Hello Gentle Reader,
Any bookstore – chain or independent, used or otherwise – or library, will inform even a casual browser or bystander, that there is no shortage of a variety of writers at work or options of books. It’s an endless cornucopia of writers, each with their own trademark. Their own style or school or allegiance to group, either formally or informally formed or one forced upon them by academics or critical analysis due to association. There are writers of epicist traditions, and there are writers of quiet dispositions. There are formulaic writers. The ones who have discovered the chemical composition or mathematical computations required to spin a compelling enough yarn to entice readers. Those books fly off the shelves. They entertain as intended. Afterwards they are discarded. They can be found sprinkled through rummage and jumble sales, untouched and unwanted. While others have since been jammed in free libraries in neighbourhood’s or donated to schools or other institutions. It’s dreadful to think how many end up in landfills or recycling centres. They are cheap paperbacks, produced quickly to fly off the shelves and the distance, but not to last it. They are bubblegum reads. Cheap thrills. Tawdry romances. Nothing regarding substance. Then there are writers of serious concerns. You know, the ones who think of themselves as the real deals. Solemn and reverent. They’re writing the great American novel; or they’re expanding the possibilities of language; or they’re attempting to push the limitations of narrative via language or form; they write to explore moral conundrums and philosophical ideals, creating fictional laboratories in which to examine their hypothesis; while there are others who view true literature having a specific social responsibility, providing commentary on politics or social issues. Great writers, however, are those who can capture it all, without the added pretense and pomposity. The underrated writers, are those of a quiet disposition, who are easily overlooked. These writers are not ostentatious or exuberant in their showmanship. They merely get on with it. The Québecois writer, Jacques Poulin, was one such writer.
Reading and returning to Jacques Poulin, is akin to encountering a distant and old friend again. Picking up were you left off, even after having lost touch for years. There is a sense of comfort and familiarity in returning to a Poulin novel. It’s rather like the comfort of re-watching or rediscovering a favourite or beloved television series or film. Rather like putting on a pair of reliable sturdy old shoes or slipping into a warm coat, the ease in how you fit in keeps you there. All the while new details emerge. Overlooked tropes and delightful particulars; mere tidbits that went unnoticed the first time, can be now be appreciated within the larger context. Rather like revisited landscapes who succumb to the seasons and time, Jacques Poulin’s novels act as photographs, encapsulating and carving out the piece of time, archiving it from the corrosion of Chronos. In the works of Poulin, there will always be the warming archetypes and comforts that are leisurely spiced, kneaded, and woven throughout his novels. They can be cats. Testimonials and admiration regarding Ernest Hemingway; though Poulin is known, however, to broaden his purview in appreciation for those otherwise ‘solid,’ American writers, who are part of that uniquely American pantheon of 20th century fiction: F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, J.D. Salinger and Raymond Carver, being his personal favourites. There are mysterious women, whose affections slip in through the narrative, they are gentle and comforting, with Poulin never lingering over anything that can be described as overtly erotic in nature. No Poulin novel would be complete without the aloof and somewhat mystical appearance of cats, be it the titular cats of “Mister Blue,” or “Wild Cat,” or the detail of cats drawn to the bookmobile in “Autumn Rounds,” because the mobile library was once a milk truck, and the cats can still sniff out the ghostly reminisce of milk. Jacques Poulin though was a celebrator of his home in Quebec, be it the Vieux-Québec or charting the primeval and wonderous St. Lawrence with all of its islands, such as the magnificent Île d'Orléans or the Les Îles-de-la-Madeleine (Magdalen Islands). Poulin ensured the landscape of Quebec always invigorated the pages of his novels, providing the necessary charm and local flare to his work, all the while celebrating his Quebecois heritage. The St. Lawrence and her archipelago are the beautiful solitary backdrops of both, “Mister Blue,” and the heartbreaking parabolic novel, “Spring Tides,” where the utopian island retreat of Teddy Bear, is gradually eroded and defaced by a continual onslaught of new arrivals. While in “Autumn Rounds,” the Quebec Countryside and the St. Lawrence’s North Shore are at once both backdrop and travelogue, as ‘The Driver,’ accompanies a French carnival troupe on what is his last tour as driver of the traveling mobile library.
Unsurprisingly, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” has all of these qualities. Reading this novel was in many ways a homecoming to familiar ground. You find yourself treading the same trafficked and time worn floorboards. You know where the boards creak. You wonder if the dripping tap has been fixed. The paint colour has changed and there are new curtains, but overall, you feel right at home. “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” opens serendipitously with the narrator (Jimmy) walking down rue Saint-Jean to leave Vieux- Québec, when he’s startled by the warmth and appeal of a bookstore. Jacques Poulin casually sets the scene with the warm light radiating from the window, and a stack of books set out like a lighthouse, complete with a lantern on top, as if this makeshift literary bookish tower is meant to cut through the late winter to early spring fog and entice customers in. Inevitably it does. Upon entering, Jimmy finds the bookstore changed from his last visit. While he does recall he needs to go up three steps into the main store, where he’s greeted by a potbellied woodburning stove, whose warmth radiates throughout the store. The layout and the organization though have once again shifted. There are no bestsellers right next to the door, instead it’s a haphazard state of unfamiliarity. For the initiated it’s a literary treasure trove of discoveries. For Jimmy, however, it’s a jumbled mess and when he asks the proprietor of the store – a certain Jack Waterman, a fictional author – what principles are used to govern his classification system, the response is:
“The principle of absolute
disorder.”
