When I was in college, I took an advanced poetry class during which the
professor, with the aid of another Creative Writing professor, sought to
explain how the poem The Road Not Taken has been misused by the
vast majority of its readers since the time it was published. What is
generally heralded as an inspirational ode to individuality is instead a
cynical and depressing commentary stating that we may forge out a path
for ourselves in hopes of achieving a life of greatness and nobility,
but in the end none of it really matters. It has, in fact, not
made all the difference, and Robert Frost was a bitter old coot. I don't
know which of these readings is closer to the truth, but I suspect
Lemony Snicket would fall into the camp of those who prefer the latter
interpretation. Then again, the orphans he so dutifully chronicles are
well-defined individuals, and it seems that the path they decide to take
will make a great deal of difference. How far will they be willing to
go in order to preserve their lives? To the point of not preserving
their integrity? These are some of the difficult questions served up in The Slippery Slope, tenth in the Series of Unfortunate Events.
I must say, these books almost invariably have brilliant beginnings.
Each one is so masterfully executed, so memorable and entertaining, that
it winds up a contender for my list of all-time favorite literary
openings. As a student of poetry and a particular fan of Robert Frost, I
was especially drawn into the opening paragraph of this tenth tome, and
I might venture to say it is my favorite grand entrance thus far: "A
man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called 'The Road Less
Traveled,' describing a journey he took through the woods along a path
most travelers never used. The poet found that the road less traveled
was peaceful but quite lonely, and he was probably a bit nervous as he
went along, because if anything happened on the road less traveled, the
other travelers would be on the road more frequently traveled and so
couldn't hear him as he cried for help. Sure enough, that poet is now
dead."
And so with the image of a frost-laced headstone with
Frost's name on it, we are drawn into the ever more perilous journey of
the Baudelaire orphans. This book signals a major departure, because for
the first time, the siblings are separated for the vast majority of the
book. In the fourth book, Klaus was hypnotized for a portion of the
time, and in the eighth, Violet was abducted and readied for a
cranioectemy. But the focus remained on the capacitated siblings. Here,
the reader must switch back and forth between adventures, spending more
time with Violet and Klaus but also checking in occasionally with the
dreadfully isolated young Sunny. At first, it isn't clear whether we are
going to get to witness her portion of the story at all, but once we
do, she shows herself to be surprisingly self-reliant.
Several
characters re-emerge here in surprising places, and the Baudelaires
find new enemies to conquer but also new allies to depend upon.
Additionally, we finally begin to crack the secrets of V. F. D., those
mysterious initials that seem to pop up everywhere and that are linked
to a secret organization of which most of the Baudelaires'
acquaintances, it seems, were a part. The orphans also must deal with
one of the most horrific menaces they've yet faced: a large community of
snow gnats, which sting people for no reason whatsoever. Snicket finds
another set of absurd people to poke fun at, and they are even more
ludicrous than the incessantly singing Volunteers Fighting Disease. They
are the Snow Scouts, an intrepid group of kids containing one person
the orphans had hoped never to meet again and two who seem vaguely
familiar. Just as those hospital visitors had a theme song, these folks
have a pledge consisting of one word for every letter of the alphabet,
each ostensibly detailing a desirable quality in a scout. But several of
the adjectives are pointless or contradict one another, and the
presence of one of them is inexcusable, as the word is a noun, not an
adjective, and is inappropriate for describing anyone. The Scouts add a
lot of amusement to the book and evidently are an indication that the
author often finds pledges - and perhaps scouts - rather silly.
The parts of the book I most enjoyed, however, were those dealing with
Sunny's exploits. For one, this meant more of Count Olaf and his troupe,
and the lines between good guys and bad blur once again as certain
characters who seemed wicked and unscrupulous begin to display shades of
compassion and decency. We also meet two sinister figures who are known
only as "the man with a beard but no hair" and "the woman with hair but
no beard." It seems odd that no mention was made of them before, as
they appear to be instrumental to Olaf's plans, rather to his
displeasure, it seems. Even he is intimidated by these villains.
But what really distinguishes this section of the story is the way
Sunny flourishes apart from her siblings. She is beginning to develop a
distinct personality; there's more to this kid than a passion for biting
things. Turns out she is also an accomplished cook, and it seems she
somehow, at her young age, already possesses a vast knowledge of
academic subjects ranging from history to literature to cinema. In the
early books, while the translations for her comments seemed intelligent,
her words were almost exclusively gobbledygook. But increasingly, she
has peppered her speech with actual words. Usually there is a very
logical link between what comes out of her mouth and what she means,
though the connection is often abstract. I found her remarks
consistently amusing and indicative of a great intellect. Examples:
"Godoti??" - "We don't know where to go, and we don't know how to get there."
"Sakesushi" - "I don't think you'll enjoy salmon if it's not cooked."
"Bicuspid?" - "Should I drag my teeth across the ice too?"
What really got me, though, was the author's sneaking a sly bit of
political commentary into the book via Sunny's innocent mouth.
Coincidence? Perhaps. But if the word Sunny chooses sounds remarkably
like two men in high positions of power in our country, well, I suspect
it was intentional.
"Busheney" - "You're an evil man with no concern whatsoever for other people."
When we leave the orphans, the useless Mr. Poe is nowhere to be found,
and the children are hurtling down a slippery slope toward a predicament
that will probably be even more treacherous than their last. But with
their sister's newfound skills and a new friend out there waiting for
them somewhere, they may just have a few more resources at their
disposal, and that can be enough to make a very significant difference
when you are spending your life fleeing from despicable people who want
to kill you. The Baudelaires' road of misfortune is not one many have
had to tread, but we are privileged to traverse it from a distance in
order to discover whether the difference it has made for the orphans is
indeed as deadly as the author would have us believe.
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