The Poisonwood Bible by
Barbara Kingsolver is a wonderful book. And it is a powerful example of the
value added to a book by its audio version. It is the
story of a family - a father, a mother and four daughters
- who move from America to the Congo in the early
1960s. The father, a Baptist missionary, wants to bring the word of Jesus to
the people of the village. The women just want to survive. The novel is full of
rich descriptions of the plants, animals, food and inhabitants which the family
encounter in their new home on the edge of the Congolese jungle. Especially
when listened to, it is an immersive and sensual account of place.
The story is told by five alternating voices as the mother
and her daughters take turns to speak directly to the reader. All the women
have distinctive ways of speaking and they all relate to language in
intriguingly different ways. These differences are brilliantly reflected in the
audio as the narrator – listed as Robertson Dean (although I have my doubts
about this: see * below) – uses different intonation and rhythm for each
character. The distinctions made by the audio voice are so strong that when I
skip between sections of the book, I can tell which of the five characters is
speaking without referring back to the chapter heading introducing them.
But here we come to a problem, one which I blithely skipped
over in my previous post about audio books. What should I call the person, in
this case, (apparently) Robertson Dean, whose voice I hear in my headphones as
I listen to the story? S/he is a reader, but not in the same sense as me, or in
the sense of the notion of 'reader' used by literary critics when discussing a
text's impact. S/he is also a narrator, but again not in the sense that literary
critics use the term: unlike Kingsolver’s five narrative voices, the audio
narrator is external to the story, yet also part of it through the voices s/he
creates and his or her presence in my head. (We might call this collapsing of outside
and inside the audio equivalent of free indirect style). The audio narrator is
also a storyteller, in that s/he tells me the story, but as both Kingsolver and
her five fictional narrators are also all story tellers, we need a way of distinguishing
between them. So what word can I use to describe the work and function of the
audio narrator? From now on, and to avoid the kinds of confusion alluded to
above, I will use the French word conteur
(male) or conteuse (female) – a word
meaning variously teller of tales, oral storyteller, out-loud narrator - to refer
to the person who has recorded the audio version of a book.
Back to The Poisonwood
Bible: the text is particularly suited to being listened to because of its
poetry. Adah in particular speaks in rhythmic prose poetry, frequently
reversing lines of text or creating long poetic palindromes. Kingsolver plays too
with the resonances of the three languages which the family encounter. Their
native English becomes increasingly mixed with the French of the Belgian colonizers
and the Kituba or Kikongo spoken by the village’s inhabitants. One of the most
astonishing benefits of listening to a text rather than reading it is the way
its patterns and sounds surround and bewitch you: for days during and after
listening to The Poisonwood Bible I have
had new words, like maniop, kakakaka,
bangala and mongosi scattered through my thoughts and dreams. I cannot write with the poetry of Kingsolver
but I can urge my readers to aurally immerse themselves in this powerfully
evocative world.
As well as being an epic story of the effects of colonization, the battles for race and gender equality, the dangers of military
rule and the difficulties of democracy, The
Poisonwood Bible is also a powerful celebration of disability through the
story of Adah.
Despite her final, silent ‘h’, Adah is proud of her
palindromic status (indeed I did not know about her ‘h’ until I read about the
novel on Wikipedia). She calls herself Ada. Like me Ada is a palindrome, and
like me, she is asymmetrical. She was born ‘crooked’ (she has hemiplegia), she
walks with a limp and she does not speak until adulthood. Indeed, her
palindromic status makes her a poet: she reads front-to-back and back-to-front
and her world is full of a magic that she loses when she is later ‘cured’. Most people judge Ada by her physical
appearance and treat her as a slow and backward child. She is often forgotten
or left behind, most notably on the terrible night of the ant invasion. But her
voice - which only the reader hears for much of the narrative - is full of
wisdom and wit. As an adult, Ada is cured of her limp and begins to walk ‘normally’.
Whilst her family and colleagues are delighted by her new able-bodiedness, Ada
herself feels like she has become a different, and less interesting person. Her
response to her ‘cure’ resonates strongly with my own feelings about disability
gain, exemplified for me by the power of the audio book:
I am still Ada but you would hardly know me now without my
slant. I walk without any noticeable limp. Oddly enough, it has taken me years
to accept my new position. I find I no longer have Ada, the mystery of coming
and going. Along with my split body drag I lost my ability to read in the old
way. When I open a book the words sort themselves into narrow minded single
file on the page. The mirror image poems erase themselves half-formed in my
mind. I miss those poems. Sometimes at night in secret I still limp
purposefully around my apartment like Mr Hyde, trying to recover my old ways of
seeing and thinking. Like Jekyll I crave that particular darkness curled up
within me. Sometimes it almost comes. The books on the shelf rise up in solid
lines of singing colour. The world drops out and its hidden shapes snap forward
to meet my eyes. But it never lasts. By morning light the books are all hunched
together again with their spines turned out, fossilized, inanimate. No one else
misses Ada. Not even Mother. She seems thoroughly pleased to see the
crumpled bird she delivered finally straighten out and fly right. ‘But I liked
how I was’, I tell her. ‘Oh, Adah, I loved you too, I never thought less of you,
but I wanted better for you’. Don’t we have a cheerful, simple morality here in
Western civilization. Expect perfection and revile the missed mark. Adah the
poor thing. Hemiplegious, egregious, beseigious. Recently it has been decided,
grudgingly, that dark skin or lameness may not be entirely one’s fault. But one
still ought to show the good manners to act ashamed. When Jesus cured those
crippled beggars, didn’t they always get up and dance offstage, jabbing their
canes sideways and waggling their top hats? Hooray! All better now! Hooray! If
you are whole, you will argue, why wouldn’t they rejoice? Don’t the poor
miserable buggers all want to be like me? Not necessarily, no. The arrogance of
the able-bodied is staggering. Yes, maybe we’d like to be able to get places
quickly and carry things in both hands, but only because we have to keep up
with the rest of you or get the Verse. We would rather be just like us, and
have that be alright. How can I explain that my two unmatched halves used to
add up to more than one whole? (The
Poisonwood Bible chapter 13)
* Robertson Dean is credited with the narration of the audio
book but I spent the whole novel convinced I was listening to a female conteuse. Having listened to samples of
Dean’s other work on the audible website, I am struggling to believe that he is
the conteur of Kingsolver’s work.
