Lost at sea: Charles Quimper, In Every Wave

Charles Quimper, In Every Wave. QC Fiction, available from 1 November 2018. First published 2017 as Marée montante

In a recent interview in the online magazine Québec Reads Charles Quimper was asked:

What, if anything, would you say defines Quebec literature?

 

An inwardness of character, I think, and a complexity in the emotions they experience. There’s a toughness, a harshness of tone that’s difficult to capture or define in just a few words.

This sums up the first-person narrative – monologue – and the narrator’s tangled, indefinable sensations and emotions in Quimper’s first novel, In Every Wave.

Quimper Every Wave coverIt belongs to that sub-genre of fiction which deals with a parent’s anguish and torment at the loss of a child. Ian McEwan is the only example that comes to mind (toddler goes missing in supermarket), but I’m sure there are more I’ve forgotten about.

In the same interview the author says that it’s a novel’s ‘opening lines that grab my attention. They have to land, leave their mark. I enjoy discovering images that are still new to me, scenes made up of words that leave me in a swirl of ideas.’ Here’s the opening paragraph of his novel:

It was June when I set sail on my boat’s maiden voyage. I carried the bare essentials. A few pounds of supplies, your little pink box, a battleships game, and the endless echo of our days together.

I’m not sure ‘harshness of tone’ is what he does here, though there’s a brittle matter-of-factness masking the pain underneath. The two short, simple sentences are deceptive, their apparent confidence waylaid by the heartbreaking list of stores that’s given in that long, swirling third sentence – all addressed to the lost child. After the mundane, trivial objects, with their connotations of seafaring and childhood, we get that tortured abstract noun phrase signifying emptiness, loss, bereavement.

What follows is a poetic evocation of the father’s descent into personal hell as he tries to come to terms with the death of his little girl. The narrative is slippery and unreliable: we’re given three different accounts of how she died. It’s as if the detail is immaterial; it’s only the grim fact that she’s dead that counts. The rest is narrative.

As he builds his ship of death, then sails it on an increasingly fantastic voyage reminiscent of legendary travellers like St Brendan and Mandeville, one is invited to share all that’s happening in his head, as in Golding’s Pincher Martin. He’s in such inner turmoil he’s incapable of distinguishing the material world, which increasingly lacks definition for him, from the infernal zone he’s trapped or adrift in with memories of his equally lost, unanchored little girl.

It’s impossible to read this novella – it’s less than eighty pages long – without partaking in that parental torment. Quimper takes us to places most of us hope never to go in real life, creating a work of art out of imagined catastrophe.

The translation by Guil Lefebvre is seamless and fluent: it can’t have been easy to render this heightened language from the French, yet he’s produced a version that reads idiomatically and smoothly – the sign of a good translation is that the reader is never conscious of reading something translated.

QC Fiction continue to produce an impressively varied and consistently interesting sequence of prose fiction titles.

There are fuller accounts at the following blogs:

Stu at Winstonsdad

Tony at Tony’s Reading List

ARC courtesy of QC Fiction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Book haul: Trollope, Eliot, Dundy, Rhodes, Quimper

Just been into town for the last time before a trip to Catalonia, and couldn’t resist the allure of the books in charity shops. Here’s what I came back with:

Book haul

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m taking Trollope’s Last Chronicle of Barset with me; have got to p. 500 or so, but 400 pp. remain, so I need another one to follow up with – I have a whole week, with plane trips to fill with reading. So that Glendinning biography will come in handy, maybe when I get back. Too heavy for plane travel.

I posted with muted enthusiasm on Elaine Dundy’s The Dud Avocado recently, and Jacqui (Wine) wrote about it just a week ago, so am interested to see what The Old Man and Me is like. One of the better new VMC covers, I think.

I used to have a copy of that Eliot prose collection – it might still be lurking in a box in the cellar or garage – but I noticed there’s an essay on Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam’, so had to make sure, as I’ll be teaching it this year again.

The book on the Spanish Civil War will be appropriate for where I’m going; sounds like an interesting take on the subject. The blurb says it focuses on the impact of the war on writers and artists, and on technology – military and medical. This summer I’ve reread Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, and read a fine French-Spanish novel on the subject: Cry, Mother Spain, by Lydie Salvayre, so it’ll be good to see what Rhodes has to say.

When I got home that Quimper ARC from those fine people at QC Fiction (Québec City) was in the mail. I have a bit of a backlog of their titles to post on here; another task for when I’m back. I’ve found all of their backlist stimulating so far.

Now to finish packing – and a few more pages of Trollope.