My sweet orange tree The story of a little boy who discovered pain

José Mauro de Vasconcelos

Book - 2019

"When Zezé grows up, he wants to be a poet in a bow tie. For now the precocious young boy entertains himself by playing clever pranks on the residents of his Rio de Janeiro neighborhood, stunts for which his parents and siblings punish him severely. Lately, with his father out of work, the beatings have become harsher. Zezé's only solace comes from his time at school, his hours secretly spent singing with a street musician, and the refuge he finds with his precious magical orange tree. When Zezé finally makes a real friend, his life begins to change, opening him up to human tenderness but also wrenching sorrow. Never out of print in Brazil since it was first published in 1968, My Sweet Orange Tree, inspired by the author's... own childhood, has been translated into many languages and has won the hearts of millions of young readers across the globe."--Book jacket.

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Young Adult Area YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Vasconce Jose Due Apr 2, 2024
Subjects
Published
Somerville, Mass. : Candlewick Press 2019.
Language
English
Main Author
José Mauro de Vasconcelos (author)
Other Authors
Alison Entrekin (translator)
Item Description
"Work originally published by Pushkin Press with the support of the Brazilian Ministry of Culture/National Library Foundation."--Title page verso.
"Original text copyright ©1968 by Editora Melhoramentos Ltda, Brazil. English translation copyright ©2019 by Alison Entrekin."--Title page verso.
Physical Description
262 pages ; 19 cm
ISBN
9781536203288
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

Zézé is a small child, just beginning school, but this account of his troubled life is meant for more mature readers. Beatings by family members, the unemployment and depression of his father, and hunger, along with Zézé's salty tongue, make him a sympathetic hero for teen and adult readers who like tales of overcoming trials. When Zézé meets an older man who becomes an adoptive grandfather, the smart, street-wise child learns to savor the simple things, letting his imagination flourish as he befriends a small fruit tree in his family's yard. For once, the boy doesn't feel evil, as he has been told he is, and an intense, tragic ending is tempered by what Zézé has learned. Blending the tart hardship of poverty with the sweetness of finding things that make life worth living, De Vasconcelos' fictional work a classic in Brazil ­is based on his own difficult childhood in a suburb of Rio de Janeiro. Entrekin's new translation makes a good addition for collections in need of international diversity.--Karen Cruze Copyright 2019 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In this English translation of a Brazilian classic originally published in 1968, Zezé, a clever and mischievous five-year old boy, charms readers as he experiences the wonders and trials of childhood in Rio de Janeiro. Narrated by Zezé's older self, 40 years later, the novel carries a distinct undercurrent of nostalgia and gravitas. Among the many memorable characters are street performer Ariovaldo, who treats the determined Zezé as an equal; Dona Cecília Paim, who sees the good in a boy often dismissed as trouble; and Manuel Valadares, the first to exhibit tenderness to Zezé. Inspired by the author's own childhood, the story is at once specific and universal: Zezé's individual struggles and personality are uniquely his own, but his dreams of feeling seen, accepted, and safe are human commonalities. Capturing the realistically fluid, unformed nature of childhood, the author presents a boy who might lovingly confide in an orange tree named Pinkie, then, moments later, execute mean-spirited pranks and hurl cutting insults. This moving Brazilian classic is rich with opportunities for contemplation and discussion. Ages 14--up. (July)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Kirkus Book Review

