Andre Alexis: Days by Moonlight


André Alexis
Days By Moonlight
Coach House Books, 2019
Softcover, 218 pages

With four novels published within the last five years, multi-award winning Canadian author André Alexis shows no signs of slowing down in this, his latter middle age. On the contrary, with increasing international recognition and increasingly reverential treatment by critics and reviewers, he seems to be rapidly ascending to the realm of the esteemed elders of Canadian literature. With the publication of Days by Moonlight earlier this spring, he remains on track to complete his ambitious quincunx series, begun with his 2014 novel, Pastoral.

On the surface, Days By Moonlight is an entertainingly whimsical ramble through familiar Alexis territory, complete with ruminations upon love, loss and connection, minute observations of the natural (and possibly supernatural) world, great reams of landscape, zany small town Ontario shenanigans, and, of course, questions large and small, all narrated by the lovably self-effacing Alphie Homer.

and it was all true in a way only the way kept changing

W. S. Merwin.

We meet Alphie August Homer, a 33-year-old lab technician living in Toronto, as he is about to embark on a late summer road trip through southern Ontario at the request of Professor Morgan Bruno — an old family friend. Professor Bruno, a contemporary of Alphie’s parents, seeks Alphie’s help to complete his research on the renowned but elusive poet, John Skennen (aka John Stephens) about whom he is writing a book. Alphie, who trained as a botanist, rationalizes his enthusiasm for the trip by noting that it will give him an opportunity to indulge his passion for sketching the native flora of Ontario. But the reader comes to understand that Alphie may have other reasons to welcome this diversion, coming as it does on the one year anniversary of his parents’ death — both killed in an horrific car accident on the 401. We learn, as well, that in addition to the sudden loss of his parents, a long term and significant relationship with his girlfriend, Anne, has come to an end in the intervening months. Alphie is not given to emoting, but he does admit that he has found his home city “oppressive,” lately, because he “knew it too well”. In this light, one can intuit a psychic crisis of sorts — grief and loss, continually triggered by landmarked memories. This also provides another perspective from which to view Professor Bruno’s proposal — a wish to keep an eye on an old friend’s child, masquerading as a request for help.

The road trip begins in sunlight, as the two head off to Whitchurch-Stouffville where Professor Bruno hopes to interview the aunt of the poet John Skennen, who proves, in the end, to be a bit of a handful. She is particularly provoked by the suggestion that the last place John Skennen had been seen was the town of Feversham. “No one’s supposed to know about that,” she snaps, thus, right from the outset, imbuing Feversham with a certain mystique. The meeting ends when Mrs. Stephens attacks Professor Bruno with a bright orange umbrella. This proves to be the first of several umbrella occurrences — a detail of note for anyone alert to Freudian overtones, funny, but also, perhaps, a pointed prompt to take the psychology of the expedition seriously. A serendipitous encounter during the resulting visit to the local hospital leads to an interview with one of Skennen’s high school girlfriends. Mention is made of the curious fact that Professor Bruno bears a striking resemblance to the young John Skennen. Their adventures in Whitchurch-Stouffville provide Professor Bruno the opportunity to enlighten Alphie about the interrelated concepts of spirit and beauty, and, triggered by their glimpse into Skennen’s early romantic life, Alphie begins what turns out to be an extended rumination about the nature of love.

Next on the itinerary is Concord, where Ron Brady, a childhood friend of Skennen’s resides. He is of the firm opinion that Skennen is dead, based, reasonably enough, on an eerie encounter he had with his ghost, which sat, staring, on his couch, before pointing at its watch, and evaporating into thin air. In the course of the conversation, Alphie learns about fate and destiny and wonders if one can develop into an artist, or if it is inborn. In what seems to be a developing pattern, the visit ends rather violently, as Alphie has his first of several encounters with dogs — in this case, an attack by Brady’s three white Argentinian mastiffs. By the time he notes that, “their movements were so coordinated, it was as if the three dogs were one,” one senses something fishy about the encounter, the information being strangely specific unless one intends, deliberately, to reference Cerberus, the three-headed canine guardian of the underworld. Another trip to the hospital results, during which Alphie, descending into shock, has a transcendent experience, influenced, no doubt, by Professor Bruno’s exposition on the differences between the Roman (Natura) and Greek (Phusis) view of nature. Alphie’s experience, it seems, was of a distinctly Greek flavour — a sense of perfect unity with the natural world, providing another clue as to how to view subsequent proceedings. Alphie has a distinctly “otherworldly” sense that he had been guided to the hospital, and when the duty nurse makes him a gift of a pomegranate, a mythologically redolent fruit, and explicit reference is made to Cerberus, Orpheus, and travels in the underworld, suspicions that the trappings of reality may be falling away are confirmed. And, in its own way, it all makes sense — if John Skennen were indeed dead, his pursuit would, necessarily, involve a trip to the underworld.

