'I know you're not a fantasy, in the sense of the books I usually record here,' said the blogger, 'but I'll be blowed if I'm not going to write about you anyway. I feel very privileged to have read a classic whilst it's so newly minted.'
He was speaking to the book he'd just finished. If Archer B. Helmsley* could hold conversations with stuffed animals, then he didn't see why an old codger like him shouldn't talk to his books.
'Do you mean me?' said The Doldrums. 'I feel pretty new, but I didn't know I was a classic.'
'Well you are,' said the blogger. 'Or you will be, sure. Sure as eggs.'
'You mean like Aristotle's Poetics?'
'I always knew you were a very intelligent book, despite your hiding it quite well. No. Not exactly. More like The Railway Children or The Borrowers.'
'Hey. I am American you know.'
'To the core. Sorry. Like The Phantom Tollbooth then, or A Winkle in Time.'
'Truly?'
'Truly?'
'Am I very like them?'
'No. Not a bit. You're a bit like a lot of things. And not a lot like anything. In fact a lot not like anything. That's the thing. That's why you're classic. Mostly. That and being beautiful. And funny. And clever. And amazing. And touching. And Different. Did I say that already?'
'You may have. Was it a compliment?'
'It surely was.'
'Well, Thanks then, I suppose.'
'You're welcome.'
Probably enough. The Doldrums is indeed an odd read. In a good way. In fact in a wonderful way. As I just told the book, it kept reminding me vaguely of other things - a very eclectic mix of other things - but without being terribly like any of them.
It is very much a children's book, although with a sophistication and wit which I think will greatly appeal to older readers too. It certainly belongs to a particular, very American tradition of writing for children: books about the everyday lives of rather hard-done-to, just slightly quirky, but independent-thinking kids, with remarkable resilience and humour. You know, The Pinballs and the like. In The Doldrums there are three principal children: Archer whose explorer grandparents have disappeared by floating off on an iceberg and, in consequence, whose mother won't ever let him out of the house in case anything similar happens to him; Adeliade, who is trying to compensate for a wooden leg and the fact that it thwarted her ambitions to become a dancer; Oliver, who is desperately lonely and just wants friends. The story has just hints of Roald Dahl too, with the kids presented as the more normal ones in a world of grotesque and sometimes rather monstrous grown-ups; although here not all the adults are quite so bad.
There are also strands of a tradition that goes right back to Edith Nesbit, The Treasure Seekers say, and through her to Edward Eagre's Half Magic, and on; all those countless books about children having 'an adventure'. But here's the thing about The Doldrums. Although its kids very much want an adventure, and even plan one (after a fashion), it never actually happens. In fact nothing very much happens at all. In this sense the comparison which leapt to my mind is David Shelton's phenomenal*** A Boy and a Bear in a Boat****. The Doldrums is not quite as enigmatic or indeed as absurdist as David Shelton's book*****, but there are times when it feels like it is getting close; so little happens in such a wonderful, totally enthralling way. These kids so much want to go on their adventure but, like the stuffed animals which permeate the story (and the illustrations), they go nowhere fast.
I have another comparator too, perhaps a weird one. In this one respect the kids in The Doldrums bring to mind The Three Sisters. In Chekov's play the main characters are always harping on about going to Moscow. But they never actually go or even make much move to get there. In fact their desire to go to Moscow, and their failure to go is a metaphore, an outward expression of their inner state. So with our trio in The Doldrums, their inability to make it as far as the adventure is essentially what the story is about. Actually, they are not in a position to go. They can go in their own fantasies, but in reality it is just not feasible. They are at an age and stage where they are caught in the Doldrums of life, they have plenty of ideas, bold intentions, aspirations, but they are only children, becalmed by their lack of age and experience.
In fact it is a little unfair to say that nothing happens in the book. It narrates many incidents in the everyday lives of these children. These are mostly amusing, some are farcical and some hilarious. Towards the end of the book they do travel alone across town on a bus to look for a ship to take them to Antarctica. Then they come right back home on the bus again! As the climax of the whole tale they precipitate a stupendous chase through a museum, when they are pursued by tigers (for once real not stuffed). But they still end up at home again at the end of it. It is not quite that nothing happens, just that nothing much happens, or at least that the adventure the kids so long for doesn't happen.
Yet the book is an unalloyed joy, every word, every page, every chapter. So what makes a book with so little (apparent) development of its key storyline so hugely enjoyable? More than anything it is the fact that it is written with such humanity, such humour, such pervasive wit and so much love and understanding for its hugely likeable protagonists. It is a very funny book indeed. One last comparison, it reminds me somehow of the Peanuts comic strip and its characters. I am still trying to sort out just why. I think it is because both invite us to laugh at the precocious cleverness of these children but also at their naïveté, sometimes at their over-confidence, and even their self-delusion. Yet they never do so with any malice whatsoever, rather always with admiration and love. These are just delightful children, far from perfect, but quite wonderful in their integrity and in their commitment to each other. It is actually a story about being young, about having dreams, about looking for love, but more than anything about friendship, and this is the story which Nicholas Gannon develops richly in the course of its telling.
There is another major thing which makes this book such a great one and that is the author's wonderful skill with language in particular and with writing overall. His original style and often very dry verbal wit are a constant delight. An excellent example of his unique bookcraft is when, after having employed, very entertaining section headers right through, he uses these in quick-fire succession to create furious momentum for the climactic chase through the museum.
The volume is lavishly illustrated too, not only with numerous drawn vignettes but with many stunning full page and double spread paintings, all by the author himself. These paintings, in muted colours across a predominantly sepia pallette, are often detailed, somewhat architectural scenes with very squared off perspective and a somehow exaggerated feeling of space. They are populated, often sparsely, with realistic animals (albeit generally stuffed) and more simply depicted, rather cartoon-like people. They are distinctly idiosyncratic and rather difficult to pin down in style. They made me think of some sort of weird cross between, say, Anthony Browne and Edward Hopper, with perhaps a touch of Andrew Wyeth thrown in. Just like the text of the book, though, they are arresting, and somehow very American. You instinctively know that they are something very special. They communicate strongly to both head and heart and are strangely beautiful. The combined result of this harmonious amalgam of text and visual images (supplemented by the outstanding production values of the hardback volume itself) makes for a remarkable whole; like the very best picture books, but vastly extended. It hefts most satisfyingly in the hand, and in the memory too.
This volume is prominently marked as Book One, so clearly there is more to come. Exactly where this is going, or whether indeed anything much will happen next is less clear. Indeed, after the delights of this first book going nowhere much, it may not be such a good thing if it did. I probably should not try to second guess such a startlingly original writer. I shall abide in impatience instead.
Footnotes:
*Who? Just read it for yourself. Love Marmite**, love this book!
**US readers: What?
***literally
****Which reminds me I have not yet written up what is surely one of the most remarkable (and brilliant) children's books of recent years. Note to self: must.
*****Magnus Mills for children. If you haven't read it you really should. My biggest non fantasy must for fantasy fans.
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