Remembrance Reading 2025 (Part 2 of 2)

The first of his books published in his mother tongue (Gikuyu), Weep Not, Child is the second novel by Ngugi Wa Thiong’o (b. 1938), who died on May 28. I read some of his essays on language and culture this spring, around the same time that Bill read this 1963 novel (he posted links to various obits too). There is heartache in the story, even though it’s only partially understood and experienced by the narrator, Njoroge, who is a young child in the 1950s. Nonetheless, he witnesses violence and struggle, against his mother and also against the modern idea that education leads to opportunity (it being inextricably linked with colonisation). His excitement about school (a theme which also surfaces in John Munonye’s Oil Man of Obange) not only signifies prosperity, but boarding school later removes him from the conflict which would come to be known as the Mau Mau Revolution/Rebellion. Torn between loyalty to his family members (who resist colonial forces) and loyalty to his childhood friend (whose father now inhabits the land previously inhabited by Njoroge’s family), he witnesses family dynamics shift too quickly to comprehend.

“Ngotho rarely complained. He had all his life lived under the belief that something big would happen. That was why he did not want to be way from the land that belonged to his ancestors.”

Jane Gardam (b. 1928) landed on my list of MustReadEverything authors early, when an English friend sent me a copy of Bilgewater; Jane Gardam died April 28, 2025. She is one of the few writers whose short story collections interest me even more than her novels (but I also love those). Even so, Missing the Midnight (1997) sat on my shelves for more than twenty years before I realised it’s a collection of Carols, Grotesques, and Hauntings: perfect for late-year reading. As usual, I enjoyed all the stories. Even the ones written like fairy tales or fables, which don’t win me over as easily as they once did (generally). Gardam manages to punctuate hers with the most peculiar but credible details—so, I’m all in. And I was especially keen to find “Old Filth”, which I had thought began as the novel of the same name (but it would seem he introduced himself in a shorter work). That might have been my favourite of the stories—“The Zoo at Christmas” was probably my next favourite, with “Soul Mates” a different (and darker) sort of delight. [Gift article for NYT obit]

“Snow settles lightly on the ground, on fur and hide. The snow leopard moves to a little distance on account of his rarity and distinction. He purrs. He sounds like a distant motorbike.”

Contents: Missing the Midnight, The Zoo at Christmas, Old Filth, Miss Mistletoe, Christmas Island, Grace, Light, The Girl with the Golden Ears, The Boy who Turned into a Bike, The Pillow Goose, Soul Mates, Green Man

Antonine Maillet (b. 1929) is a canonical writer in Canada, not-so-well-known in anglophone Canada because she’s French, and arguably not-so-well-known in francophone Canada because she’s Acadian. She died on Febuary 17^th (Global News) She was one of the first Canadian writers I read, in my late teens, drawn into the cover of On the Eighth Day. My paperback copy of Pélagie (a 1979 translation by Philip Stratford) with the world’s tiniest print is well-worn; someone squinted their way through it a few times before I picked it up. And, no wonder: it’s that peculiar and quintessentially Québécoise blend of wickedness and sorrow, humour and enchantment. Opening with the departure (exile) of a group of Acadians from the southern United States, readers travel with them by cart to a place they can call home. The importance of storytelling, as a means of establishing identity when territory is not available, is omnipresent, but Maillet puts a distinctly feminine spin on it: female characters capable and feisty, authoritative and only tender with the trustworthy. (There’s no combat with the original inhabitants of these lands, only with other settlers.)

“He could roll you out the whole lineage without dropping a stitch. He could crochet you in a trice the history of a people who went from France to Acadie passing through exile, one little generation of exile, one wee little generation, Pélagie, nothing to get overheated about. Go on up, go on back up north, but don’t get so agitated, and don’t go kicking so hard against Destiny, who’ll always get the upperhand anyway.”

With his 1984 novel Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins (b. 1932) landed on my MRE list before I had a MRE list. The only one I’ve missed was 2003’s Villa Incognito, but when I learned that he died on February 9^th (USA Today), it was the first of his novels I read, that I longed to reread (and not for the first time). What does ‘cult writer’ mean anyway? A certain element of surprise (here, a reimagination of the “old Gods”, ribald and trickstery, which felt daring back then) on the writer’s part, and dedication (purchasing, pressing copies on friends) on the reader’s part? But from a marketing perspective, I suppose it also whispers that one shouldn’t expect anything super-literary: pop culture, not poetry? But Robbins’ use of language is lyrical: or—is it just “over the top”—now I’m not sure. It’s hard to imagine writers like Christopher Moore and Kevin Hearne smashing onto the scene, selling so many copies of their crazy imaginings and reimaginings, without Tom Robbins having done his Thing for so many years. Jitterbug Perfume did feel like a favourite of younger-reading-me more than it felt like a book that would spark a full exploration of his backlist now, but I still loved rereading it, even so.

“A sense of humor…is superior to any religion so far devised.”