The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman by Robin Gregory
My rating: 4/5 cats
“Cheese and crackers, I’m stupid.”
“Sahib, did you not know? Without being stupid, you will never know love!”
this book is charming and magical and while i didn’t always understand what was going on, i don’t see that as a bad thing in this type of children’s fantasy. there’s a certain freedom in just letting the story carry you along and allowing the magic to exist without stopping to try to pin everything down with explanations. in fact, i’m not even going to bother trying to write a review in which there is any plot description at all, because i wouldn’t know where to begin or how to make it make sense to you without explaining too much in a boring infodump.
i’m not even sure what the target audience for this book is. it reads older than middle grade in some places, and older than YA in others—it kind of bounces around and ends up being in that catchall “for audiences young and old!” category. like the circus. or oreos.
the language here reads like the fun kind of ESL, which i mean in the best possible way. there are times when an unexpected word choice can make one’s own language come across newly expressive and delightful and full of possibilities:
…she swallowed Moojie in a pentamorous* hug, her body all tentacles and suction pressing in and taking out and spooky altogether.
and
“My lord,” she said, “is there no one in the village?”
“WHAT?” His voice a scrape of tin.
“Peace,” Ninti said, raising a hand. She would say, “Peace peace,” and he felt he might lift off the ground. Or she would begin a sentence with, “It is written…” and her words, honeyed and woodminty, smelling of citrus and dark earth, caused great hope to surge through his body. And Moojie would think, I can do this.
and
Eyes dilated, Zagros devoured every word as if it were a magic grape.
and
Yes, he had been cruel at times, and yes, he was a cold turnip, but some inexplicable, nagging summons bid Moojie closer.
maybe these are real expressions that i’ve just never heard, but i would come across things like this and it would make me stop for a breath and envision what it would mean to call someone a cold turnip—what characteristics a cold turnip would have. the mere fact that this story mostly takes place at St. Isidore’s Fainting Goat Dairy should suffice as an example of how evocative and unusual the language is, to say nothing of moojie himself—his afflictions, his abilities, his friends.
my only wish is that this had been illustrated. i think it would have helped me to be given more visual context in some instances. also, it would be fun to see giant watermelon drawings, since giant fruit already has such a place in my heart
that’s all i’m willing to say. it’s about half-lovely/half-confusing, which seems just about right for a kids fantasy book. i still don’t understand all those madeleine l’engle books…
one more long quote for you to chew over on your own:
The dreary guitarist came in and strummed a dreary hymn. There was a great hoop of white roses, lilies, mums, and snapdragons propped on an easel. No coffin. Only the pretty blue and white jar on the white satin-draped table.
“What d-do the ashes look like, Papa?” Moojie asked.
“I don’t know, crushed seashells.”
Father Grabbe and two altar boys appeared from the sacristy. The father incensed the altar, pink smoke causing a flurry of sneezing in the pews. He crossed the congregation. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”
Moojie fidgeted with his bow tie. He couldn’t follow the priest because of the horrifying image of boots crushing seashells falling through the Father’s ringed fingers and waves lapping them up salty and wet, the cold wild sea closing its mouth. The wild sea coming and going. In out in out.
Moojie felt everyone’s attention shifting between the Pretty Jar and himself, between the creepy vessel of Mamma-sand and her misfit of a son.
*which, technically, is misspelled, but it’s better for it with its nod to “amor” in the middle.
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