In the second chapter, the title “The Cities of the Plain,” makes overt reference to the biblical cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, and one thinks, instantly, of societies which have lost their way. In this story, Nobleton and Coulson’s Hill serve as modern stand-ins. As befits the allusion, Alphie’s education takes a darker turn, a shift toward the shadows. The sometimes queasy relationship between writers, publishers, and readers, and, also, the power of love, is examined in a story about a much-honoured, but nevertheless starving writer who invented an abused childhood to satisfy popular demand, and the father who, out of love for his daughter, allowed the story to stand. Further eerie tales of Skennen’s postmortem activities, including conflicting iterations of Mr. Brady’s encounter with his ghost, challenge the notion of objective truth and highlight our essential isolation, the limits of intimacy, and the ultimate impossibility of knowing another mind. As Ms. Flynn, the aforementioned author notes, “No one knows anything about anyone else.”

The narrative now takes a sharp turn to Swiftian satire as Alphie chronicles their remaining stay in Nobleton and subsequent visit to Coulson’s Hill, towns which, if their summer festivities are any indication, have, indeed, lost their way. Alexis indulges in a blast of social critique that manages to be both fantastically silly, and pointedly caustic. The origins and current version of a weirdly warped “House Burning” spectacle, which has become the central attraction of Nobleton’s Pioneer Days celebrations, are chronicled by an initially bemused and finally horrified Alphie. Although originally meant to pay homage to the self-sufficient resiliency of the area’s pioneers, undercurrents of resentment and class division distort the event into a cruel, if wildly improbable, parody of charity. In nearby Coulson’s Hill, in spite of a surfeit of good intentions, an attempt to honour the town’s history dies a slow death by committee, inevitably evolving into an inane mockery of itself as organizers, intent on inclusivity, make the mistake of trying to hear and satisfy everyone. Alexis is treading on dangerous ground here, modern outrage being what it is (absolute and trigger happy) but wisely distances himself using the trope of the innocent abroad. Alphie and the Professor merely observe and wonder. The episodes are too silly to be taken seriously, and yet, social currents flowing through our modern world are easily recognized.

Dubious festivities aside, the southern Ontario landscape continues to evoke philosophical questions as Professor Bruno recounts the fable-like tale of George Coulson, the eponymous early settler of the area who dreamed of gold. Depending on whom one consults, his story is one of futile obsession, or stubborn belief in the power of possibility. Dreams, Alphie learns, can be tricky things, especially considered in light of Professor Buno’s comment that, “The fact you believe in a dream doesn’t make it real.” In a subtle semantic shift typical of the writing, Alphie notes that his most memorable, significant dreams, “almost always begin with me going on a long trip,” providing yet another window through which to view his present journey. Coulson’s Hill was on the itinerary because Mr. Henderson, a friend of Skennen’s, lived there. He presents the surprising news that Skennen, far from being dead, was seen frequently in the town. Alphie’s attack of heartsickness, brought on by memories of Anne, results in the empathetic Mr. Henderson sharing the tale of John Skennen’s one great love, a fairy tale of sorts, complete with riddles and witches — a complex yarn which reveals both the fragility and the power of love. The story lends some further credence to the idea that Skennen may, in fact, be alive and well. This information must be weighed against the presumptive setting, however, and prompts the question: in the underworld, do the dead recognize that they are dead? The story causes Alphie to ruminate further on the nature of love, wondering, “What remains of our feelings for those we’ve loved when they’ve left us?” As the intrepid travellers take their leave, Mr. Henderson opines that they might indeed find Skennen himself in Feversham.

Far from exciting Professor Bruno, the prospect of meeting his literary hero, in person, seems to dampen his enthusiasm, causing a tactical delay in the form of a side trip to Schomberg. This gives Alexis an opportunity to examine, in his quirky way, the delicate question of culture as nurture or nature, and the endless pitfalls awaiting any attempt at cross-cultural communications, no matter how well-intentioned. A chance encounter with a hitchhiker results in a further diversion — an unplanned trip to the Museum of Canadian Sexuality, which, amongst other delights, includes some wildly improbably alternative Canadian history. Attempting to work out the differences between sex and love, Alphie concludes that love, unlike sex, cannot be catalogued, measured or classified, and does not reside in the material. But, he wonders, can it (his parents’ or Anne’s love, for example) be lost, “or did it, rather, stay within [him]: a perpetual gift, an inexhaustible resource?” As a result of these musings, it occurs to Alphie, for the first time, that “our journey … was not to help Professor Bruno but to help me … as if I’d generated everything in order to tell myself this small thing,” and he muses over the possibility that “the professor was there to help me, not the other way around.”

