Monkey is the debut novel of Michael Boyce, who lives in Calgary at the moment, not that that has anything to do with anything. As for Monkey. That Monkey.
Monkey’s not like a lot of other novels that I read. At first that’s kind of irritating. I like fewer words. So I’m overwhelmed with words words words and wondering when Monkey will get moving, get to the point. And then biff baff, a kung-fu fight on a rooftop. Because that’s the fastest way to get to know someone. That makes perfect sense to me, because a) I’m aggressive, and b) I’ve seen at least a hundred and fifty kung-fu movies. And around then it just happened that I started thinking about Monkey in a different way. I started to see the kung-fu movie structure underneath all that monkey chatter, and then Monkey starts to see it too! To learn things. About himself. Now that’s interesting. A young guy learning. About himself, his thoughts, his feelings, learning to be alone with himself. Learning that neither good nor evil is all that interesting. That’s really interesting.
So what this Monkey makes me think is that most novels are only novels. They’re made of novels, made to be the most novel they can be. Monkey’s made of other things besides. Made of movies to be sure, much more like a movie than a novel really. But also made of real like things. People. How they do things, how they think. The words words words drives me a little crazy but that’s really more how we think. Most of us. We’re slow learners. I don’t like slow, but it’s true. Monkey thinks out loud and it takes as long as it takes and doesn’t skip ahead or jump around or know things as yet unknown. Which is what a lot of novels do. I think it’s good to know a lot about novels and a lot about other things besides. And mix them all up. Good good. Now what? Now what will that Monkey Michael Boyce do?
http://monkeyreadings.com
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