Poetry is a fascinating language. Iamb, iambic, trochee, ionic, pyrrhic, spondee, masculine rhymes, feminine rhymes, irregular rhymes; there are beats and measures and rhythms to poetry.
This book is and is not poetry; it does and does not have specific measures or rhythms throughout. It most definitely does have a very poignant story – a tale of a family who experiences great joys, and down times that are difficult and trying for everyone. This book is also not a comedy, although it is so funny in places I couldn’t help but laugh. It most definitely is not a romance, although love runs like a river through it all.
The family’s conversations are peppered with rhymes and various meters, as is the writing in this novel, in general. Most of it is written from the young boy’s point of view, although there are also excerpts from his father’s notebooks, too.
”The mirror always got the last word, because, she said, ‘your outlook is moving, but the mirror’s is more objective. It judges truthfully, if cruelly, and never gets affected by the affective.’”
* * * *
”So why doesn’t the man on the first floor ever work either? I see him taking out his garbage every day at four when I’m on my way to the grocery store. His eyes are puffy and his hair’s all choppy, and his clothes are always very sloppy. Don’t try to tell me that he’s still in school or I’ll know you’re taking me for a fool!”
“No, for the man on the first floor, it’s a different story. He’s lost his job, and I bet he’d be thrilled to have to work on Saturdays, the poor slob.”
* * * *
She also taught him to be gallant – in her mind, being chivalrous was never frivolous.
* * * *
There was no room for us between her and her problems, there wasn’t even any air; they took up all the space that was there.
The narrative poem style of this novel was entertaining by itself, although at times I admit that for me, it had to be inhaled slowly, like a meditation. Of course, the humour made it a strange meditation – that, and the fact that it looks just like any other books - it just doesn’t read like them.
I loved the uniqueness of this novel as well as the blend of humour and pathos liberally sprinkled with fascinating bits of values and beliefs on the part of the characters. I grew to care for them – and although I haven’t yet mentioned Mr. Bojangles, reading this sent me to YouTube to find the rendition mentioned in this novel. I had never heard this version before, and I loved it. Mr. Bojangles was a song that was in my own repertoire and it never failed to move me while performing it or any other time I heard it. The version that was played so many times in this novel had the same rhythm and timing as the one I used to do – and it is different from the way many other performers play and sing it.
Rhyming, rhythms, (syncopated in one place in the song) – this novel has all of that along with a lovely, sad, triumphant story. At the end of it all, I wondered how a French narrative poem was transmuted into an English narrative poem because the words in these two languages rhyme only rarely, if at all. So what I really want to know is: how did Regan Kramer translate this from French to English so successfully? I am lost in wonder and awe.