Hello Gentle Reader
This is the second book by Archipelago Books that I have read – but also happens to be originally published in French. The first book “The Waitress Was New,” by Dominique Fabre was also originally published in French. “Mister Blue,” by the Canadian-French speaking author Jacques Poulin is a deliciate novel; quiet and intimate; much like a cat who has curled up beside (or on one’s lap) and gently purring – these traits make this short novel worth a read. Its Hemmingwayesque sentences are gentle and are not full of hard punches. They are simplistic and poetic. Comparable to watching grass sway in a spring wind; or being hypnotized by how the light reflects on water, creating dazzling and swaying peacock like feather patterns on the walls of a cave. The sentences do not move in a fast action packed pace. They recount and recollect the minute details. From footprints in the sand that have yet to be washed away by the tide; to finding someone living in a cave, and reading “One Thousand and One Nights,” the ever present Coca-Cola clock that sits in the kitchen, to the almost sentient Mister Blue who has a fondness for chicken.
In all honesty what drew me to this novel was the cover. While checking out Archipelago Books website, I noticed the curious display of a book titled “Mister Blue,” that had a soft drawing of a cat. Almost like it were drawn in coloured or dyed charcoal. Upon reading the synopsis, it was decided that it had the premise of an interesting book. When it came, it looked just like it was expected. Reading it was an enjoyable pleasure; which is why I took my time. The book was quiet and simplistic, and with the ghostly hazy border, allows for the subject matter to be viewed in a more affectionate and mellow perspective.
This novel did not waste getting straight to the point. The first chapter surprised me as it followed exactly as the synopsis said it would: the odd discovery of “One Thousand and One Nights,” in a beach cave, where someone has been camping; and from that point on enters into the realms of obsession. Jim the narrator of this novel is the “slowest writer in Quebec,” and is having difficulty penning the greatest love story he will ever write. Perhaps it is the subject matter, in which Jim chooses to write about, that leaves him grasping at straws. Love is an emotion and an ambiguous concept that defies definition and understanding. There is no expert of love, though there are those, who proclaim their sagacity of the concept, but the concept itself is too wide and broad. It is a chameleon kaleidoscope that continually shifts and changes to a new psychedelic pattern. Jim also theorizes that he has issues writing this great love story, because he has transgressed on the sacred rule of Hemmingway: “a writer must stick to the story he knows best.” Since Jim is trying to write a love story without actually being in love himself, it is doomed to failure or stall.
However life is open to improvisation. Much like this novel, the lives of the characters are composed only by the succeeding seconds. Nothing is ever written in stone. As Jim decides to take a walk on the beach, he notices footprints in the sand. Rationally our narrator notes that they cannot be his because his would have already washed away. Mister Blue also shows curiosity in the tracks. As the two follow the tracks they come to the cave. It is in this cave that Jim the solitary narrator of this novel finds the ever elusive obsession of Marie K who he nicknames Marika. All from a name written in the flyleaf does this story dance in a slow ballet of hazy obsession.
Jim’s life is nothing extraordinary: summering at his depilated childhood home on, an uninhabited bay, on the Ile d’Orleans his life is quiet, and routine, only interrupted by the casual game of tennis with his brother, and the tending of the cats (like Mister Blue’s friend Vitamin) and the strays that invite themselves into the home. What is interesting in this novel is how the fiction that Jim decides to write mimics the writing style of the author. Rather than construct or force an artificial atmosphere both Poulin and Jim allow their characters to behave as if they were real people. Following not the logic of that the author creates, but rather following the logic of everyday life. The woman at the bar does not turn her head around because it is what will allow the narrative to progress, but because it is something that is in her character – something that would go unnoticed in real life. Much like scratching one’s head, waving a fly away or dreamily observing and staring at one’s surroundings.
If one looks at Jim as a character, he is a just a normal person. He admires Hemmingway (and was a Hemmingway scholar) but also finds enjoyment in Collette:
“Even though they were very different writers, I enjoyed reading Collette just as much as Hemmingway. Whenever I read her, I am amazed at how precisely she describes sounds, smells, colours, everything in nature.”
