The War Against February: Claudia Smith on Shane Jones’ novel Light Boxes


light boxes

Light Boxes, Shane Jones, Publishing Genius Press

“We sat on the hill. We watched the flames inside the balloons heat the fabric to neon colors. The children played Prediction.” so begins Shane Jones’ Light Boxes, a short novel about war, winter, child abduction, all set against a somewhere-else-in-place-and –time world. Light Boxes is 167 short pages, bound in a book small enough to fit in my rather large purse. The front and back covers are a winter scape, white against white. The book itself is filled with wintery light, teacups, and reminiscent imagery.

The novel centers around a small family; Thaddeus, a balloonist who declares war against February; Selah, his wife; and Bianca, his daughter who is taken, along with many other children in the village who keep disappearing. The story that follows is one that we’ve all grown up and read about before; the child taken, a land frozen, a land populated by villagers and their children who say portentous things. Jones’ world is beautiful in part because it is drawn from a landscape of fairytales and childhood myths. Men drink from teacups painted with tiny balloons. There are kites, cottages, professors – all familiar images and archetypes we read about as children, when we read stories about brothers and sisters tumbling into a wintery world at the back of a wardrobe. Death, as it often is in childhood, is at once fascinating and sinister, and never quite understood.

Light Boxes is a visual book, full of metaphor. When a mother shakes out a bed sheet it disintegrates into a little blizzard; balloons float into empty holes in the sky; vines and flowers and blood flow from flesh. Before I gave myself over to the imagery, I felt a bit as if I were reading myself into a Magritte painting. After awhile, the arresting imagery and metaphor became ordinary, as I settled into Jones’ dreamlike world.

Reading about the war against February, I was reminded of a beloved book from my childhood. I pulled it off the shelves of the library, and I remember that the card inside indicated it hadn’t been checked out in over a decade. The book, At The Back Of The North Wind, a children’s novel by George MacDonald, was published about a hundred years before I was born. It’s about the adventures of a small boy, and the North Wind, who is personified in a beautiful, violent, beloved woman. I was too young to understand all the Victorian symbols, and I still probably wouldn’t know all their meanings if I were to return to that fat book next week. But, like MacDonald, Jones tackles death, forgiveness, love, and futility. February is a personification of something deep within the people who populate the book. And, like MacDonald’s book, I don’t think a reader needs a key to unlock its meaning.

Each chapter in Light Boxes is a sharp, short glimpse. They move much the way flash fiction does, cutting into a larger world. Some glimpses are strikingly intimate, and certain images are repeated throughout; people are often transfixed, mouths filled with snow. Violence is often so delicate and painterly that it sneaks up on the reader lingering as dreams sometimes do.

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