Jean-François Beauchemin

To describe this text as a novel may send the wrong signal. It is perhaps better described as a long series of linked prose poems. The narrative is partial and discontinuous; anyone looking for a plot, adventure, and snappy dialogue will be disappointed. But for readers who enjoy meditative, carefully wrought literature, this text is masterful, outstanding.

TURKANA BOY follows Monsieur Bartholemé through the brief life of his son and the long residual of his loss. M. Bartholemé wanders the world, interacting with animals, the ocean, the sky and experiencing moments of reflection, insight, and piercing beauty. There are haunting lines on every page, phrases that are exquisitely precise and tender. The text itself is carefully presented, too, complemented by large white spaces in which to take a breath and by evocative images that interact wisely with the writing.

If you enjoy poetry, you may enjoy this book. I found it best read in small sittings, a few passages at a time: it is not a text that suits "power reading" but rather should be sipped slowly and cherished. I imagine myself returning to this book again in a few years when I am changed and older, and wonder, How will it speak to me then?… (mais)

"He was born like this, with a brain inventing images. The world was multiple, stratified: beneath its surface was always another reality that came, unlooked for, to Monsieur Bartolome. He did not immediately understand this order of things. He had to decode it, like someone piecing together the fragments of an ancient vase broken by the centuries. He was the scribe of a scattered narrative, digging into the mud of omens."

Turkana Boy by Quebec-ianJean-Francois Beauchemin, and beautifully translated by Jessica Moore, is an Early Reviewer book that is described as a novel but really is a series of story-linked prose poems. Monsieur Bartolome's 12 year old son has disappeared, devastating his father. Monsieur B. begins to wander, first his town area, then the nearby woods, then the seaside. He sees all with a penetrating, lyrical vision. "For a long time, he had thought he would not survive the child's disappearance. And now here he was, taking inventory of centuries, with scratches from the sun's claws marking the corner's of his eyes, with foam and silver birch bark sprinkled through his hair."

At times this book reminded me of Italo Calvino and Mister Blue by Jacques Poulin. There is an occasional off-tune passage, maybe the result of faltering translation, e.g, "Prows walked on water. The sea prevailed over the sky." But these are rare, and quickly the entrancing qualities of the book return: "The sea stood up before him, foaming, torn by lightning bolts, opening terrifying mouths that gobbled up the dense, hard black rains unleashed by the sky like hate." The book's broad scope encompasses difficult issues of loss, death, and despair, but also love, revelation and the joys of sensation, of being in our spectacular world. I found myself in a pleasant reverie reading it, pulse slowed, like sitting in a boat, out on the water, gently bobbing.

The titular Turkana Boy was a 12 year old pre-Sapiens boy (Homo egaster) from 600 thousand years ago, discovered by Richard Leakey in the 1980s. Monsieur B. thinks of him, separated from his parents like his son. Time passes, and Monsieur B. becomes grateful to his son for inspiring "this vast movement, this existence composed of gestures and strides, this great march to the rhythm of things, objects, stones, animals, ponds, trees, and roads - in short, of matter." This great poetic march can, of course, be understood in a number of different ways - was there a son? Is Monsieur B. the son? Is this about our growing knowledge of ourselves and our world as we grow older, our deeper experience of life? It doesn't really matter. Just sit back in the boat, feel the sea beneath you (yes, if you're not careful, it can swallow you up with its terrible mouths), and let the gentle breeze of words slow you down, gently bobbing in another gift of a day in this world of ours.… (mais)