It is confirmed, your truly in Jacques Poulin territory now. What follows suit is the genesis of an eccentric family unit comprised of Jimmy, who having the talent of hearing the murmur of books according to Jack, becomes the new store clerk; Jack Waterman, the stately and aged author who has been an inspiration to younger writers, supporting himself now with translations and his bookstore; the elusive mysterious sister Mistassini or Mist as its shortened, and of course Charabia the cat. Short vignette chapters gradually reveal their intimate world, and the shadow of ‘Eisenhower’s Disease,’ (Alzheimer’s disease) as Jack calls it that forms the great drama of the novel, as Jack’s faculties are routinely under siege and submerged by the disease eroding his memory, and slowly shipwrecking him from reality and the world. Jack is prepared for this complete erasure of himself, and intends to commit suicide first as a mercy to save his loved ones from watching his slow disintegration into oblivion. Despite the threat and reality of Jack’s condition, the three live in relative harmony, with Jimmy encouraged to go to Paris and follow in the footsteps of Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, and Joyce. It comes as no surprise to find Jacques Poulin taking the time to provide a bit of appreciation to Ernest Hemmingway in, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” especially when admiring Hemmingway’s signature style. However, unlike other novels by Poulin, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” shows an exceptionally amount of generosity to other writers, not just Hemmingway and others of the lost generation. Poulin mentions fellow Franco-Canadian writer Gabrielle Roy, and when Jimmy is in Paris there’s a few lines dedicated to Françoise Sagan and Patrick Modiano:
“During literary programs on TV, I much preferred Sagan or Modiano, both of them rather pathetic, she because she muttered incomprehensibly, he because he never finished his sentences, there was fog in his eyes, and he seemed lost, like ghosts that haunted his novels.”
In this same chapter, Jimmy goes to great comedic and conspiratorial lengths to get one of Jack’s novels read by a French critic and writer. A haughty literary star, which Jimmy couldn’t see what all the hoopla and fanfare was over. Regardless, Jack asked the favour, and so at a café Jimmy ensures the novel is position to be picked up by the unexpecting critic. Naturally, the critic does indeed pick it up, but after realizing its written by a Québécois writer, the novel is returned to Jimmy, but with praise about the opening sentences. This was particularly interesting part of, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” as I am unfamiliar with how the periphery French language writers from Québec or Morocco or Senegal are received in France, and how continental French language authors are received in return. Though my understanding is now the relationship between these two distinct literary cultures is one of amicable respect, with many Québécois writers (Kim Thúy, Dany Laferrière, and Aki Shimazaki) incorporating an international or outward looking perspectives to their work. Regardless, it is interesting to see Jacques Poulin move outside of Québec for a few chapters, to provide further insight into French cultural dynamics, as Poulin himself lived in Paris, France for many years before returning to Québec.
As for literary style, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” continues the tradition of Jacques Poulin’s literary style, one emulating the streamlined ‘closed fist,’ punchy prose of Hemmingway and the reductionist clarity of Raymond Carver. What separates Poulin’s prose from being dourly beige and grey as former’s adherence to minimalist disciple, is there is a continual effervescent quality to it. A buoyant pleasure rippling beneath the surface, rather like a gentle and bucolic breeze in spring stirring meadowlands and new blossoms, as in the following passage:
“To be sure that Mist didn’t go directly to Jack’s place after our walk, I led her in the opposite direction to rue des Remparts, towards the west. I took her across Place d’Youville and the gloomy boulevard Dufferin, then we stepped into the neighbourhood of Saint-Jean-Baptise. The area lacked trees and green spaces, but to compensate and rest our eyes when we were strolling the terraced streets on the slope that led to the Lower Town, at every intersection we were able to admire the vast carpet of light that spread as night was falling from Limoilou to the feet of the Laurentians.”
One complaint, however, with the novel is the discomfort I got from reading what can only be described as a vaguely incestuous relationship between Jimmy and Mistassini. While I am able to theorize and ascertain via some of the text that perhaps Mistassini and Jimmy are not necessarily siblings as a blood relation, but merely siblings within the sense of familiar adoption or youthful pact. Regardless, the relationships physical intimacy – however loving it is – is off putting and does cause for a few shivers to zip down the spine.
“My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” is a delightful return to the charming literary world of Jacques Poulin, a writer whose never solemn, but does hold reverence for literature and philosophy. Poulin just does it without wrapping himself in pretentiousness and imperious attitudes, as so many others do. Despite the underlying current of melancholy brought on by Jack Waterman’s gradual obsolesce via his Eisenhower’s Disease, Poulin carefully manages this to ensure it does not become increasingly melancholic, mooring the novel into the realms of pessimism and drudgery. Do not mistake, however, Poulin’s lightness of touch with superficiality or no depth, as Poulin has proven himself to be a consummate writer whose work allows plenty of room to breathe enough insinuation, allowing reading to fill in any missing information. Returning to Jacques Poulin is a wonderous feeling. Its settling down into a cushiony arm chair for the evening and being swept away in a good book. Reading, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” was at times slightly sad, as I know the author died this year in late August at the age of 87; but being able to get my hands on another one of his novels, is a remarkable way to once again revisit this writer and his work. Admirers of Jacques Poulin and his work won’t be disappointed by, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” though they should be forewarned to steady and steel themselves regarding the relationship between Jimmy and Mistassini.
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
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