Hello Gentle Reader,
The passing of some writers is quietly observed and yet still devastating when learned. The Quebecois writer, Jacques Poulin is one such writer who recently died at the age of 87 years old, and was a quiet giant of Quebec literature. If the late Marie-Claire Blais was a raucous hurricane writer who was a shock to the system, rattling the cage of the then socially puritan society ; Jacques Poulin was the shadow pawed cat, discreet and deliberate. Poulin’s novels were always renowned for their effervescent qualities. Not necessarily bucolic or gregarious, no, they are far too subtle for exaggerated or expressive showmanship. There is, however, a gentleness to the work, a discreet bubbling which only becomes more perceptive as the novel continues on. Still, Jacques Poulin’s novels remain mercurial, concealing their insight and their depths. In moments they are impressionistic watercolours, where delineation is masterly avoided and the subject is equally lost within the landscape, the overlap and the haze. A friend once described Poulin’s novels as meditative but never lingering, Poulin’s prose is far to lithe to be moored in the details and is vigilantly devoted to gracefully skipping forward. In the novel, “Mister Blue,” Poulin praised Ernest Hemingway and Poulin’s style mirrors that of the machismo modernist, with an appreciation for simple and transparent language. Unlike Hemingway, Jacques Poulin’s prose never comes across as punchy. Rather its more streamlined and stealth oriented, like a cat turned to liquid shadow under the cover of night and in the moonlight stalking and spying the world anew, before scurrying off. “Mister Blue,” is perhaps in someway, the typical Poulin novel exploring such eternal themes such as a love of books and storytelling, the various textures of solitude, the power of imagination, the shadow of fear, and the human capacity for love and compassion. “Mister Blue,” is perfectly described as “[. . .] a ballet of the impossible,” delivered in prose reminiscent of a late August afternoon, when the sun comes to rest and the day melts into honeyed light. Its fleeting, but in this liminal space, there for the briefest of moments contentment always balancing on the brink of disappointment or heartbreak. This style was powerfully employed in the parabolic novel, “Spring Tides,” which is set up with a premise reminiscent of a comic play, with its cast of eccentric archetypal characters on an uninhabited second Eden like island, but as the novel progresses, the shore erodes further and further, and a tide of emptiness rises ever forward, by the time readers have caught on to Poulin’s sleight of hand, it’s too late paradise is indeed lost once more. In “Autumn Rounds,” Jacques Poulin celebrates a mature and late life love affair, the book community, and the Quebec landscape, specifically that surrounding the St. Lawrence. “Autumn Rounds,” is a pure delight for all of its Poulian details: the bookmobile fashioned from an old milk truck which attracts cats, an appreciation of a classical sense of feminine beauty; but the bittersweet stitching of melancholy, a shadow of doubt, the acknowledgement of mortality, the passage of time, and the onslaught of age. “Wild Cat,” continues to explore the complexity and spontaneity in which human relationships are formed and beholden, while delighting in the various forms love takes, it’s a warm and empathetic novel of fabulist enchantments and qualities. This is what readers have always loved about Jacques Poulin: the deceptive simplicity, the lightness of touch, and a profound depth that is explored with wisdom of a cat, purring and contend, while also knowing. Jacques Poulin’s masterpiece is the road novel, “Volkswagen Blues,” where a man searches for his brother taking him throughout North America, Detroit, Chicago, into St. Louis and onto the Oregon Trail, and into California. At once an existential road novel, “Volkswagen Blues,” draws parallels between the personal journey and that of the history of the French peoples movement through North America.
Jacques Poulin was and is a classical Quebecois writer. A real gem. Poulin’s death on August 21 is reverberated quietly, but poignantly throughout Quebec. Learning of Poulin's passing has been sad, but means I cherish his work even more, for their warmth, their generosity in spirit, their delightful ability to capture with a lightness of touch both the nuances of everyday life, but also their ability to shade them with just enough magic to warrant a new sense of appreciation. My copy of "Mister Blue," from the exquisite Archipelago Books, sits pride of place on my bookcase, showcasing the muted yellow cover page colour and the enigmatic cat who looks down in pondering contemplation.
Rest in Peace, Jacques Poulin. You are an absolute treasure.
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
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