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Summary
Summary
A landmark literary novel, balancing unbearable sadness and beauty in the voice of a witty, beleaguered teen-ager whose family is destroyed by fundamentalist Christianity
Author Notes
Miriam Toews was born in 1964 in Canada. She is best known for her novels A Complicated Kindness and All My Puny Sorrows. She has won a number of literary prizes including the Governor General's Award for Fiction and the Writers' Trust Engel/Findley Award for body of work. She is also a two-time finalist for the Scotiabank Giller Prize and a two-time winner of the Rogers Writers' Trust Fiction Prize. Toews had a leading role in the feature film Silent Light, written and directed by Mexican filmmaker, Carlos Reygadas and winner of the 2007 Cannes Jury Prize, an experience that influenced her fifth novel, Irma Voth.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
A 16-year-old rebels against the conventions of her strict Mennonite community and tries to come to terms with the collapse of her family in this insightful, irreverent coming-of-age novel. In bleak rural Manitoba, Nomi longs for her older sister, Tash ("she was so earmarked for damnation it wasn't even funny"), and mother, Trudie, each of whom has recently fled fundamentalist Christianity and their town. Her gentle, uncommunicative father, Ray, isn't much of a sounding board as Nomi plunges into bittersweet memory and grapples with teenage life in a "kind of a cult with pretend connections to some normal earthly conventions." Once a "curious, hopeful child" Nomi now relies on biting humor as her life spins out of control-she stops attending school, shaves her head and wanders around in a marijuana-induced haze-while Ray sells off most of their furniture, escapes on all-night drives and increasingly withdraws into himself. Still, she and Ray are linked in a tender, if fragile, partnership as each slips into despair. Though the narration occasionally unravels into distracting stream of consciousness, the unsentimental prose and the poignant character interactions sustain reader interest. Bold, tender and intelligent, this is a clear-eyed exploration of belief and belonging, and the irresistible urge to escape both. Agent, Knopf Canada. Author tour. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Sixteen-year-old Nomi Nichol is a Mennonite, which, she wryly observes, is the most embarrassing sub-sect of people to belong to if you're a teenager. Because Mennonites shun modern ways, Nomi's repressively fundamentalist community on the plains of Manitoba is a tourist attraction for Americans searching for a glimpse backwards in time. Half of Nomi's family, the better-looking half as she puts it, is missing. Her older sister has fled the stifling strictures of their hometown, while her mother has also vanished after having been excommunicated by her own brother, the local minister, whom Nomi dubs The Mouth of Darkness. That leaves the 16-year-old to look after her gentle, bewildered father and to deal with her own loneliness and persistent memories of how her family came undone. For Nomi, coping becomes an exercise in increasingly rebellious, sometimes self-destructive behavior, punctuated by pot-fuelled fantasies of escaping to New York to become a roadie for Lou Reed. Canadian author Toews, who grew up in a similar community, raises a number of fascinating, beautifully dramatized questions about the toll unquestioning faith can take on the human spirit. Her episodic, highly introspective first novel--part of an emerging subgenre of crossover adult books that might have been published as YA--maintains a careful balance between hilarity and heartbreak that most readers will find unforgettable. --Michael Cart Copyright 2004 Booklist
School Library Journal Review
Adult/High School-Growing up in an isolated Canadian Mennonite community in the 1980s, Nomi knows that there is a world beyond the single Main Street of her town. A senior in high school, she is drifting downward in a haze of drugs, thoughts of sex, and lethargy, knowing she needs to escape this repressive, fundamentalist community but unable or unwilling to take the first step. Her gentle, somewhat befuddled father tries to support and understand her, but he is dealing with a wife who left to prevent his having to "shun" her and an elder daughter who left with her boyfriend-and her mother's blessing. He slowly sells off their possessions and ultimately drifts away himself as a (still gentle) prod to Nomi to leave. The girl's seemingly random thoughts, often charmingly humorous, lead her gradually to see the hopelessness of living in a place the tourists come to visit "for a glimpse backwards in time," and the possibilities of building a life "away." Although Nomi's story is depressing, her wry observations reflect normal adolescent angst leavened with a distinctly parochial irreverence. Teens with real issues as well as those who would benefit by realizing that they don't have it so bad will find sadness and hope in Nomi's thoughtful musings and root for her survival. The story is a metaphor for those torn between a present lack of fulfillment and the fear of moving toward the unfamiliar-in other words, growing up.-Susan H. Woodcock, Fairfax County Public Library, VA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
An amusing if somewhat rambling account by Canadian author Toews (Swing Low: A Life, 2001) of a teenaged girl growing up in the middle of nowhere. All adolescents think they live in the dorkiest place in the world, but 16-year-old Nomi Nickle maybe really does. Her hometown of East Village, Manitoba, you see, is populated almost entirely by Mennonites, an austere Christian sect. East Village has a movie theater but no bars, discos, pool halls, McDonald's, or Starbucks--and even the theater specializes in films about Menno Simons (who founded the religion and named it after himself). So it's not really an MTV kind of place. But that doesn't keep Nomi or her sister Tash from throwing themselves into the usual adolescent cauldron of hormones, scorn, and rebellion. Tash eventually runs away from home with her boyfriend Ian, and Nomi dreams of moving to the real East Village (in New York) and hanging out with Lou Reed. Even Nomi's mother, Trudie, whose brother Hans ("the mouth") is the town's equivalent of the Pope, gets fed up with life among the elect and runs off to parts unknown, leaving Nomi alone with her sweet-hearted but ineffectual and very depressed father, Ray. Nomi copes by ignoring her studies, partying with the other slackers, and hanging out with her boyfriend Travis (who plays guitar and likes to run naked through wheat fields). It's all on the gloomy side, but, if Nomi is to be believed, that's what Mennonite life is all about ("A Mennonite telephone survey might consist of questions like, would you prefer to live or die a cruel death, and if you answer 'live' the Menno doing the survey hangs up on you"). Still, like any normal teenager, Nomi can't imagine anything right about her family. Perhaps she's the one who has the changing to do. Toews captures the spurts and lurches of adolescent growth in a tale as crude and fresh as its subject matter. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