Professor Bruno announces that, instead of now heading to Feversham, as planned, they will pursue a further diversion within a diversion, a stop over at Marsville. In the process, Bruno confirms Alphie’s suspicions that he is wary of Feversham, and the possibility of meeting his literary hero in person. Bedeviled by his attempt to avoid the inevitable however, Professor Bruno soon finds himself face-to-face with John Skennen, aka John Stephens, their resemblance once again noted, but who only reluctantly reveals his identity to the visitors. “I was John Skennen,” he admits, his choice of tense significant, and then looks at his watch. Alexis does not elaborate as to whether or not John Skennen subsequently evaporated, but, in any case, he makes a material appearance at breakfast the next day, and picks up his own narrative at the point left off by Mr. Henderson. We learn, sadly, that after winning the love of his life, he lost her, and what follows is an elaborate tale of drunken despair, a dark night of the soul spent wandering the back roads of southern Ontario, during which Skennen meets a demon, (perhaps his own?) finds unlikely salvation in the form of a taciturn Scottish-Jamaican Methodist from Manitoba, and is led to the sacred centre of the world, a sort of Canadian Delphi: Feversham. Who knew? (One is, however, tempted to explore the connotative implications of the name.) A thread begun earlier gathers momentum when Skennen’s story includes a conversation between the poet and the Methodist about the relationship between the divine, reality and dreams, and the question of which is least untrue: illusion or reality. Guided by Reverend Crosbie (a sort of spiritual facilitator) self-professed atheist Skennen is led to the “sacred clearing,” where, as a result of a hallucinatory, and enigmatically colour-coded mystical interlude, he finds himself challenged with the central question of his existence: the choice between creativity (his poetry) or love. Backed up against the red wall, so to speak, Skennen finds that the choice is, if not easy, surprisingly clear. As a result of this clarification, he completes the majority of a respected body of poetry, whereupon his creative well-spring dries up, and he fades into a quiet life of obscurity as John Stephens — in effect, “dying.”

The fact that Professor Bruno has, at this point, met and discussed essential questions with the object of his research might logically signal the end of the expedition, and thus the story. However, Alphie and Professor Bruno continue on to Feversham, a clear indication that the emotional core of the novel is still ahead. One can view the long, and at times convoluted Skennen story as a parallel plot of sorts. As Skennen’s tale makes clear, Feversham is a place to which one goes to plumb one’s depths, to confront the self, and where the most fundamental questions of existence might be addressed. This allows the reader to anticipate, and to a certain extent, make sense of Alphie’s subsequent adventures there. From its first mention by the irate Mrs. Stephens, Feversham has been the enigmatic, gravitational centre of the story — all things have moved, however haphazardly, towards it.

Feversham, it seems, ‘was’ [and is] ‘inescapable.’

Even for an imagination primed by knowledge of Skennen’s experiences, Alphie’s adventures in Feversham, and their consequences, are bizarre. Readers are swept into an increasingly hallucinatory narrative, dreamlike, psychedelic, and untethered from time, vaguely reminiscent of cautionary fairy tales warning of the dangers of wilderness, complete with a mystical guide/dangerously sexy werewolf, and otherworldly food. Emerging after three days in the sacred grove, he recounts an ecstatic oneness with the universe — his attempts to articulate his experience resembling accounts of dissolution of the self induced by psychoactive drugs. However, the precise nature of his metamorphosis remains undefined. Professor Bruno and Reverend Crosbie tussle over the meaning of Alphie’s epiphany as the professor insists on an entirely psychological interpretation, while the Reverend equally firmly argues in favour of divine intervention. Alphie remains unconvinced by either argument, but offers his own ideas. Like Skennen, Alphie believes he was forced to acknowledge the limits of his devotion to love, to examine his true self, and thus to acknowledge his own complicity in his break up with Anne. Alphie’s sojourn in Feversham also presents him with another big question: is the divine best sought in wilderness or civilization? — a topic which has occupied Alexis elsewhere. He comes to no definitive personal conclusion, except, perhaps, in his dreams, falling asleep to a long ago childhood memory, running through a field of wheat bowing in the breeze (divine breath?) while his father, a minister, preaches elsewhere.

As Alphie and the professor turn homeward, Alphie discovers that his time in Feversham has been, indeed, life-changing — an incident in Tim Horton’s revealing that he has somehow acquired magical healing powers, which he demonstrates in a series of minor miracles. Further conversation with John Stephens at his home in Barrow (the setting of Alexis’s previous novel, Pastoral) and an astounding incident in which he revives a dead mouse, reveal that Alphie has been initiated into a select group of miracle workers — those who can make things multiply (think of magic cauldrons, or loaves and fishes) those who can start fires, and those, like Alphie, who can heal. Skennen warns Alphie about the dangers of his new gift, advising him to use it with discretion, reminding him that “as the story goes, people crucified the world’s most famous healer.” Alphie makes a distinction between good versus good intentions (a very current issue) and wonders how he can best use his new powers for the former.

Common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.


We leave Alphie and the professor as they head back to Toronto, very early in the morning, Alexis making a point of contrasting the end of their adventure with its start. What began in sunshine (implying night is still ahead) ends with the travelers heading east, out of darkness, towards “the first light of day show[ing] the contours of the land” (reminiscent of Nabokov’s “brief crack of light”) in a quiet world, “chastely dreaming of light.” Musing on the consequences of the trip, Alphie notes that the professor had had his doubts resolved, while he, Alphie, “was returning a changed man,” newly awakened to a miraculous universe. Making explicit anagramic reference to the author (Bladvak Vinomori) Alphie goes on to express several very Nabokovian ideas: the relationship of one’s consciousness and imagination to the world, with Alphie noting that he is returning home to a new world, changed utterly by his new understanding of his abilities and subsequent obligations.

