Nicolas Dickner won two literary awards for his first
published work, the short story collection L’encyclopédie
du petit cercle. Born in Rivière-du-Loup, Quebec,
he travelled extensively in Europe and Latin America
before settling in Montreal.
Nikolski was published in the New Face of Fiction program in 2008.
The Book Nominated for 2010 CBC Canada Reads
Winner of the 2008 Governor General's Literary Award for Translation.
Nikolski is a critically
lauded, award-winning literary sensation in Quebec,
a bestseller when published in 2005.
Get ready for the joyride that is Nikolski.
Awards for the French-language
edition:
Prix des libraires 2006
Prix littéraire
des collégiens 2006
Prix Anne-Hébert
2006 (Best first book)
Prix Printemps des Lecteurs-Lavinal
Spring 1989. Three young people - Noah, Joyce and an unnamed narrator - leave their far-flung birthplaces to follow their own personal songs of migration. Each ends up in Montreal, each on a voyage of self-discovery, dealing with the mishaps of heartbreak and the twisted branches of their shared family tree.
With humour, charm and the sure touch of a born storyteller, Nicolas Dickner crafts a tale that shows the surprising links between garbage-obsessed archeologists, pirates past and present, earthquake victims, sea snakes, several very large tuna fish, an illiterate deep-sea diver, a Commodore 64, a mysterious book with no cover, and a broken compass whose needle obstinately points to the Aleutian village of Nikolski.
"Despite the preponderance of clues and artefacts scattered throughout the story, Dickner does not tie everything up in a neat package. He lets certain threads dangle, giving Nikolski more substance and nuance. The story lingers in the mind long after the last page has been read, leaving the reader in its strange and wonderful orbit."
-The Gazette
"Nikolski offers a breathtakingly original perception of the world, mixing geography, cartography and longing in a language and construction both intellectually sophisticated and emotionally affecting."
-The Globe and Mail
"The characters are so infused with vitality and surprise that they become unforgettable; the language (and in translation - remarkable) is as lively as the characters; and the humorous, sweetly sad view of life in general is engaging… This novel is so richly textured and multi-layered that a single short review may do it a disservice. But its comic brilliance is undeniable - a hugely enjoyable read."
-Edmonton Journal
"Chock full of arcane detail about the sea, fish lore, antique books, travel and archaeology, Nikolski is the product of an eccentric mind propelled by an exuberant spirit."
-Marianne Ackerman, The Walrus
"Lederhendler's cadences and elegant vocabulary are a pleasure to read, while Dickner inexorably sweeps the reader along with the tide as the characters mature. This novel will bring a smile to your face and will be one you will want to read again."
-Winnipeg Free Press
"One cannot say it enough: this book is the discovery of the year… The humour is striking; his vision stunning."
-Carole Beaulieu, L'actualité
"Nicolas Dickner has a limitless imagination, great erudition and an inventive pen. He is the incarnation of the future of Quebec writing - nothing less."
-Pierre Cayouette, L'actualité
"If you are interested in the great wide world, submerse yourself immediately in this phantasmagorical, lively and fascinating novel."
-Hugues Corriveau, Lettres québécoises
"A carefully crafted, sumptuous first novel that will restore your taste for flights of fancy and for treasure hunts in time and space."
-Benoît Jutras, Voir
"Stylish, offbeat, poignant and perceptive."
-David Mitchell, author of Cloud Atlas
"Dickner excites the imagination of the reader to the point of ecstasy."
-Le Monde
"Nicolas Dickner, who uses beautifully spare prose which can be as darkly comic as it is affecting, isn't trying to tell a conventional story, he's trying to tap into a very modern idea: that we need to understand that we all connect with each other somehow, family or not. And he does so impressively well."
-Metro (UK)
Excerpt
Magnetic Anomaly
My name is unimportant.
It all started in September 1989, at about seven in the morning.
I’m still asleep, curled up in my sleeping bag on the living-room floor. There are cardboard boxes, rolled-up rugs, half-disassembled pieces of furniture, and tool boxes heaped around me. The walls are bare, except for the pale spots left by the pictures that had hung there for too many years.
The window lets in the monotonous, rhythmic sound of the waves rolling over the stones.
Every beach has a particular acoustic signature, which depends on the force and length of the waves, the makeup of the ground, the form of the landscape, the prevailing winds and the humidity in the air. It’s impossible to confuse the subdued murmur of Mallorca with the resonant roll of Greenland’s prehistoric pebbles, or the coral melody of the beaches of Belize, or the hollow growl of the Irish coast.
The surf I hear this morning is easy enough to identify. The deep, somewhat raw rumbling, the crystalline ringing of the volcanic stones, the slightly asymmetrical breaking of the waves, the water rich in nutriments - there’s no mistaking the shores of the Aleutian Islands.
I mutter something and open my left eye a crack. Where can that unlikely sound be coming from? The nearest ocean is over a thousand kilometres away. And besides, I’ve never set foot on a beach.
I crawl out of the sleeping bag and stumble over to the window. Clutching at the curtains, I watch the garbage truck pull up with a pneumatic squeal in front of our bungalow. Since when do diesel engines imitate breaking waves?
Dubious poetry of the suburbs.
The two trash collectors hop down from their vehicle and stand there, dumbstruck, contemplating the mountain of bags piled on the asphalt. The first one, looking dismayed, pretends to count them. I start to worry; have I infringed some city bylaw that limits the number of bags per house? The second garbageman, much more pragmatic, sets about filling the truck. He obviously couldn’t care less about the number of bags, their contents or the story behind them.
There are exactly thirty bags.
I bought them at the corner grocery store - a shopping experience I’m not about to forget.
Standing in the cleaning-products aisle, I wondered how many garbage bags would be needed to hold the countless memories my mother had accumulated since 1966. What volume could actually contain thirty years of living? I was loath to do the indecent arithmetic. Whatever my estimation might be, I was fearful of underestimating my mother’s existence.
I went for a brand that seemed sufficiently strong. Each package contained ten revolutionary ultraplastic refuse bags with a sixty-litre capacity.
I took three packages, for a total of 1,800 litres.
The thirty bags turned out to be adequate - though I did on occasion enlist my foot to press the point home - and now the garbagemen are busy tossing them into the gaping mouth of the truck. Every so often, a heavy steel jaw crushes the trash with a pachyderm-like groan. Nothing at all like the poetic susurrations of the waves.
Actually, the whole story - since it needs to be told - began with the Nikolski compass.
