The New York Times
A Complicated Kindness: A Novelby Miriam Toews
“Half of our family, the better-looking half, is missing,” Nomi Nickel tells us at the beginning of A Complicated Kindness. Left alone with her sad, peculiar father, her days are spent piecing together why her mother and sister have disappeared and contemplating her inevitable career at Happy Family Farms, a chicken slaughterhouse on the/i>
“Half of our family, the better-looking half, is missing,” Nomi Nickel tells us at the beginning of A Complicated Kindness. Left alone with her sad, peculiar father, her days are spent piecing together why her mother and sister have disappeared and contemplating her inevitable career at Happy Family Farms, a chicken slaughterhouse on the outskirts of East Village. Not the East Village in New York City where Nomi would prefer to live, but an oppressive town founded by Mennonites on the cold, flat plains of Manitoba, Canada.
This darkly funny novel is the world according to Nomi, a bewildered and wry sixteen-year-old trapped in a town governed by fundamentalist religion and in the shattered remains of a family it destroyed. In Nomi’s droll, refreshing voice, we're told the story of an eccentric, loving family that falls apart as each member lands on a collision course with the only community any of them have ever known. A work of fierce humor and tragedy by a writer who has taken the American market by storm, readers will find this searing, tender, comic testament to family love difficult to forget.
The New York Times
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- 5.10(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.80(d)
Read an Excerpt
I live with my father, Ray Nickel, in that low brick bungalow out on highway number twelve. Blue shutters, brown door, one shattered window. Nothing great. The furniture keeps disappearing, though. That keeps things interesting.
Half of our family, the better-looking half, is missing. Ray and I get up in the morning and move through our various activities until it’s time to go to bed. Every single night around ten o’clock Ray tells me that he’s hitting the hay. Along the way to his bedroom he’ll stop in the front hallway and place notes on top of his shoes to remind him of the things he has to do the next day. We enjoy staring at the Northern Lights together. I told him, verbatim, what Mr. Quiring told us in class. About how those lights work. He thought Mr. Quiring had some interesting points. He’s always been mildly interested in Mr. Quiring’s opinions, probably because he’s also a teacher.
I have assignments to complete. That’s the word, complete. I’ve got a problem with endings. Mr. Quiring has told me that essays and stories generally come, organically, to a preordained ending that is quite out of the writer’s control. He says we will know it when it happens, the ending. I don’t know about that. I feel that there are so many to choose from. I’m already anticipating failure. That much I’ve learned to do. But then what the hell will it matter to me while I’m snapping tiny necks and chucking feathery corpses onto a conveyor belt in a dimly lit cinder-block slaughterhouse on the edge of a town not of this world. Most of the kids from around here will end upworking at Happy Family Farms, where local chickens go to meet their maker. I’m sixteen now, young to be on the verge of graduating from high school, and only months away from taking my place on the assembly line of death.
One of my recurring memories of my mother, Trudie Nickel, has to do with the killing of fowl. She and I were standing in this farmyard watching Carson and his dad chop heads off chickens. You’d know Carson if you saw him. Carson Enns. Arm-farter in the back row. President of the Pervert Club. Says he’s got a kid in Pansy, a small town south of here. Troubled boy, but that’s no wonder considering he used to be The Snowmobile Suit Killer. I was eight and Trudie was about thirty-five. She was wearing a red wool coat and moon boots. The ends of her hair were frozen because she hadn’t been able to find the blow-dryer that morning. Look, she’d said. She grabbed a strand of hair and bent it like a straw. She’d given me her paisley scarf to tie around my ears. I don’t know exactly what we were doing at Carson’s place in the midst of all that carnage, it hadn’t started out that way I’m pretty sure, but I guess carnage has a way of creeping up on you. Carson was my age and every time he swung the axe he’d yell things at the chicken. He wanted it to escape. Run, you stupid chicken! Carson, his dad would say. Just his name and a slight anal shake of the head. He was doing his best to nurture the killer in his son. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon on a winter day and the light was fading into blue and it was snowing horizontally and we were all standing under a huge yellow yard light. Well, some of us were dying. And Carson was doing this awful botch job on a chicken, hacking away at its neck, not doing it right at all, whispering instructions on how to escape. Fly away, idiot. Don’t make me do this. Poor kid. By this time he’d unzipped the top half of his snowmobile suit so it kind of flapped around his waist like a skirt, slowing him down, and his dad saw him and came over and grabbed the semi-mutilated chicken out of Carson’s little mittened hand and slapped it onto this wooden altar thing he used to do the killing and brought his axe down with incredible speed and accuracy and in less than a second had created a splattery painting in the snow and I was blown away by how the blood could land so fast and without a single sound and my mom gasped and said look, Nomi, it’s a Jackson Pollock. Oh, it’s beautiful. Oh, she said, cloths of heaven. That was something she said a lot. And Carson and I stood there staring at the blood on the snow and my mom said: Just like that. Who knew it could be so easy.
I don’t know if she meant it’s so easy to make art or it’s so easy to kill a chicken or it’s so easy to die. Every single one of those things strikes me as being difficult to do. I imagine that if she were here right now and I was asking her what she meant, she’d say what are you talking about and I’d say nothing and that would be the end of it.