As a reader, one has growing concerns about Alphie’s new state of mind — wondering how seriously his story should be taken, or if he is in the early stages of a raging messianic complex, and how it might all end. Alphie himself offers reassurances — a short, comic anecdote about his attempts to experiment with Professor Bruno’s arthritis illustrating that, questions about the exact nature of his tale aside, his ego remains humble and cautious. The story ends in a peaceful scene, beautiful in its concise simplicity: Alphie’s parents and their love for him is brought to life in his memory as he gazes out over Lake Ontario, the water quietly undulating in the evening light, a boat gliding home to safe harbour.

Alexis’s stories are maddeningly difficult to summarize, as the above tortured effort surely indicates. If one concentrates on the surface of the story, it’s all quite nonsensical. One could leave it at that I suppose — throwing the task of making sense of it to individual readers, or one’s own subconscious, but then, why bother with a review? Any attempt at exegesis, however, requires reference to a myriad of small details, whose critical associations are significant in regards to a larger pattern, although often fragmentarily, partially, ephemerally or varyingly so. Including these details requires some sor

t of context, which forces one to, almost, retell the entire story. Leaving them out means lengthy explanation will be required to introduce them into any sort of subsequent interpretation. A conundrum, no doubt, and as usual, I have chosen the long way out.

To go beyond the superficially entertaining in this novel, it helps to bear in mind a number of Alexian proclivities — a preoccupation with landscape, both physical and emotional, a tendency to circle, continuously, around concerns about love, loss, identity, and connection, and a fascination with underlying (invisible) structure or order. One must also be aware of Alexis’s willingness to follow an idea wherever its various associations might lead, aided by a serene disregard for the boundaries normally imposed between reality and fantasy, the literal and the figurative, between waking and dreaming. Early on, Alexis goes to some pains to remind us that:

being awake is no proof that what you see is real any more than being asleep is proof that it’s not. The realms — sleeping and waking — are different, but you have to be attentive to both.

Further, it is best to heed the author’s own instructions in matters of interpretation. Readers are given ample indication that close attention to small details will be rewarded. Professor Bruno explains, also early in the story, that “You never know (…) where you’ll find a detail, the detail, that’ll illuminate a work.” Alphie himself admits that he “[cherishes] little details,” and that his father, a Doctor of Divinity, taught him that paying close attention is a form of worship. Alexis also cautions that, “any reasonably long story is a wilderness of signs.” It is certainly true of this story, and, to paraphrase the epigraph, its content all strives to be true in a way, only the way keeps changing.

The title, is, of course, an important detail. Days by Moonlight, announces without prevarication, an oxymoronic premise. To engage further one must accept its inherently figurative logic. Days lived by moonlight may be expected to be intuitive, soulful, inwardly reflective, preoccupied with the boundaries between the conscious and subconscious, between waking and dreaming. And, indeed, this is what we find. As mentioned earlier, although the journey begins very much in the logical light of day, small details suggesting that it will be as much a psychic journey as a physical one, accumulate. We first meet Alphie struggling with grief. Fusing the psychic and the physical, he tells us that, “the bewildering thing about grief, for me, is how difficult it makes the world to navigate. Home itself becomes foreign territory, though everything around you is familiar.” Grief has, clearly, disrupted the coordinates of his life and been a radically defamiliarizing experience. (Other writers have, of course, explored the destabilizing effect of intense grief, perhaps most notably Joan Didion, in her book, The Year of Magical Thinking.) In retrospect, Alphie’s observation that “[no] place reveals itself to you all at once. It comes at you in waves of associative detail,” could be as rightly (perhaps even more rightly) applied to an emotional landscape as a physical one. And, we must remember, very early in the journey, the professor is attacked, nay, hit over the head, with an orange umbrella. Days By Moonlight certainly gives fair warning, right from the outset, that the journey may be as much a matter of psychology, as of geography.

A strange idea: that the professor was there to help me, not the other way around.

In this moonish light, Professor Bruno begins to look very Jungian indeed — a wise, older, authority figure who will act as a guide for the seeker. And, if we look at the journey in one way, we can see that this makes sense. Alphie, continuously professing ignorance, is led by Bruno through a series of “life stations,” — where he is introduced to various big ideas: the nature of beauty, fate and destiny, questions of belonging and identity, the limits of intimacy and possibility of connection, the infinite complications of sexuality, the nature of love. Very early in the journey, Alphie (in shock as a result of his encounter with Mr. Brady’s dogs) experiences a fusion of physical and psychic landscapes, and the story slips through a curtain dividing reality and dreams, into the underworld of the subconscious. As they approach the spiritual epicentre of Feversham, the existential stakes increase as Alphie’s experiences lead him to consider some very big questions indeed: the nature of reality, the distinctions made between wilderness and civilization, and which might be a true source of the divine. Throughout the journey, Alphie muses about love, re-examining his ideas in light of his new perspectives. By his own interpretation, his psychedelic experiences in Feversham forced him to acknowledge his break with Anne for what it was: a schism to which some of his least admirable qualities contributed. Newly acquainted with his true self, and consistent with possibilities theoretically unleashed by a Jungian integration of the shadow, he discovers he has new and marvelous powers.

