“Birds . . . and the making of a bird on the page is the logic of my heart. And yours?” So Isaac Sprague, bird artist, writes to his student, Fabian Vas, the narrator of Howard Norman’s acclaimed novel.
Life in The Bird Artist follows its own logic, and this constitutes one of the chief delights of the novel. Early in the narrative, Fabian tells of a time when his childhood friend, Margaret Handle, crashes her bike into an old man, sending him over a cliff. It seems clear that the crash was an accident, and yet nobody in the room asks the logical question that would settle the matter: how did it happen? Instead, the narrative offers unsettling nudges: “It’s hardly a blind corner,” the constable notes; Margaret has an “untoward mind,” Fabian’s mother says. Years later, Margaret says that she and the victim “collided.”
The major events in Witless Bay tend to be collisions of one sort or another, involving people who rarely offer satisfactory explanations for their actions. Instead, we get testimony: testimony in a trial, testimony at a funeral, and if gunshot counts, or the squawking of a lice-ridden parrot, testimony in church. (Not incidentally, the parrot is speaking a dead language). Norman’s characters almost always duck in the clinch, declaiming themselves with statements that are invariably self-evident, incredible, irrelevant, or downright bizarre. When a constable decides to leave some suspects under house arrest unguarded, setting in motion one of the biggest collisions of the novel, he explains himself as follows:
“I’ve decided, out of curiosity, mind you, to attend the Guy Fawkes bonfire . . . Much to my chagrin, I can’t find a guard for you, so you’ll be on your own, which I’ve advised myself against.”
And off he goes.
Faced with a world that refuses to cohere, Fabian finds order only in his bird art, and that, for me, is the most touching aspect of the book. When his fiancé, who meets Fabian five minutes before their arranged wedding, asks him to tell her about himself, Fabian says, “Petrels, they’re rarely found inshore. Though sometimes they come in on a storm and fly overland a day or two. We call them ‘Mother Carey’s Chickens’ in Witless Bay. They get almost tame, some of them. They’ll sit right on your hand. We’ve got Leach’s petrels, dovekies, puffins, razorbills, murres, terns . . .”
In Witless Bay, testimony generally fails—messages fail to get through, reasons fail to explain, rationales fail to justify. Yet the characters keep trying. It is almost too fun to see them throw around the idea of redemption late in the book, openly chatting about the novelist’s holy grail, that thing usually buried somewhere deep in the back forty to avoid accusations of dogmatism or, worse, sentimentality. Norman goes there, all right, and the question emerges not only unanswered, but spattered with gunfire. Beautiful.
“Bird artists should invoke a bird, feather by feather, not merely copy what we see in the wild,” Sprague tells Fabian. The Bird Artist made me think about the kind of truth we tend to accept as psychologically real: how often, in life, do messages really get through, do reasons truly explain, rationales justify?
The Bird Artist is rare fun—funny, complex, a layered composition that amply repays whatever attention it receives.