In the interest of broadening my literary range and exposing myself
to more Canadian talent, I decided to read the selections from
CBC's Canada Reads 2009. After thoroughly enjoying Mercy Among the
Children, I was anxious and excited to move on to the next book, to
see if there was any chance that David Adams Richards could be
defeated. Unless Canadians have collectively lost their marbles,
there is certainly no danger of this happening with Fruit.
Life can be difficult at thirteen, and for Peter Paddington there
is no exception. In fact things are worse for him as he is more
than fifty pounds overweight, struggling with his sexuality, and -
this is the real kicker - wakes up one morning to find that his
nipples have transformed in to what look like maraschino cherries,
that, to make matters worse, spontaneously start talking to him.
That's right, you didn't read that wrong, talking nipples. The
inclusion of this bizarre aspect to the story was the point of no
return for my attention span, I'm afraid. Since the conversations
his nipples would instigate were of an antagonizing nature, I can
only assume that this was meant to signify his body's betrayal of
him, a feeling common to many people struggling with their weight.
Clever, I suppose, but a little too bizarre in my opinion.
There were some redeeming qualities to the story though, as Peter
was often extremely creative and witty. His habits of asserting
himself through mental telepathy, worshiping the Virgin Mary
through his closet door frame, and concocting homo-erotic bedtime
stories to help lull him to sleep at night, had me giggling. On the
flipside, Fruit is riddled with cliché, and most of the characters
are the epitome of common stereotypes. There's the Italian family…
with the kitchen in their basement, who own a restaurant, with a
daughter that works at said restaurant whilst tending to the
household chores and minding the ripening tomatoes, and while she
does all this, her Camaro driving brother is given free reign to do
whatever he pleases, as he is the apple of his non-English speaking
parent's eyes. The clichés continued with fervor in the
overbearing, menopausal mother with the Protestant inferiority
complex, and all of the school cliques; goody-goodies, (head)
bangers, athletic group, slutty girls group, et cetera, et cetera.
It soon becomes apparent that this typecasting must be part of the
author's shtick, his way of exposing the conventions of everyday
existence, I'm guessing.
Before reading Fruit I had heard from quite a few people that they
had enjoyed it, so I suppose I could be missing something. From
what I gather, it's a story about becoming an active member in your
own life, and that, to me, is an important message. However, Brian
Francis' lack of capture and the endless cliché left a lot to be
desired.
Now it's on to The Fat Woman Next Door is Pregnant by Michel
Tremblay!
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