It’s only because she’s gone that all those trivial little things from the past echo on and on and on. At dinner that night, after the slaughter at Carson’s place, she asked us how we would feel if for some reason we were all in comas and had slept right through the summer months and had woken up around the middle of November, would we be angry that we had missed the warmth and beauty of the summer or happy that we had survived. Ray, who hates choosing, had asked her if we couldn’t be both and she’d said no, she didn’t think so.
Trudie doesn’t live here any more. She left shortly after Tash, my older sister, left. Ray and I don’t know where either one of them is. We do know that Tash left with Ian, who is Mr. Quiring’s nephew. He’s double-jointed and has a red Ford Econoline van. Trudie seems to have left alone.
Now my dad, you know what he says in the middle of those long evenings sitting in our house on the highway? He says: Say, Nomi, how about spinning a platter. Yeah, he uses those exact butt-clenching words. Which means he wants to listen to Anne Murray singing “Snowbird,” again. Or my old Terry Jacks forty-five of “Seasons in the Sun.” I used to play that song over and over in the dark when I was nine, the year I really became aware of my existence. What a riot. We have a ball. Recently, Ray’s been using the word stomach as a verb a lot. And also the word rally. We rally and we stomach. Ray denied it when I pointed it out to him. He says we’re having a good time and getting by. Why shouldn’t he amend? He tells me that life is filled with promise but I think he means the promise of an ending because so far I haven’t been able to put my finger on any other. If we could get out of this town things might be better but we can’t because we’re waiting for Trudie and Tash to come back. It’s been three years so far. My period started the day after Trudie left which means I’ve bled thirty-six times since they’ve been gone.
Meet the Author
Miriam Toews is the author of the novels, All My Puny Sorrows, The Flying Troutmans, Summer of My Amazing Luck (nominated for the Stephen Leacock Award and winner of the John Hirsch Award) and A Boy of Good Breeding (winner of the McNally Robinson Book of the Year Award), and one work of nonfiction, Swing Low: A Life. She has written for CBC, This American Life (NPR), and The New York Times Magazine, and has won the national magazine gold medal for humor. She lives in Toronto.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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Each page kept me hungry for more. This is a great coming of age novel for everyone. Although the synopsis may seem like this book is just about some rebellious teen...it is much more than that! There are enough books about kids running around being pretentious and stupid. A Complicated Kindness and its cover of a hot pink hen will keep you very well entertained that you'll want to read it over and over. Enjoy laughing.
A Complicated Kindness is a very well written book that I found to be very, very enjoyable. Some parts were kind of slow but overall it was an interesting and unique story. I felt horrible for the way Nomi's life was going and I understand why she'd want to leave that town of hers like her mother and sister did. This girl is NOT happy and it makes the reader soo sad :( You'll find yourself cheering for her and wanting her to get out of that town and just run and never stop. You are going to despise her uncle, so be prepared to hate one of Miriam Toews characters with passion. You DON'T want to miss this book so go check it out. -tvandbookaddict.blogspot.com
'a complicated kindness' is the story of a 16 year-old girl, Nomi Nickel, trying to have a normal life. 'I dream of escaping into the real world.' She is a Mennonite,'The most embarassing sub-sect of people to belong to if your're a teenager. She just wants to be herself. 'I want to do things without wondering if they're a sin or not. I want to be free.' Half of her family is missing,'the better looking half'. Her older sister Tash, and her mother left three years ago. She lives with her father, Ray , a school teacher whose eccentricity includes always wearing a shirt and tie. She cuts school mercilessly and hangs out with her boyfriend Travis who says what is and is not allowed. She would like to leave East Village, Manitoba, located on the U.S. border but is afraid to in case her mother returns.In the model village everything is prohibited by 'The Mouth', her uncle. With Travis, she drinks and gets stoned. He teaches her how to drive and they listen to records. Travis plays the guitar for her and she struggles to think of cool comments to make about his performance. At home with Ray, she notices that he keeps removing the furniture first the living room sofa, then the dining room table and four chairs. At the end, he himself is gone, leaving her with the house and family car. It was either a case of him leaving or staying with her who had been excommunicated by her uncle for mouthing off in class when her essay was late. Nomi knew Ray couldn't bear to live with her and shun her. She would have been a 'ghost kid' one he couldn't acknowledge. The novel alternates between backflashes where Nomi tries to unravel her he puzzle of her mother's existence, and the present. Nomi accompanies Travis helping him at work, swimming in the 'pits', a local quarry.Ultimately, he leaves and her world crashes. She is left with an empty house and nowhere to go. But she still can't quite forsake her village. 'There is a kindness here, a complicated kindness. You can see it sometimes in the eyes of people when they look at you.' In a poetic fashion, Toews portrays the contrasts of adult life that loom in the coming of age of a teenaged girl and the conflicts she must resolve. The reader is caught up in the tension between the Nomi's desire to leave and the love she has for her childhood home.
To say I was disappointed in this book would be an understatement. I don't need to spend my time reading about someone's disillusionment with her faith. I stopped reading every word on page 2 and stopped skimming it altogether by page 50. I simply couldn't find any way this book, subject or writing, could enrich my life.