Spring Tides

Hello Gentle Reader

It never ceases to amaze me how the seasons change; often without warning and with an abrupt hurried frenzy. The way Winter thaws into the buds of Spring. How Spring blooms into Summer. Then, how Summer ripens for Autumn. If only for Autumn to quietly go cold with the frost of Winter.  Each season also possess its own personality seems. The light shines these personalities. How Spring is a melancholic man, who begins to receive a bit of rejuvenation with life. Summer always claustrophobic and hazy, is continuously, blooming into some new dress for a party to be hosted, and rejoices at life returned. Autumn now clear, concise, precise and poised has matured to look at everything objectively; and is willing to get to work; the harvest needs to be done. Winter seeps in with a cold deep contemplation, hurrying everyone to sleep, or hurrying the home; reuniting families after another quick day, which just passes them by. Yet Winter takes no prisoners, and its causalities are numerous. Everything falls prey to the cold, the icy roads, and the winter storms. Yet winter offers hope; in brightly lit houses, and the jolly Ol’ Saint Nick or Santa Clause.  Yet for now it’s Autumn, and the fallen leaves have found their way deep inside of some of us. With a slight change and cool breeze, these misplaced leaves, flutter around causing a whirl of nervous jittery sensation to tingle throughout the body. Only in Autumn does it seem that the seasons change become the most relevant, the most abrupt, the most forewarning, and the most frightening. In Autumn the spaces that separate become more and more clearly defined. The horrors of a white never ending dream become more and more a reality. To enter Spring is to think that the passing Winter would never return. That somehow, it was just a short trip on the polar express; and as the grass grows green, the buds appear on the trees, that it’s hard to believe that only a short time ago, did the entire world find itself, beneath the white sheet of Winter. By the time Summer rolls around, there is no time to think about the past. Life must move forward; and it must be enjoyed. It is only in Autumn, that it becomes apparent, that time moves forward, and mortality moves along with it. Autumn demands we each take stock, and realise that change is imminent; the greatest being the progression of age. The truth is: you don’t get younger you get older.

My first encounter with Jacques Poulin was with his novel: “Mister Blue.” “Mister Blue,” had an almost storybook feel to it. At times it felt like at any moment, in the dreamy landscape of a childhood home now depleted, and filled with ghosts of memories, that anything magical could happen and it would have been completely accepted. Despite the fact that such whimsical possibilities never happened. It was a quiet novel that much like Poulin’s other novel: “Wild Cat,” bordered on melodramatics and sentimentality. Yet somehow, Jacques Poulin is able to walk the garden wall in between both, and maintain a whimsical airy distance, while flirting with each side all the same. Despite the understatement like style of his prose, and the pseudo-minimalism in which he writes, Poulin is not a writer, who strikes one as a puritanical minimalist. His prose is light, spacious and often has a dreamy haze around the edges. His novels appear whimsical and are based around a subtle idea of chance and circumstances; rather than being concrete or cut and dry.  His work is not symmetrical in the sense of a minimalist, with the clean cut lines, and stark bleached walls, to the point that the bones of the short story or novel, become ever apparent, and the reader is simply the vulture scavenging what little bit of plot is left on the bones. Rather Poulin’s works are almost like fairy tales – or  are fabulist in nature; yet somehow shun the idea, and take place realistic settings without anything magical or supernatural happening to speak of. Rather the whimsy comes from the characters interactions, which are observed by the reader. These unique interactions, and discussions, come across as strange, and give Poulin its fabulist – though commonly described as: strange; feel to them.

“Spring Tides,” begins to show some hallmarks of his previous work already. The novel is set on a remote island in the Canadian Province of Quebec: Île Madame; an uninhabited Island, which is occupied by the main character Teddy Bear – a translator of comic strips; resides. On this island Teddy Bear, translates the comic strips he is delivered, by the Boss; maintains the grounds, takes care of his cat Matousalem, plays tennis matches against the Prince (an automated machine) and all of life’s other little chores. For Teddy or T.B. this existence of solitude, is becomes perfect. Yet the novel is a bit more complex than just a man maintain the islands infrastructure, grounds keeping, translating, and playing tennis; along with enjoying the company of a cat. No, Poulin is more complex than that; just in a more subtle manner. 

Teddy found himself on the island, by the Boss – a rather eccentric man, who seems to enjoy making money, but finds fulfillment, in supplying and ensuring that people are happy. He takes an immediate interest in Teddy’s spiritual wellbeing:

‘“Apparently you’re a ‘socioaffective’ … I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’ve got a question for you: what can I do to make you happy?”’

And so Teddy finds himself living a life of solitude, on Île Madame maintain the infrastructure (the North House and South House), taking care of the grounds, translating (of course), and playing tennis against the automated Prince; all the while Matousalem comes and goes like a extra in a film, appearing in only guest star appearances; but as always, a welcomed sight.

Complications are abound to rise; especially when happiness is in order.

Enter the spring tides. On the spring tides of each full moon, driftwood, rift raft, and garbage finds itself washed up on the shores of Île Madame. This time however, the Boss arrives, with company in tow. The company: a beautiful companion by the name of Marie and her own cat Moustache (a female); who equally searches for solitude. The Boss rationalises and reasons his decision:

‘“My dream is to make people happy.  That’s why you’re here on this island.  And it’s why I brought Marie here too.  Obviously I don’t think I’m God the Father and I didn’t tell myself, ‘It is not good that man should be alone’ or anything like that, but I thought you’d have a better chance of happiness if there was someone here with you.”’

Yet the first thought of doubt enters this pleasant solitary world:

“Ever since the girl had been there, the island had seemed smaller. You’re more sensitive to the presence of other people on an island, he mused. Or perhaps other people’s presence is more intrusive.”

Yet like a good magician, Poulin quickly hides this sour note, and creates a comic chapter to lighten the mood, and set the novel back on its dreamy way once again. Yet soon the idle world, is pushed off its equilibrium and axis once again; as new inhabitants begin to enter the island: Featherhead a maternal creature (and the Boss’s wife) along with her yappy Chihuahua Candy; the irritable Author who searches to find peace and solitude to write his book; the hard of hearing Professor Moccasin who is an expert in comic strips and their subsequent history. And more do keep on coming; and soon the novels deceptive airy feel of the novel begins to become farther and farther away from Spring and Summer; and the tides begin to push in an Autumnal tone. By the end of the novel, the book reminded me of: “Lord of the Flies,” a rather bleak thought, that took me back to my High School days, in which as students, we were instructed to read the grisly bleak novel. Yet I found the ending of “Spring Tides,” to be more devastating.

“Spring Tides,” by Poulin is a novel that comes across as an allegory; but if one can get past this slight hiccup, the novel will have an rather large impact. Poulin is that kind of magician who distracts, the reader with a trick or colourful handkerchief; while the other hand picks your pocket or stabs the heart. The blow is understated and a bit cold feeling, but the in perspective and context the novel was good, and enjoyable for one that has been defined as a “philosophical fable,” and “existential masterpiece.” 

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Please Note: “Spring Tides,” won the Canadian Governor Generals Award for Literary Merit in the French language in nineteen-seventy eight; the same year Alice Munro’s famous collection of short stories “Who Do You Think You Are?” (Or “The Beggar Maid,”). The first time Poulin won the award; and “Spring Tides,” is fourth novel published; and the first after his “Jimmy Trilogy.”