All We Know of Heaven - Hardcover

Rougeau, Remy

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0618094997 ISBN 13: 9780618094998

Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2001

Synopsis

In 1973, a sheltered young Canadian man struggles for enlightenment in a strict Cistercian monastery where silence and deprivation are part of the culture but where he encounters a colorful assortment of monks with their all-too-human concerns.

About this title

About the Author

Remy Rougeau is a cloistered monk living in the Upper Midwest. He holds an MFA from Emerson College and has published parts of this novel in the Atlantic Monthly and elsewhere.

From the Back Cover

"With generous and resonant prose, Rougeau takes us so deeply into the unadorned snsual work of this rural monastery that we - like our passionate protagonist, Brother Antoine - find ourselves in the quiet, constant pressence of the ethereal. This is a deeply wise and uplifting book." --Andre Dubus III, author of House of Sand and Fog

"This appealing novel by a born storyteller allows us to enter the odd but very human hamlet of a monastery. Readers who would never consider a monastic life will appreciate the book's humane wisdom, recognizing that a true vocation is hard to discern, and that we are often saved by those who would seem least able to help us. I recommend the book also because it contains the best cemetery story in recent fiction." --Kathleen Norris, author of The Cloister Walk

"This is a poignant, eye-opening book, written so stunningly that the reader regrets having arrived at the last page." --Brother Benet Tvedten, author of The View from a Monastery

"Remy Rougeau's first novel is luminous. The prose is simple and refined; the images ring clear; every word matters." --Marche Hershman, author of Speak to Me: Grief, Love, and What Endures and Tales of the Master Race

"A superbly written story of one young man's search for God and meaning. Rougeau is a gifted and generous writer." --Brother James Stephen Behrens, author of Memories of Grace: Portraits from a Monastery

"With the precise beauty of an illumination, Rougeau shows a worldly innocent learning how to become - and be - a monk. Earthy and uplifting, this novel is also a lovingly funny guide to honoring the living and the dead." --Alexandra Marshall, author of Something Borrowed

"A view of the monastic life that's steady, whole, intelligent, and moving." --Kirkus Reviews

Reviews

It is 1973, and Paul Seneschal is so na ve that he hardly seems to realize that the Sixties have come and gone. Seeking protection from a world he finds overwhelming, he enters a Cistercian monastery near Winnipeg, accepting the ancient code of poverty, chastity, and silence. In this sacred place, where 40 monks live together in close quarters, Paul becomes Brother Antoine, working with Friar Casimir Cochard, the cheesemaker, and later becoming cook. But the peace Paul has sought turns out to be elusive. His fellow monks can be wildly unpredictable Father Ignace Lacan dabbles in pyromania, for instance and once the Royal Canadian Mounted Police enter the property with the Winnipeg police, in search of two criminals who robbed a nearby co-op, Paul must realize that the world is something one can never completely escape. This first work by Rougeau, a cloistered monk with an MFA, is itself a bit of a respite, ably capturing the rhythms of monastic life. But it is no solemn treatise the comic blends seamlessly with the tragic and the dryly humorous prose will appeal even to readers without a great interest in the cloister. Ann Irvine, Montgomery P.L., MD
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.

It is 1973, but once Paul enters a monastery and becomes known as Antoine, he exists outside historical context, in timelessness. He makes cheese from the recipe used in Cistercian monasteries since the nineteenth century, he chants as Cistercians always have, and he absorbs the same sacred writings that have always been read by Cistercians. The monastic life, in which work, prayer, and worship intersect, appeals to him, though he struggles with his sexuality and the validity of his calling. The monks usually live and work in silence, employing a unique sign language to communicate, but they aren't the holy saints of popular imagination. From murdering kittens to pyromania, these monks prove thoroughly human. In this novel, Rougeau, a cloistered monk himself, makes a powerful but understated debut that is impaired only by his tendency to tell rather than show the lessons of monasticism. Infused with a quiet theology of peace, this is a beautiful coming-of-age story, concerned with the small miracles that only the most contemplative and observant among us can see. John Green
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1
Signs and Wonders

The lady sitting next to Paul Seneschal asked if he was an American.
He shook his head,then looked down at his shirt and back at the
woman. Why, Paul wondered,did she think him an American when he was
dressed like anyone else on the train? Was it something about his
face? She smoothed brittle hair at the nape of her neck and Paul
could see that her hands were stained with dime-sized spots.

"Spiro Agnew resigned," she said. "That"s the only reason I in-
quire." She pursed her lips.

"Who"s he?" Paul asked, scratching his ear lobe. The lady
leaned toward him.

"You"re not very old, are you?" she said.

"Nineteen."

She allowed herself a puckered smile. "Shame on you. You"re old
enough to be interested in news developments. Agnew was the vice
president of the USA, but his misbehavior brought him down. Others
will follow,we can hope. Where are you headed?"

"Winnipeg."

"So am I," she said. "I"ve lived there all my life, on King Edward
Street."

Paul was short. A mop of black hair nearly covered his ears. With the
lady"s gaze fixed firmly upon him, his large brown eyes
wandered from
the window to the lady and back again.

"You don"t look nineteen," she said. "More like fourteen. Do you
have relatives in Winnipeg?"

"No."

"I see. Well then, certainly you don"t live by yourself. Perhaps
you"re off to college?"

"I"m from St. Jean-Baptiste," he said, "forty minutes south of here."

Paul shifted in his seat. His watch was slow, but he knew the train
was due in soon. From the window an early October landscape rolled
by. Endless flat land was dressed in yellow and orange. Trees
lifted
their gray branches into the air. Rows of ripe sunflowers hung
their
black heads mournfully beside fields of stubble. The lady
cleared her
throat. When Paul looked at her she was rearranging the contents of
her purse.

