I know this story. Only, instead of Chin Ah Kin, a Chinese immigrant who reluctantly sets off on an epic journey to protect the strange, otherworldly woman who crosses his path, it was a handsome prince. And instead of B.J., a gentle madman who accompanies him on his quest, it was a brave little jester. And instead of strange, otherworldly Sarah Canary (who may be, but almost certainly is not a demon, an enchantress, a mermaid, a wild woman raised by wolves, or a notorious murderess on the lam), it was the Pied Piper, who leads everyone who gets caught up in her wake to their doom â or, if they are truly worthy, a kind of transcendence.
Except for that, it was exactly the same story.
This is one darn peculiar book. And I mean that in a good, and thoroughly admiring way. If I was commanded to try to sum it up -- put up against a wall, say, and threatened with being mauled by a tiger (this actually happens â¦) if I didn't -- I would say that it is the story of America, told from the perspective of those whose stories have usually been ignored and airbrushed away. But through the magic of Sarah Canary, for once we hear a version of those stories â from the reviled immigrant labourer, from the young man whose take on reality is skewed just a little off-center, from the voiceless women, from the Native Americans. Everyone who has had to hide behind an alien culture, struggle into alien clothes, and even adopt alien names, just to survive.
As usual, Fowler's story (and its meanings) is multi-layered: a story about âotherness,â which recognizes that nothing is simple: the marginalized are quite capable of great cruelty and exploitation of those who are a little lower down the pecking order from them. A story about âcivilization,â and how very uncivilized it can be. A story about story-telling, and its power to make sense of the most absurd situations.
And as usual, Fowler's writing is a delight: dreamlike and funny. The âplotâ may seem to take a while to get going but, if you're like me, you will suddenly realize that it's been there all along. That you, too, have been swept along in the churning wake of Sarah Canary, and nothing will seem quite the same again.
Except for that, it was exactly the same story.
This is one darn peculiar book. And I mean that in a good, and thoroughly admiring way. If I was commanded to try to sum it up -- put up against a wall, say, and threatened with being mauled by a tiger (this actually happens â¦) if I didn't -- I would say that it is the story of America, told from the perspective of those whose stories have usually been ignored and airbrushed away. But through the magic of Sarah Canary, for once we hear a version of those stories â from the reviled immigrant labourer, from the young man whose take on reality is skewed just a little off-center, from the voiceless women, from the Native Americans. Everyone who has had to hide behind an alien culture, struggle into alien clothes, and even adopt alien names, just to survive.
As usual, Fowler's story (and its meanings) is multi-layered: a story about âotherness,â which recognizes that nothing is simple: the marginalized are quite capable of great cruelty and exploitation of those who are a little lower down the pecking order from them. A story about âcivilization,â and how very uncivilized it can be. A story about story-telling, and its power to make sense of the most absurd situations.
And as usual, Fowler's writing is a delight: dreamlike and funny. The âplotâ may seem to take a while to get going but, if you're like me, you will suddenly realize that it's been there all along. That you, too, have been swept along in the churning wake of Sarah Canary, and nothing will seem quite the same again.
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