But, what to make of his self-described healing powers, and, most alarmingly, his account of his ability, at least amongst the rodentia, to raise the dead? A conservative interpretation, I suppose, might suggest that Alphie ventured too far into the wilderness and lost his mind, or that he is simply a supremely unreliable narrator. However, the Jungian interpretation is also workable if we don’t take the stories of miraculous healing, and a revitalized mouse too literally. Or, we could notice that at one point, Alphie wonders if he had “generated everything [the whole expedition] in order to tell myself this small thing” — that is, that his parents’ love (and Anne’s) remains an inexhaustible resource. Having traversed his new emotional landscape (profound grief and loss) he now understands that love is never truly lost. It lives within him, and he can bring it to life at will through memory. This gives him great comfort. Alphie has processed his grief and loss, and has indeed healed himself. He has come a long way. Alternately, we could view the firestarters (initiators, activists, revolutionaries, those who “get things going”) the multipliers (those whose efforts alleviate need and yield prosperity) and healers (those who address and mitigate pain, including artists) as positive sociopolitical roles available to each of us. Alphie, with his powers of detailed observation, fair-minded neutrality, and newly robust psyche, might well make an excellent healer, although the temptation to see Alexis the artist, the storyteller, peeking through here is almost irresistible. Each interpretation makes sense in its own way, and perhaps even more so in aggregate.

This multivalent approach can also be applied to an interpretation of Professor Bruno. He works very well as a Jungian archetype — the wise guide or mentor, and certainly, Alexis gives us indications he should be regarded this way. Through much of the journey he acts as a font of knowledge — introducing Alphie, the dreamer, the seeker, to important philosophical ideas, and it is his agenda that determines their route. However, the professor can also and simultaneously be seen as an avatar for the enlightenment, carrying the banner for science and logic, whose presence helps Alphie anchor his thinking, and who acts as a voice for the skeptical reader as well. He meets his match in Reverend Crosbie, who provides a religious counterbalance, and the two squabble, allegorically, over the correct interpretation of Alphie’s experiences in the sacred grove. Both prove inadequate, however, when faced with life’s ultimate mysteries, and the professor’s continued attempts to squeeze Alphie’s miraculous experiences into an acceptably scientific framework feel increasingly blinkered and inadequate. Post Feversham, Alphie must be his own navigator. There is, however, one more valence through which to approach the professor. In a certain light, he can be seen as being on a psychic journey of discovery too, John Skennen an alternative self, embodying Morgan Bruno, the poet who might have been. Specific note is made of his resemblance to the young John Skennen, and that he grew up in the same area. Early in their adventure, Professor Bruno confides to Alphie that he is at the right age to reconsider his youth and Alphie wonders, “had he [Bruno] written this book to better understand Skennen’s work, or to revisit his own past?” Alphie concludes that his companion’s motives are unclear. It is reasonable to imagine that in his youth, Professor Bruno had a choice: to be a poet or to study poets, and as a literary academic, chose the safer devotional path (relatively speaking). This choice left his artistic potential untested, and he is free to believe he might have been brilliant, should he have chosen to be. A reckoning is, therefore, a dangerous proposition. As the professor himself explains, “in my mind and in all the work I’ve done, John Skennen is an artist and a brilliant thinker. I’d hate to have that image of him destroyed by facts.” He goes on to say that, “I think my version of the man and his work is better than any real version could be … we old people know the cost of that confrontation more than you youngsters!” In this light, the abrupt decline of his enthusiasm, once it became clear he might actually meet his hero, is understandable, and one is reminded of the professor’s admonition to Alphie that dreams are not real just because one believes in them. In fact, one can view the entire George Coulson interlude as an examination of Professor Bruno’s dilemma. However, the professor’s inability to make the imaginative leap required to fully appreciate Alphie’s experience in Feversham, and his stubborn insistence that it be framed within what are obviously inadequate rational explanations, may provide a clue that, in fact, his career choices were correct. Alphie does note, when summing up their quest, that the professor’s doubts had been resolved.

Bearing in mind Alphie’s realization that “beauty is both order and story,” and sensitized to Alexis’s penchant for embedding secret structures within his works (as a result of our correspondence about an earlier review of Pastoralsee “Responses” at end of review) my patterns sensors were persistently a-twitch while reading this novel. Knowing that the earlier novel was influenced by the musical structure of it’s symphonic namesake, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, I was immediately tempted to consider possible parallels between Days by Moonlight and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The fact that “the Moonlight,” is, famously, purported to have been inspired by unattainable love, that grief over lost/absent love is a preoccupation of the novel, and that it has three distinct movements, similar to the three sections of the novel, encourages this line of investigation. Beyond these preliminary observations, however, attempts to link specific elements of structure become increasingly tortured. To advance further, this theory would require elucidation from the author himself.

Readers who remain devoted to small details, however, will also notice that reference to colour is pervasive and specific. Throughout the story, mentions of green, blue, white, yellow, black, orange and red (or minor variations such as pink, grey, silver, bronze, gold) are repeatedly found together in clusters. For example, the adventurers arrive at Skennen’s aunt’s green house, with black roof tiles, the daughter has blue hair, the aunt, grey, the sofa is yellow, with white foam protruding, the aunt wears a pink bathrobe and white slippers, her umbrella, bright orange. Putting aside the problem of knowing when, for example, a plant implies greenness, or, is just a plant, the tendency is inescapable.


