?" Both of these events combined result in a crisis of identity and a downward spiral of harmful behavior, from suicidal thoughts ("The only thing that keeps me from driving this car - half-light, jack-knife - into the canyon at night") to substance abuse and sexual promiscuity ("Like a champion, get drunk to get laid/I take one more hit when you depart"). As always with Stevens, it's impossible to tell how much is metaphor and how much is reality, but the sentiments, at least, are brutally honest.

After a certain point, one gets the sense that Stevens has made peace with his sadness. In "The Only Thing," he asks in a quavering falsetto, "Should I tear my eyes out now?/Everything I see returns to you somehow/Should I tear my heart out now?/Everything I feel returns to you somehow." The questions come across as both sarcastic and sincere, a reminder to himself that the only way through is to keep living, as tempting as ending it all may be. It's a brave statement, just like the album as a whole. While listening may at times border on voyeuristic, it's also comforting to know that Stevens was willing to share his personal journey in the hopes of helping someone else along on theirs.