The Way of the Wild — Reading Notes

Diction and the Devilish

The opening chapter introduces Gulo the wolverine with a cascade of epithets: 'glutton, carcajou, quick-hatch, fjeldfras.' This accumulation of names from different languages suggests a creature that defies simple classification. St. Mars then declares Gulo's character 'came straight from the Devil, his master'—a phrase that anthropomorphizes the animal while also invoking a supernatural framework. The description of Gulo's face as something to be looked for 'among the fiends on the top of Notre Dame' is deliberately hyperbolic, grounding the fantastic in a recognizable architectural reference. Such diction elevates the wolverine from a mere mammal to a figure of almost mythic malevolence, a choice that recurs throughout the book.

Sensory Immersion in Setting

St. Mars builds his scenes through layered sensory details. In the first chapter, the setting is established with 'the unpitying moon' casting 'a dainty tracery' on 'new and glistening snow,' while 'the north-east wind cut like several razors.' The simile is sharp and physical, making the cold palpable. Later, in 'The King's Son,' the night is filled with a chorus of animal sounds: the 'Qua-ha-ha!' of zebras, the 'Hoot-toot!' of a hippopotamus, and the 'awful rising Who-oo!' of hyenas. These onomatopoeic calls are not merely listed but woven into a narrative that treats them as a 'mighty call' from the wilderness. The author's attention to auditory texture gives the setting a living, breathing quality.

Anthropomorphic Dignity and Dialogue

In 'The King's Son,' the captured lion cubs are described as 'king's children' who 'carry themselves as such in the presence of the enemy.' They do not cry or grieve outwardly but 'sat down side by side, and put their heads together, and stared with haughty insolence at the common crowd.' This is a deliberate humanization, attributing royal bearing and stoic pride to wild animals. The Governor's speech—'Oho! A royal pair, eh?'—is the only direct dialogue in the excerpt, and it serves to frame the cubs as captives of a colonial or military power. The author uses this anthropomorphic lens to explore themes of captivity and resistance, though the narrative remains firmly in the animal perspective.

Structure and the Unseen Whole

The excerpts reveal a book structured as a series of standalone episodes, each focused on a different animal or group. The table of contents lists eighteen chapters with titles like 'Gulo the Indomitable,' 'Pharaoh,' and 'The Storm Pirate,' suggesting a menagerie of protagonists. However, the excerpts provide only two complete chapters, leaving the overall narrative arc unclear. The author's voice is consistent—dramatic, moralizing, and rich in simile—but whether these stories interconnect or remain independent is not evident from the available text. Readers should approach each chapter as a self-contained vignette, appreciating the craft of individual scenes without assuming a larger plot.

St. Mars's prose rewards attention to its verbal texture: the precise animal calls, the exaggerated moral judgments, the sensory details that make a frozen forest or a moonlit African night immediate. Readers will find that the author's choices in diction and description create a world where animals are both biologically accurate and symbolically charged. Approach each story as a crafted set piece, and listen for the 'strange, uncanny voices of the night' that St. Mars so carefully orchestrates.

Reading St. Mars’s wild, sensory world, I found myself recalling an old note on Jacky Dandy's Delight — Reading Notes, where the same earthy warmth lingers. Both felt less like stories told and more like quiet paths remembered. There is a particular dusk in each, a hush between trees, that I keep returning to.