  • Alexis’s affection for arcana,
  • that this novel is part of his quincunx series
  • that throughout, there are references to the number five
  • that at least one tradition in the ancient art of feng shui (concerned with harmonious relationships to nature) involves five elements
  • that each of these five elements has a corresponding colour(s)
    1. wood: green
    2. fire: red/orange
    3. earth: brown/yellow/pink,
    4. metal: white/grey/metallics
    5. water: blue/black

and that these colours are specifically found in the colour clusters in the novel, it seems reasonably certain that feng shui concepts contribute to the story’s underlying structures.

Attempting to tease out all of the potential associative clues, to catalogue the seemingly endless layers of connected meaning contributing to the story’s whole, to navigate this “wilderness of signs,” is to risk a descent into a infinite rabbit hole — I warn you from the abyss! Alphie’s name alone… But enough! Suffice to say that, perhaps, the best approach to the novel is one that Professor Bruno endorses, to “use your instincts and find your own way.” In other words, open your mind, allow layers of association, like pigments in a watercolour wash, to do their alchemical work, enjoy the ride, note, feel and admire the meticulous detail, appreciate Alexis’s reach and depth, and, at the end of it all, ask yourself, “Ha ye, in any way, bin healed?”

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Taylor, Timothy: The Rule of Stephens

rule of stephens

Taylor, Timothy
The Rule of Stephens
Doubleday Canada, 2018
Softcover, 228 pages

Anyone with even a toe in the modern world has felt it. Of this, I am certain. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, particularly acute for those of us who would like to believe in a rational world, and who, like me, require (or at least prefer) a foothold of logic from which to launch decision-making processes. Our current dilemma is, perhaps, best illustrated by a memory I have of watching very young kittens (inexperienced poopers) attempting to excavate a suitable defecation depot in a hill of soft sand — resulting in increasingly harried despair as they came to understand that maintaining the depression required their continuous effort, with no time left for the act itself.  Their predicament often comes to mind these days as I survey the avalanches of “information” arriving on my device’s screen on a minute by minute basis. Having been introduced into my experience, it all now provides potential scaffolding for my beliefs, decisions and thus actions. However, only some is true. One handy thing about the truth is that, by definition, it allows you to identify the false. Conversely, without a clear sense of what is, it’s very difficult to say what isn’t. Schrödinger, I believe, had some thoughts on this. (Also political spin doctors and advertising mavens.) True or false? To make rationally informed decisions, we need to be able to differentiate. But I find that, these days, reminiscent of the kittens, attempts to be informed by reality tend to result only in increasingly frantic sorting of information into piles labeled “true,” “false,” and a growing heap of “don’t know and don’t have time to find out.”  Add to this the upwardly ratcheting air of impending doom, peculiar to our modern times, and the concomitant, overwhelming sense of a need to ACT NOW, and, also like the kittens, something akin to harried despair wells up in me  — an inkling that at the precise moment when informed action seems most desperately needed, no amount of feverish effort on my part will provide me with a clear sense of the truth.  And that’s when I feel it most acutely — that seductive urge to simply let go, to allow my personal collection of biases and inclinations to establish my own, and possibly ephemeral, truth and just DO something.

The conflict resulting from this head/heart dichotomy is, of course, not new to the human condition — science and religion have duked it out for centuries over much the same territory –the particular manifestation described above only a specific instance.  At this moment in history, however,  when, it seems, we most need faith in our convictions, long held truths (on a personal, cultural, and societal level) are being exploded almost daily, while at the same time, things heretofore safely dismissed as nonsensical turn out to be real. Add to this our now spectacular and growing ability to create and disseminate false information, the political world’s distressing willingness to exploit it, and the ascent of relativism, and it is easy to see why it has become extraordinarily difficult to know what to think about anything. With all due respect to Schrodinger, even when staring straight at the cat with the box wide open, it is now difficult to know if it is alive, dead, or a day-glo pink giraffe with five legs, for that matter. Pile on our adventures with artificial intelligence which are forcing us to re-examine and perhaps question the workings of our own minds, and it is not surprising that we are experiencing something of a crisis of confidence in our ultimate understanding of the world. It is also unsurprising that Timothy Taylor, an author who has, in the past, shown himself to be particularly sensitive to the zeitgeist (Stanley Park, The Blue Light Project) should choose to focus on the nature of reality and our ability to decode it, in his most recent novel, The Rule of Stephens.

Eschewing obfuscation, Taylor signals his intentions clearly with his choice of title, and a handy defining epigraph:

The Rule of Stephens n. an axiom holding that the observable universe works in one of two mutually exclusive ways: (I) strictly in accordance with materialistic principles such as those advanced in the work of Stephen Hawking, or (2) by rules providing for the paranormal aberrations manifest in the work of Stephen King.

It is an axiom of no clear provenance, and one which, perhaps somewhat contentiously, forces a choice that to my mind is not strictly necessary, but, neverminding that, it lays out with admirable precision the themes that will dominate the story.  The fact that it does not, as far as I can determine, exist in the real world only reinforces the author’s thematic preoccupations.

