Occasionally the title of a book contains such an obscure word that the reviewer is forced to begin his or her review with a dictionary definition. In the case of Nicholas Ruddock’s The Parabolist, though, even the Canadian Oxford Dictionary is of no help because it contains no entry for the word.

Ruddock comes to the reviewer’s rescue, however, by supplying three definitions himself, the first two of which are: “one who speaks in parables,” and “a member of a splinter group of disaffected young poets in Mexico City, circa 1975.”

The novel does contain a fictional representative of that Mexico City sect: Roberto Moreno, an enigmatic poet who follows his uncle and aunt – his de facto parents – to the sleepy post-hippie Toronto of 1975. A series of chance happenings lands Roberto a job teaching an English course to med students at the University of Toronto, a course attended by Jasper and John, the two sons of Roberto’s neighbours. Roberto beds one of his students, Valerie Anderson, who is lusted after by Jasper, her lab partner in anatomy class. All of these characters are attracted to Roberto’s passion for poetry and his radical politics.

Another character who appears in Roberto’s life is a rapist, never named, whom Roberto and Jasper stumble upon early one morning as he is finishing up with his latest victim. Jasper confronts the rapist, who pulls a knife; Roberto, who packs his own blade, kills him, setting off a prolonged police investigation that circles ever closer to the poet and his student.

These events lead us to the third and final definition of a parabolist: “A practitioner of the art of concentrating energy into a single focus, illuminating or, if left unchecked, destroying everything in its path.” Roberto, we learn, is a parabolist on the page; one who, as he says, “arranges words and ideas in such a way that the energy input burns … [and] explodes in the gut and chest, where feelings are the deepest.”

Having established Roberto in this role and surrounded him with vibrant, sophisticated characters, Ruddock seems to lose sight of the third definition’s key verb – “concentrating” – and the follow-up – “focus.” Yes, Roberto concentrates the energy of his poetry- and love-starved students, precipitating love affairs, car accidents, bouts of temporary insanity, and even a murder, but the novel’s narrative voice never really gears up or down from its slightly sardonic, playful tone to match the events being described.

Characters brush up against death and love and dislocation as if those transformative experiences were simply more poems on Roberto’s reading list, artifacts to reflect upon and parse for meaning in coffee shops and bars. Relatively trivial incidents, on the other hand, are often elevated to the status of major plot points, as when Jasper’s father, Professor Bill Glass, is roused from his emotional stupor by witnessing Roberto and Valerie engage in oral sex. Here the effect feels forced, a mini set-piece rigged to illustrate the sexual mores of repressed Toronto in the mid-1970s. Compare this to the emotional trajectory of the rape victim, who merely returns to her waitressing job after the brutal assault and later falls in love with Jasper.

This sense of disconnection is heightened by minor subplots that add little to the novel’s themes, such as Roberto’s aunt Sylvana’s battles with her grope-happy boss and the ongoing travails of Professor Glass as he attempts to finish his treatise on French idioms. Meanwhile, the murder investigation is hardly mentioned for long stretches, then fizzles out after barely affecting the lives of anyone but the investigating officer. Ruddock also introduces a second suspense-novel subplot, involving an unhinged psychiatric intern who develops a violent, erotic obsession with Valerie.

When Ruddock confines the novel’s focus to his poetry-drunk medical students and their Latin American teacher, the narrative is infused with the kind of intellectual energy and playfulness that is woefully lacking in so much Canadian fiction. Ruddock forgoes the all too common strategy of fleshing out characters with long passages of internal monologue and expository backstory, choosing instead the tougher and more rewarding task of bringing his creations to life through their ideas, speech patterns, and interactions with other characters. He also draws an affectionate and detailed picture of bohemian and academic Toronto in the 1970s.

Why the author felt the need to introduce murderers and rapists into his novel is unclear. He was already doing a fine job of concentrating energy into a single and engaging focus.