"You speak French, then?" she asked.

He nodded, but she was not looking at him.

"Of course, you"re not obliged to answer me," she said. "I"m just
an old lady, and I assure you that old ladies are accustomed to being
ignored."

Paul kept his eyes on her but hardly knew what to say. She wadded a
Kleenex and jammed it into a corner of the purse.

"You"re shy," she said. "But you"ll learn to get over that and keep
up a healthy conversation."

"I want to become a monk," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"A monk. At the Cistercian abbey in St. Norbert,south of Winnipeg."

The lady blinked. "Oh," she said. "Why would anyone do that?"

"To find meaning in life," Paul responded.

"Oh dear," she said, and became mute.

At the Winnipeg station, people rushed about while a loudspeaker
announced arrivals in English and French. Paul carried his satchel to
a yellow cab and crawled into the back seat. He waited while the
driver finished a cigarette.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"St. Norbert. The Cistercian abbey."

"The cistern what?" the driver asked, flicking his live
cigarette butt
onto the pavement. Paul had been through this before.

"Take 42," he said, "and beyond the Perimeter about two miles you "ll
see a street sign on the right that reads rue des trappistes. Go down
that road to the gate."

The man drove off with a clean screech of his wheels. Not a word was
exchanged as he sped along city avenues.When they passed the
University of Manitoba the car radio squawked, but the man did not
answer it. Soon, the cab was south of the city perimeter near the Red
River, where high-rises no longer obstructed the view, businesses
vanished, and houses moved back from the street, making room for
front yards. All the while, the taxi meter brought up higher numbers
with a brisk little whir.
Paul opened his wallet. Before long, they were heading into open farm
country along a gravel road while Paul counted bills. The cabdriver
hit his brakes and stopped in a cloud of dust. Before them a wrought-
iron gate blocked the road, and large letters formed an arch above it
that read sic transit gloria mundi.
A white house stood to the left of the gate, and Paul saw nothing
beyond it but tall elm trees in yellow foliage. An iron fence ran to
the left and to the right, protecting both the house and the old elms
from the road. The cabdriver turned to his passenger.

"What is this? A cemetery?" he asked.

Paul shook his head and counted out bills of various colors.

"Don"t look like a soul around here," the driver said. The place did
look abandoned. Paul got out of the cab, and a minute later found
himself alone in a cloud of dust that followed, like a long tail, the
disappearing cab. He pulled his jacket collar up. Elm leaves fell
through the air and a smell of rotten pumpkin came from inside the
gate. He picked up his satchel and went to push a black doorbell at
the entrance to the house.
Several minutes passed before a stout monk appeared. His head was
shaved. A black scapular fell from his shoulders to his knees over a
white robe that was discolored with use around the hip pockets. Under
the skin of his nose, a network of tiny veins ran like circuits.

"Ah oui," he said,and turned without another word. He walked down a
dark hall and Paul followed him inside, asking a question in precise
French.

"Will I have the same room as last time, Brother Henri?"

"Oui," the monk said as he opened the door of a small chamber. No
sooner had Paul placed the satchel inside the room than a clear pitch
met his ear, ringing brightly. He recognized it as the sound of a
metal clapper against a bell.
"Ah," the monk said as he hammered the face of his
wristwatch. "Come, come." He waved impatiently for Paul to follow.
They left the house from a second door, this time within the
enclosure of the gate, and walked up a road through the trees.
The monk put his hood up over his head. "This time, you are coming to
join?" he whispered. He spoke French without formal pronouns, and
Paul was freshly amused by the clipped pronunciation.
"No," he answered. "But very soon, I hope."

"Then, for Vespers, is necessary you still sit outside the cloister
by yourself, upstairs. Tomorrow, novice master come visit you at
breakfast."
Beyond the trees, a large building became visible; from its
fieldstone
foundation blond brick rose high into the air and formed a series of
arched clerestory windows. The church had a solid, heavy appearance.
The bell tower, anchored in the middle of the structure, was capped
by a large silver dome, and the tolling that came from it grew louder
as they drew near. Paul had to cover his ears.
The monk pushed a heavy door and led the way up a narrow stairwell to
the balcony. As they reached the top of the stairs,the bell stopped,
its echo died away, and Paul could hear Brother Henri"s labored
breathing. Beyond the loft railing, what Paul could see of the
vaulted nave reminded him of a high forest canopy.
"Thank you," he whispered. The monk nodded and left. The church was
silent, and Paul sat for a while, looking about. A sweet smoke hung
in the air like the remnant of a cedar fire, and rosy evening
light
warmed the windows, tinting the blank white walls. The glass was
bright. Running his hand along the wooden bench, he noticed dust.
Because Paul knew what to expect, he got up and moved to the railing;
below, forty monks stood in silent attention, facing away from him
like the ceramic guards of an emperor"s tomb.
He smiled. A lean voice from the choir began to sing in fluid
notes.
"Deus, in adiutórium meum inténde."
The choir of monks responded in Latin, and the church was awash in
unhurried melody from the Middle Ages. Paul wondered if music was the
thing that brought him to the abbey. Liturgy in his hometown church
was not smooth and solemn. His parish priest spoke the Mass, and it
plodded forward like a courtroom proceeding. But here, Latin chant
and incense made of the worship something mysterious and pure. He
closed his eyes and listened.

Copyright © 2001 by Rémy Rougeau

Edition details

• Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
• Publication date: 2001
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0618094997
• ISBN 13: 9780618094998
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 224