André Brochu’s The Devil’s Paintbrush (originally Les Épervières) is something of a stereotypical Quebec novel by a male writer. A young man’s free spirit and naturally pure morals are threatened and ultimately crushed by the mother church and the mother figure, the whole framed by young love and countless variations on the subject of sex.

Étienne is the eldest son of notorious Lucie Tourangeau. Their large, destitute family lives in filth on the river, just outside Montreal. When Étienne falls in love with Odile, the daughter of a well-to-do lawyer, he tries to escape his family’s destructive legacy by taking charge of his own life. Brochu’s treatment of Étienne’s thoughts is inspired and beautiful at times. Brochu also has a gift for evoking place; rural Quebec in the heat of summer is so effectively rendered that readers with any experience of this landscape will be transported.

Unfortunately, Brochu’s stress on destructive sexuality, and the absence of any critical discussion of this theme, overpower his narrative. Lucie exists solely as a conduit for sex and childbirth. When she’s not occupied with either, she lies around contemplating sex with her children. This might have been an interesting psychological portrait, but Brochu never develops Lucie as a character. Sexual taboos are suggested then just as suddenly abandoned. What results is a series of rather sickening images that quickly lose their shock value. The novel’s overwhelming brutality also becomes meaningless to the reader. We understand that the children are suffering, but in spite of an omniscient narrator, we don’t know why the adults do what they do.

The Devil’s Paintbrush is further hindered by a translation that is often mechanical and fails to grasp the subtleties of the original prose. Brochu is a talented writer, but this novel is one to miss.