As the story begins, we are introduced to Catherine Bach, a 35-year-old doctor with a background in family medicine and toxicology, and eight years of experience in a walk-in clinic in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside.  She has recently launched her own tech start-up, DIYagnosis Personal Health Systems, focused on developing “a next-generation health-tracking wearable that monitored user vital signs and that would … feed back to the user a whole range of vital stats, from blood pressure to respiration rates, BMI, T-cell counts, liver enzymes” — a sort of super Fitbit™. The company’s motto — Know your body. Change the world — reflects  a secure belief in the value and power of factual information. Catherine Bach is, in short, a no-nonsense, both-feet-on-the- ground, highly educated and informed smart cookie, with a broad enough life experience to silence any suggestions of youthful or intellectual naiveté. She’s nobody’s flake.  If anything, she might be accused of a certain logical rigidity in her approach to life, as evidenced by workaholic habits, her bemusement with her more “artsy” younger sister, and hints of a spare, if not arid, emotional and spiritual life. Unresolved issues swirl around the death of her mother twelve years earlier, and conflicts with her father, but, true to her nature, they remain largely unexamined.  Her practical, materialist, scientific world-view has worked well for her, reinforcing her personal preferences, and rewarding her logical brilliance. Her experience thus far has left her secure, perhaps smug, in her belief in a deterministic universe. In any case, navigating the high-stakes world of venture capital in an all-or-nothing bid to bring her product to market has left her little time for metaphysics.

Catherine’s beautifully factual world, through which she is so nimbly navigating, is, however, turned up-side-down the day she finds herself one of six unlikely survivors of the crash of Air France flight 801, cause unexplained. Although Catherine walks away from the disaster (rather strangely, the only one without serious injuries) this personal cataclysm comes at the worst possible moment — adding extraordinary stress to a critical time in the financing and development of her company.  At first, she seems to be holding up remarkably well, considering — nightmares, sleeplessness, flashbacks, and a crippling fear of flying, more or less to be expected in the aftermath of such a traumatic experience. However, as we slowly become privy to more of her inner thoughts, it becomes clear that the crash has, in some essential way, fractured her existence, and challenged her very identity.  Her old self, the Hawkingsian one, the one that believed that “luck, fate, destiny …were conceits, offensive to rational thought and logic,” must come to terms with the undeniable fact that her very existence now defies rational thought and logic, and may, in fact, be a matter of luck, fate or destiny. To put it in her own words, “the six survivors of AF801 were supposed to be dead. Statistically speaking, staying with science … there was just no case to be made that anyone in that thin-skinned aluminum coffin should still be alive.” For the first time in her life, Catherine the materialist must consider the possibility that she, herself, is a miracle — that her demise in the crash would have contravened some intent in the universe operating outside of the known laws of physics.

Against a backdrop of heroic efforts to retain control of her company in the face of aggressive venture capitalist manoeuvrings, timeline pressures, and various setbacks in development, we watch Catherine attempt to navigate increasingly impressive challenges to her sense of reality. True to her emotionally reticent nature, her growing uncertainty about her abilities to understand her world are revealed only slowly, to herself and to the reader.  Apparently offhand remarks about what is clearly a growing dependency on alcohol and various mood and mind-altering medications alert readers to her struggle, which is, ultimately, to reconcile her core belief in a rational universe with her recent and continuing irrational experiences.  It would seem logical that, should one manage to walk away from a catastrophic disaster unharmed, one would walk away a changed person — suddenly aware of the miraculous privilege of life, etc. etc., but for Catherine, the troubling sense that the person who walked away from the flaming wreckage was not the same person who boarded the plane goes far deeper than a reinvigorated appreciation of existence. What Catherine can’t quite process, can’t quite articulate, but feels intensely, is that somehow, during the crash, at the moment of maximum intensity, she  became separated from herself — was split into two possibilities — live or die — and has not managed to reintegrate.  In some inexpressible way, she feels that a portion of her essence had leached, or was pulled, into another possibility, leaving her former self diminished, and a second pale version of Catherine Bach afoot in the world. One can think of it as sort of a disrupted reincarnation, resulting in a partially new self, incomplete, and hungry for its full complement of spirit. Worse, her senses are increasingly providing her with data that supports this theory — the sudden emergence from the shadowy realms of high finance of mysterious look-alike Kate Speir. Interestingly, from a psychological point of view, this look-alike imposter appears to excel in the area in which Catherine feels herself inexperienced —  that of venture capital financing — and first forms in Catherine’s mind as a rival suspected of masterminding a take-over of her company, and eventually, her life. In what, in retrospect, could be described as a classic downward psychotic spiral, she becomes more and more convinced that Kate Speir is her double, unleashed into the world by the crash, a double who is intent on inhabiting her life, taking up her place in the world, and, ominously, seems to be growing in strength and density, as she, herself, declines. Not surprisingly, for Catherine the materialist, the scientist, the practical clear-thinker, the cognitive dissonance is extreme.  Stubbornly loyal to her core beliefs, she struggles valiantly to make sense of the evidence with which her experience is providing her, but as the strangeness mounts, she finds herself increasingly bewildered, increasingly uncertain about the true nature of the world.