The misadventures of a precocious 5-year-old in 1920s Rio de Janeiro.Gifted Zez's family has been down on their luck since his father lost his job. His smarts and imagination are often misdirected into pranks that lead to violent punishment. Life starts to look up when Zez begins school and also meets two new friends: Pinkie, the talking orange tree which grows in the garden of the family's new house, and Manuel, a Portuguese man who becomes his only source of adult tenderness and care. But just as Zez's family's fortunes start to change, the boy meets relentless tragedy and heartbreak. First published in 1968, this autobiographical novel is at once a bleak portrayal of emotional and physical abuse and an affecting examination of the healing powers of imagination and of nurturing friendship. Zez is told multiple timesand internalizes the messagethat the devil is inside him, and the shockingly graphic violence often leaves him bleeding (one such beating leads the boy to think of suicide). It's only when he shares his emotional pain with "Portuga" (Zez's nickname for Manuel) that he starts to learn what real love is. With a plainspoken and episodic narrative, the novel reads as a coming-of-age story despite the character's youth. Zez is fair and blond, Portuguese on his father's side and Apinaj Indian on his mother's. A Brazilian classic with a whimsical and heart-rending essence. (translator's note) (Fiction. 12-adult) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Chapter One The Discoverer   of   Things     We were strolling down the street hand in hand, in no hurry at all. Totoca was teaching me about life. And that made me really happy, my big brother holding my hand and teaching me things. But teaching me things out in the world. Because at home I learned by discovering things on my own and doing things on my own; I'd make mistakes, and because I made mistakes, I always ended up getting beaten. Until not long before that, no one had ever hit me. But then they heard things and started saying I was the devil, a demon, a sandy-haired sprite. I didn't want to know about it. If I wasn't outside, I'd have started to sing. Singing was pretty. Totoca knew how to do something besides sing: he could whistle. But no matter how hard I tried to copy him, nothing came out. He cheered me up by saying it was normal, that I didn't have a 
whistler's mouth yet. But because I couldn't sing on the outside, I sang on the inside. It was weird at first, but then it felt really nice. And I was remembering a song Mama used to sing when I was really little. She'd be standing at the washtub, with a cloth tied about her head to keep the sun off it. With an apron around her waist, she'd spend hours and hours plunging her hands into the water, turning soap into lots of suds. Then she'd wring out the clothes and take them to the clothesline, where she'd peg them all out and hoist it up high. She did the same thing with all the clothes. She washed clothes from Dr. Faulhaber's house to help with the household expenses. Mama was tall and thin, but very beautiful. She was brown from the sun, and her hair was straight and black.   When she didn't tie it up, it hung down to her waist. But the most beautiful thing was when she sang, and I'd hang around, learning.   "Sailor, sailor         Sailor of sorrow     Because of you I'll die tomorrow . . .   The waves crashed Dashed on sand Off he went My sailor man . . .   A sailor's love Lasts not a day His ship weighs anchor And sails away . . .   The waves crashed . . ."   That song had always filled me with a sadness I couldn't understand. Totoca gave me a tug. I came to my senses. "What's up, Zezé?" "Nothing. I was singing." "Singing?" "Yeah." "Then I must be going deaf." Didn't he know you could sing on the inside? I kept quiet. If he didn't know, I wasn't going to teach him. We had come to the edge of the Rio - São Paulo Highway. On it, there was everything. Trucks, cars, carts, and bicycles. "Look, Zezé, this is important. First we take a good look one way, and then the other. Now go." We ran across the highway. "Were you scared?" I was, but I shook my head. "Let's do it again together. Then I want to see if you've learned." We ran back. "Now you go. No balking, 'cause you're a big kid now." My heart beat faster. "Now. Go." I raced across, almost without breathing. I waited a bit, and he gave me the signal to return. "You did really well for the first time. But you forgot something. You have to look both ways to see if any cars are coming. I won't always be here to give you the signal. We'll practice some more on the way home. But let's go now, 'cause I want to show you something." He took my hand, and off we went again, slowly. I couldn't stop thinking about a conversation I'd had. "Totoca." "What?" "Can you feel the age of reason?" "What's this nonsense?" "Uncle Edmundo said it. He said I was 'precocious' and that soon I'd reach the age of reason. But I don't feel any different." "Uncle Edmundo is a fool. He's always putting things in that head of yours." "He isn't a fool. He's wise. And when I grow up, I want to be wise and a poet and wear a bow tie. One day I'm going to have my picture taken in a bow tie." "Why a bow tie?" "Because you can't be a poet without a bow tie. When Uncle Edmundo shows me pictures of poets in the magazine, they're all wearing bow ties." "Zezé, you have to stop believing everything he tells you. Uncle Edmundo's a bit cuckoo. He lies a bit." "Is he a son of a bitch?" "You've already been slapped across the mouth for using so many swear words! Uncle Edmundo isn't that. I said 'cuckoo.' A bit crazy." "You said he was a liar." "They're two completely different things." "No, they're not. The other day, Papa was talking about Labonne with Severino, the one who plays cards with him, and he said, 'That old son of a bitch is a goddamn liar.' And no one slapped him across the mouth." "It's OK for grown-ups to say things like that." Neither of us spoke for a moment. "Uncle Edmundo isn't . . . What does 'cuckoo' mean again, Totoca?" He pointed his finger at his head and twisted it around. "No, he isn't. He's really nice. He teaches me things, and he only smacked me once and it wasn't hard." Totoca started. "He smacked you? When?" Excerpted from My Sweet Orange Tree by Jose Mauro De Vasconcelos All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.