The Heart Is An Involuntary Muscle

First, a confession: I nicked this book from the stack of books donated to TNQ for door prizes and such at the galas we used to put on before our board found a significantly less stressful manner of raising funds. My intention was to just borrow it for a little while but the thing is, I was enjoying the read so much that I carried it around for a month in my purse in case an occasion to read it during my work day arose, and now, after rustling around in the midden of receipts, cookie crumbs, keys, tape measure, etc at the bottom of this very capacious bag, it’s looking a little too well-travelled to return to the stack. Besides, I want to keep it. (But I will replace it with a more pristine volume should TNQ eventually put remainder of stack to its intended use, promise). Anyway. On to why I like this book so much, even though it often frustrated the hell out of me.

I love Monique Proulx’s dark humour, as translated by David Homel & Fred A. Reid. I love the way her protagonist, Florence, thinks about so many things, like technology: “We never answered, we acknowledged nothing that came from telephones. We had telephones because our clients were stuck on these PRE-CAMBRIAN INSTRUMENTS and their hoary rites, all to our good fortune. One of our three slaves would eventually put aside his work to empty the voice mailboxes and deliver us the contents” (ah, if only this arrangement could be implemented at TNQ!)—and consumerism: “I had no crystal, no porcelain from the Linen Chest, no silk sheets, none of crimson flannelette either, no plush ocher and pale lilac towels…I have none of the fishnet garments that Claudie Schiffer claims you must in order to uncover your true self…no tea service, no coffee service….I am completely disqualified from existence.”

I love the twists and turns of the book’s rather unconventional plot. It’s a mystery story—website designers and sometime lovers Florence and Zeno set out to find his famously reclusive author-hero, Pierre Laliberte. Even though Florence hates writers because of their power to hijack her emotions, she finds herself particularly invested in the project upon reading her inscrutable father’s last words in one of his novels. Florence had a complicated relationship with her father—indeed, Florence has a complicated relationship with pretty much everyone with whom she interacts in the novel, even a dog, whom she (cruelly, in my opinion) names Outhouse. This is what I find so frustrating in this novel. Yes, the mystery part of the story has all kinds of tantalizing doubts and red herrings, foiled plans, horrifying missteps and suspenseful moments—I found all of that delicious, fascinating, even when I was as exasperated as the dynamic duo chasing the elusive Laliberte.

What I found so frustrating were the various love stories in the novel. The heart is an involuntary muscle. It operates independently of the mind. I get it. Florence’s heart is severely damaged—it doesn’t so much beat as it spasms—and its unpredictable, ill-functioning movements guide her action and seemingly, those of most characters in the novel. I know, I know—straightforward, uncomplicated love is boring, in fiction, anyway. But as the novel wore on, I really, really began to want some of that to come into Florence’s life, and for her to accept it.

I’m dying to go on about the end of the novel, and the way in which my frustrations were resolved (or not), but I want all of you to read it, if you haven’t yet, and there’s nothing I hate more than a spoiler.

So, 11 books down, just 2 more to go by July 1. By george, I think I’m going to make it. Suggestions for the last two–not to mention loaners, which I promise would be returned unsullied by time served in my capacious handbag—very welcome.