One I live with my father, Ray Nickel, in that low brick bungalow out on highway number twelve. Blue shutters, brown door, one shattered window. Nothing great. The furniture keeps disappearing, though. That keeps things interesting. Half of our family, the better-looking half, is missing. Ray and I get up in the morning and move through our various activities until it's time to go to bed. Every single night around ten o'clock Ray tells me that he's hitting the hay. Along the way to his bedroom he'll stop in the front hallway and place notes on top of his shoes to remind him of the things he has to do the next day. We enjoy staring at the Northern Lights together. I told him, verbatim, what Mr. Quiring told us in class. About how those lights work. He thought Mr. Quiring had some interesting points. He's always been mildly interested in Mr. Quiring's opinions, probably because he's also a teacher. I have assignments to complete. That's the word, complete . I've got a problem with endings. Mr. Quiring has told me that essays and stories generally come, organically, to a preordained ending that is quite out of the writer's control. He says we will know it when it happens, the ending. I don't know about that. I feel that there are so many to choose from. I'm already anticipating failure. That much I've learned to do. But then what the hell will it matter to me while I'm snapping tiny necks and chucking feathery corpses onto a conveyor belt in a dimly lit cinder-block slaughterhouse on the edge of a town not of this world. Most of the kids from around here will end up working at Happy Family Farms, where local chickens go to meet their maker. I'm sixteen now, young to be on the verge of graduating from high school, and only months away from taking my place on the assembly line of death. One of my recurring memories of my mother, Trudie Nickel, has to do with the killing of fowl. She and I were standing in this farmyard watching Carson and his dad chop heads off chickens. You'd know Carson if you saw him. Carson Enns. Arm-farter in the back row. President of the Pervert Club. Says he's got a kid in Pansy, a small town south of here. Troubled boy, but that's no wonder considering he used to be The Snowmobile Suit Killer. I was eight and Trudie was about thirty-five. She was wearing a red wool coat and moon boots. The ends of her hair were frozen because she hadn't been able to find the blow-dryer that morning. Look, she'd said. She grabbed a strand of hair and bent it like a straw. She'd given me her paisley scarf to tie around my ears. I don't know exactly what we were doing at Carson's place in the midst of all that carnage, it hadn't started out that way I'm pretty sure, but I guess carnage has a way of creeping up on you. Carson was my age and every time he swung the axe he'd yell things at the chicken. He wanted it to escape. Run, you stupid chicken! Carson, his dad would say. Just his name and a slight anal shake of the head. He was doing his best to nurture the killer in his son. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon on a winter day and the light was fading into blue and it was snowing horizontally and we were all standing under a huge yellow yard light. Well, some of us were dying. And Carson was doing this awful botch job on a chicken, hacking away at its neck, not doing it right at all, whispering instructions on how to escape. Fly away, idiot. Don't make me do this. Poor kid. By this time he'd unzipped the top half of his snowmobile suit so it kind of flapped around his waist like a skirt, slowing him down, and his dad saw him and came over and grabbed the semi-mutilated chicken out of Carson's little mittened hand and slapped it onto this wooden altar thing he used to do the killing and brought his axe down with incredible speed and accuracy and in less than a second had created a splattery painting in the snow and I was blown away by how the blood could land so fast and without a single sound and my mom gasped and said look, Nomi, it's a Jackson Pollock. Oh, it's beautiful. Oh, she said, cloths of heaven. That was something she said a lot. And Carson and I stood there staring at the blood on the snow and my mom said: Just like that. Who knew it could be so easy. I don't know if she meant it's so easy to make art or it's so easy to kill a chicken or it's so easy to die. Every single one of those things strikes me as being difficult to do. I imagine that if she were here right now and I was asking her what she meant, she'd say what are you talking about and I'd say nothing and that would be the end of it. It's only because she's gone that all those trivial little things from the past echo on and on and on. At dinner that night, after the slaughter at Carson's place, she asked us how we would feel if for some reason we were all in comas and had slept right through the summer months and had woken up around the middle of November, would we be angry that we had missed the warmth and beauty of the summer or happy that we had survived. Ray, who hates choosing, had asked her if we couldn't be both and she'd said no, she didn't think so. Trudie doesn't live here any more. She left shortly after Tash, my older sister, left. Ray and I don't know where either one of them is. We do know that Tash left with Ian, who is Mr. Quiring's nephew. He's double-jointed and has a red Ford Econoline van. Trudie seems to have left alone. Now my dad, you know what he says in the middle of those long evenings sitting in our house on the highway? He says: Say, Nomi, how about spinning a platter. Yeah, he uses those exact butt-clenching words. Which means he wants to listen to Anne Murray singing "Snowbird," again. Or my old Terry Jacks forty-five of "Seasons in the Sun." I used to play that song over and over in the dark when I was nine, the year I really became aware of my existence. What a riot. We have a ball. Recently, Ray's been using the word stomach as a verb a lot. And also the word rally . We rally and we stomach. Ray denied it when I pointed it out to him. He says we're having a good time and getting by. Why shouldn't he amend? He tells me that life is filled with promise but I think he means the promise of an ending because so far I haven't been able to put my finger on any other. If we could get out of this town things might be better but we can't because we're waiting for Trudie and Tash to come back. It's been three years so far. My period started the day after Trudie left which means I've bled thirty-six times since they've been gone. Excerpted from A Complicated Kindness by Miriam Toews All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
