Review of When I Sing, Mountains Dance by Irene Sola

It is, of course, well established that story is one of the tip-top most complex forms of human expression. (19th century philosophical texts might take the blue ribbon.) Not only is there immense variety of purpose, there is likewise large variety of style. And it is distinct from poetry. Poetry is not required to have an arc—a transpiration of events toward a conclusion. What then, when you combine poetic style with narrative arc? Enter When I Sing, Mountains Dance (2023) by Irene Sola.

When I Sing, Mountains Dance floats above the Pyrenees, shining a light on the various members of a Catalan family, as well as the flora and fauna who likewise call the mountains home. The sunbeams casting forward and backward, Sola skips around in time. The narrative is anything but linear as it tells of relationships made, children birthed, mushrooms formed, roe deer leaving the nest, teenage romances, and many other inflection points of existence—mostly human, but plant and animal, too. I hope I'm not cutting too close to the bone, but it is more garden of story than story.

And it is strongly sensual. Touch, sight, sound, texture permeate the narrative. Through these Sola expresses the freedom of the female spirit, the beauty of chaos—a Jackson Pollack splash of joys, fears, tragedies, and pleasures of existence. The prose basic yet dynamic, it shifts and turns like the spring wind without being overbearing or too clever. The basic ingredients of life are front and center throughout.

As with much of the spirit one associates with gypsies, Sicilians, and other cultures soaked in romantic traditions, When I Sing, Mountains Dance possesses a strong degree of atavistic fatalism. Almost Daoist in sentiment, the sun rises, the sun sets, seasons turn, people are born, die, we have moments to smile, the tides turn against us, the sun rises…. There is a colorful stoicism to the novel that people with poetic hearts—and maybe a mind to perennial philosophy—will appreciate.

It needs to be said that for as fluid and dynamic When I Sing, Mountains Dance is, there are also times it is self-indulgent. Sola seeming to adds bits of autobiography (e.g. the joys of writing poetry) to the narrative, it almost breaks the fourth wall on one or two occasions—too free in its expression. On top of the laterally moving, hop-skip-jump of ideas content can also be a touch syrupy. Perhaps the English language lacks the words for which Catalan has more imaginative means of expression, regardless, there are times there is a simplicity to the proceedings that feels juvenile—too idealized or overt in presentation to resonate at depth.

In the end, When I Sing, Mountains Dance is a book for people who enjoy the poetic dance of language across the salt and sugar, sunshine and storms of life, in this case in the Catalan mountains. Atavistic in sentiment and purpose, Sola celebrates birth, death, food, sex, and the flow of existence in a flashing, darting narrative focusing on family and the perennial nature of life.