‘I tell Aggie about things I’ve never seen, places I’ve never been. I know them, though, somewhere deep in my bones. . . Like some long-ago bird whispered stars to my heart, made clouds scuttle through my veins. . . I know what it is to fly.’ (p 29/30)
Different voices
A children’s fiction woven from the strands of three very different voices excites my interest immediately. When the three are as distinct, innovative, and downright entertaining as they are in Cory Leonardo’s novel then I positively fizz with readerly excitement. Where else would you meet in the same book a poetry-writing parrot with considerable attitude, a lonely boy obsessed with the terminology of medical conditions, and an elderly woman much given to dancing and wearing a red feather boa (*1)? This book pushes the boundaries of children’s fiction in the kind of wonderful ways that thrills and delights me.
The titular Alastair, the book’s principal narrator, somehow manages to be a parrot of considerable charm despite, or perhaps because of, his distinctly curmudgeonly nature. (‘I’m not depressed. I’m anti-social.’ p 197) He can also be very funny indeed. Generally speaking, I am no great fan of anthropomorphic animals, and certainly not the kind who walk on rear legs and wear cute clothing. However, Alastair does not really fit in to that category, being more akin to Richard Adams’ rabbits. That is to say he can express and explain himself in human language, and even consideres himself ‘half-human’, but his behaviours remain essentially those of the caged African Grey that he is. He has learned to love classic poetry, and other information, through the act of tearing up and consuming the pages of various books, most notably Norton’s Anthology (*2) . He has even thereby developed a talent for composing both clever pastiches and original pieces. It is a learning strategy that I am sure many a teacher will dearly wish could be applied by their students. However, it achieves happy credibility in this context through the classic willing suspension of disbelief.
Prosody aside, pet-shop born Alastair has two principal redeeming features, a deep love of his fledgling sister, Aggie, and an instinctive yearning to fly free, with which I am sure we all identify, wingless status notwithstanding.
Interspersed with the parrot’s own narration are those of two characters destined to become an integral part of his story: Fritz, a twelve year old boy who works part time in the pet shop, and Albertina Plopky, a feisty old woman, its sometime customer (of sorts). The contribution from Fritz, a would-be doctor, takes the form of his ‘Official Medical Log Book’, whilst Mrs Plopky writes letters to her husband, Everett. Part of the joy of the book is how well these three voices are brought to life, and it is particularly interesting to find an adult perspective as as significant, even if subsidiary, element of a children’s book.
Hilarity and thoughtfulness
However, for all the shenanigans of the parrot siblings, as sale items and subsequent purchases - and they are many and delightful - the novel has a rich, deep and indeed very touching theme running through it. Between the squawks and skirmishes seeps out affecting pathos. Underneath, this is a story about attachment and loss. Moreover, it is all the more touching as its emotive power creeps up on you subtly, a gradual awakening to the pain that all three of the book’s protagonists struggle to live through. Central is Alastair’s devotion to his sister Aggie, and his subsequent, devastating separation from her. However, this is echoed in many other heartaches of enforced separation and bereavement, human and animal. It is a moving novel, exploring the kind of very real pain that touches all of us, or will do at some point in life.
It is a book with a rich subtext. Much is implied rather than stated. Its full appreciation requires inference and deduction as well as literal reading, and, because of this, it is a wonderful gift to young readers. How refreshing that this clever author does not write down to her young audience, but leads them into the richness of understanding by degrees.
The power of poetry
Call Me Alastair is also a paean to the power and potency of poetry. The author’s many literary references are amongst its greatest delights. And if it focuses largely on American literature, then no matter, for its subjects are largely those writers who also loom large on the world stage. You don’t have to know something of classic poetry to enjoy this book, but it certainly adds an extra frisson if you do. And I love the unpatronising stance of that too. Amidst other delicious entertainments, the parrot’s pastiche of Jabberwocky is pure joy, not to mention the subsequent explanatory conversation between a cat and a goldfish. You have to read it. And perhaps the poetic references will even prompt a little exploration of the originals by some of its young readers. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing?
A gift of a book
Were I still teaching upper KS2, then this is just the kind of book that I would choose to read aloud, discuss and hope to enthuse my class about. It is one that would provide stretch and challenge, helping to open young mind to the full potential of fiction, whilst still amusing and entertaining them hugely.
Cory Leonardo puts these words into a the mouth (or perhaps I should say the beak) of Alastair himself:
‘The unexpected creeps up on you. One moment it’s silent in the shadows. . . and the next it explodes on the stage. . . You can’t predict where lightning will strike - or when a goldfish will explain your poetry with perfect clarity. Life is weird. Unexpected. Surprising .’ (p 220)
She could well be describing her own book. It is weird (in a good way), unexpected and surprising. It is original and clever. It is is hilarious and touching.
The art of flying
Throughout the book Alastair is prevented from flying free not only by clipped feathers, but by a broken wing that has never truly healed. The wing is actually as much the point as the feathers. Feathers can grow, if we don’t, like Alastair, continually pull them out. Other things are part of who we are, and we just have to learn to live with them. But perhaps we can fly anyway.
‘It’s not just wings you need to fly.’ (p 30)
If the conclusion of this tale seems to verge on the sentimental, well, that’s because the simple truths in life often do. Sentiment is not always such a bad thing, and being simple doesn’t stop them from being true.
‘Love is where you find it.’
This is a book that will help young readers to fly. It is a simple art.
Published in US as The Simple Art of Flying
*Notes:
1. In this instance, not a ‘red hat which doesn’t go’ (Jenny Joseph), although the intention is much the same.
2. A classic American anthology of poetry.
