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304 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2014
Still lost in thought, mite, my father said, gently ruffling my hair, and that gesture made me want to cry, because soon my father wouldn’t dare pass his hand through my hair that way, for the simple reason that I was less and less of a mite, that I was unbugging at the speed of light, like all those girls who from one day to the next start saying no to their parents’ goodnight kisses.This quote is by one of the several narrators in the novel, twelve-year old Andrée Duchamp. Most of the other sections are by an omniscient third person narrator where different characters are the focus. For at least half of the novel I appreciated the prose the most, but as I got deep into the later pages, the character of Andrée is so very well developed it deserves mention. In the Acknowledgements, Michaud says her parents took her to Bondrée in their summers. The location was also very well presented.
Bondrée is a place where shadows defeat the harshest light, an enclave whose lush vegetation recalls the virgin forests that covered the North American continent three or four centuries ago. Its name derives from the deformation of the word “boundary”, or frontier. No borderline, however, is there to suggest that this place belongs to any country other than the temperate forests stretching from Maine, in the United States, to the southwest of the Beauce, in Quebec. Boundary is a stateless domain, a no-man's land harbouring a lake, Boundary Pond, and a mountain that hunters came to call Moose Trap, after observing that the moose venturing onto the lake's western shore were swiftly tripped up on the steep slope of this rocky mass that with the same dispassion engulfs the setting suns.
Everyone knows that death stains, that it leaves marks everywhere it goes, big dirty tracks that make us lurch backwards when we're about to step right into them.
I didn't want a bra or nylon stockings or nail polish or blood between my legs. I wanted trees to climb, I wanted dirty running shoes that go a hundred times faster than new running shoes and girls' sandals, and I especially didn't want to feel that what up to then had got me out of bed every morning was going to leave me cold, while life went on without me. It hurt too much to think that old age planed down the mornings, and left slivers of new wood at your bedroom door.
Still lost in thought, mite, my father said, gently ruffling my hair, and that gesture made me want to cry, because soon my father wouldn’t dare pass his hand through my hair that way, for the simple reason that I was less and less of a mite, that I was unbugging at the speed of light, like all those girls who from one day to the next start saying no to their parents’ goodnight kisses.
Larue came from another world, that of books, which reflect reality with a different sort of acuity, taking a small sample of the real and weighing it against a whole that existed only in the sum of its parts.