Poulin’s work uses understatements to their full potential. The entire work is an understatement. It is best described as a slow waltz in the blue sky. It is expansive and always feels never ending, and always rooted in the ordinary. Like the waltz it is slow and routine dance. Crossing and re-crossing the same old patterns. Much like rereading the work of the day before, seeing were the sentences have left off; and where they may head next. Feeding the cat, his daily chicken; or having that daily cup of coffee; the routine walk. Yet there is always room for some unexpected but always welcomed event. From the surprise visit of someone who is not Marika, to the frequent visiting’s of a damaged young lady.
As it progress what is a dream and what is reality becomes distinctly blurred. The musical language of the daily life becomes metaphysical. Especially in the abstract discussion of the soul, tinged with the melancholic defeat of a person who grows tired of failure:
“When you get right down to it, the only thing I’d always believed in was the soul. I was certain that I had a soul. We all did, even old Mr. Blue. While I was pacing the attic, I’d begun to elaborate the theory of the soul.
According to my theory, the soul was located not inside the body as we generally believed, but outside. It was bigger than the body and enveloped it and kept warm. It had a slight bluish cast that could sometimes be seen in the deck. It resembled a long nightshirt, light, transparent, and diaphanous. At the moment of death it departed the body and drifted in the air for a while, like a ghost, before it went to join the other souls in heaven.”
Of course Jim’s preoccupation with the soul starts to become a bit worrisome at points. I started to wonder if he was having a spiritual crisis of some sorts. Usually when people are having a rough time whether in life or having a crisis of some sorts (not reserved simply for mid-life) they usually turn (or return) to matters that are theoretical or ideal, as a way of finding a meaning or a greater sense of comfort in a way that there is something above them. Something larger. A reason that they suffer and laugh. A reward for the daily drudging and mundane transactions. In the case of Jim, the soul is the reason. That thin wispy blanket of some ethereal substance is the bigger picture. While some find consolation in god and theological concepts (which includes but is not limited to angels, heavenly spirits, the voice of god, Jesus Christ et cetera) some find a sense of peace in the rewarding of the righteous and the perdition of the unholy, while others find the consolation in other practices that are just as transcendent and beyond the norm of what is considered acumen.
His constant need to reassure himself on his philosophical deliberations, had lead me to the theory that at times, with his obsession over Marika that Jim was faced with a both a romantic and spiritual or theological crisis. Which would explains his constant need to reassure himself on his theory of the soul; as if he fears that it would fade away like the night sky and stars in the cities light pollution.
“For the soul, as I said earlier, isn’t inside but around us: it envelops us. It is pure white and transparent. When we receive it at birth, but then it soon takes on a colour that ranges from the blue of the horizon to the ultramarine, depending on the temperament of the person to whom it is given. Though invisible, it can be glimpsed, like a kind of aura, at night or under very special circumstances. As it is drawn toward the sky, it tugs the body upward, forcing it to stand erect; at night, it lets the body rest. Its main task is to protect the body, to contain its life and warmth; when it departs, the body becomes cold. Its destiny is to return to the sky where it will regain its whiteness, before it undertakes a new mission on earth.”
In all, this novel is wonderful. Criss-crossing the same old patterns of daily life with new and slight variations. It’s a warm and tender novel, written in a personable style. The musical flow of the novel is in the poetics of the everyday. The images of daily life. A cup of coffee, a cats soft footsteps, the smells of home cooking – these allow for the reader to become enveloped in the fictional hazy dream like world, that resonates in reality.
Here is something interesting that Jacques Poulin had to say in an interview:
“I do not like literary and maybe I do not like the literature itself same. Very few books I like. I only like short stories, written on a special tone. This tone is something very special; it is a very small niche. When I write, it is what niche I'm trying to achieve. In each book, I feel fail, then I start again.”
I do think though that the author has grasped something with “Mister Blue,” the way it is written, and the subject matter, and the forming of the story itself, has achieved that niche that the author works hard at achieving. I can’t recall ever quite reading anything like this before – at least not in an adult context or written for adults in mind (that may not be true.)
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