Reproducibility, or independent corroboration, is, of course, a hallmark of scientific method. While science can make short work of the strange or unexpected observations of any individual by invoking that hobgoblin of rational interpretation — subjectivity — when independent parties report similar results, subjectivity becomes a less convincing counter argument and the strangeness harder to attack. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective on these things) for Catherine, independent corroboration does arrive, in the form of a phone call from a stranger — Dr. Michael Rostock, whose only connection to Catherine resides in the fact that he, too, survived the crash. A respected, recently retired oncologist, he is, like Catherine herself, someone even a skeptic would find hard to doubt. However, what he eventually reveals does nothing to mitigate her struggle with the uncanny. His post-crash experiences have been eerily similar to hers, including memories of ominous, fluttering, black shapes, identified as “blackbirds” — a specific, and disturbing detail of Catherine’s experience which she has revealed to no one. And, he comes trailing a doppelgänger of his own — a mysterious case of identity theft (his) which is never satisfactorily resolved, and which, like Catherine, he has come increasingly to believe involves a double, intent on stealing his life. Furthermore, he has been doing some research, tracking down the other four survivors, only to discover they are no longer survivors, and the common factor in all the deaths was the idea of the malevolent double, which eventually drives its victim to suicide. He has, he admits, contemplated the act himself. The last words of the most recent victim are particularly disturbing:

I’m following myself. I will catch myself. And then we’ll see who wins.

For Catherine, who had been hoping that the meeting with Rostock might prove therapeutic for them both, this is clearly a setback. As the logical case for an illogical universe strengthens, her sense of disorientation and confusion deepens. Terrified of succumbing to irrationality, she struggles to find meaning and pattern, but within an increasingly illogical framework. Her ever inquiring mind discerns a correlation between survival times of the other crash victims, and the severity of their injuries — the closer they came to dying in the actual crash, the quicker they seemed to succumb to the demands of their life-sucking double. While it suddenly makes sense to her that she and Rostock, as the least injured, have survived the longest, this line of reasoning is hardly reassuring, and it serves to reinforce what seems to be an increasingly delusional paranoia and withdrawal from reality on her part. What began as an entirely defensible concern over the existence of a rival investor slowly conflates with the idea of the double whose vitality and intrusiveness is growing.

As Kate Speir, the double’s, influence becomes increasingly invasive, a climactic confrontation, both physical and metaphysical, becomes inevitable. Whether or not Kate Speir is actually threatening Catherine’s place in the universe, her presence is certainly threatening Catherine’s way of being in her world, and her control over her own mind. Participation in alternate realities does not generally play well in either the scientific or business worlds. Depending on the reader’s own perspective (Hawkensian or Kingsian) the confrontation may represent either a tug-of-war over life sustaining essence, fatal to the loser, or an epic battle between enlightenment values and superstition and ignorance. It’s a testament to Taylor’s skill as a writer that, in a scene that could have only too easily succumbed to cliché, the tension for the reader very nearly exceeds Catherine’s own. The stakes, after all, are high.

Counterintuitively, Catherine’s apparently delusional decision to turn the tables on her double and invade her space works in her favour, and a critical piece of information eventually allows her to (mostly) reintegrate her experiences with the rational world. Having confronted her darkest fear (that her demonic double might, in fact, exist, and that science, logic, and reason are simply a meaningless cul-de-sac in human experience) her faith in science (and thus herself) is restored. Her thinking has, however, been humbled, concessions made to things in this world still beyond our ken. The fact that as the takeover threat to her enterprise disappears, Kate Speir also vanishes may be interpreted in a number of ways: as psychologically coherent, as a coincidence, or, as a wink from the universe, via Mr. Taylor. As Kate Speir herself opined, cryptically, to Catherine during their one fateful meeting, “Well, we can’t always obey the laws of physics, now, can we?”

The story comes full circle with Catherine, in a gesture of personal triumph, and with equilibrium more or less restored, flying to the scene of the crash. Newly attentive to the numinous, she deals with the inexplicable as humans have always done — with ritual.

There is much to admire about the writing here. To my mind, the success of a psychological mystery depends absolutely on the writer’s ability to maintain a delicate balance between plausibility and strangeness.  The reader must always be uneasily uncertain of their coordinates along this continuum.  The tension lies in the character’s defamiliarization in a world gone suddenly weird, and the power of the work depends on how completely the writer can immerse the reader in the experience. It is in this regard, beyond the work-a-day skills of attention to detail, and careful research, that Taylor’s unique abilities as a writer benefit the story.  Taylor conjures Catherine’s disintegrating reality with convincing panache and carefully measured ambiguity.  The case for psychosis is skillfully made: drug and alchohol dependence is established, hints as to the physiological consequences of acute and chronic stress are cannily planted. The similarity of Catherine’s symptoms to known psychiatric conditions adds to their plausibility.  Indeed, compared to some delusions which have been documented in the real world, including the belief that one’s spouse has been replaced by an imposter look-alike, that nefarious powers have constructed an exact replica of one’s home, and transported one there, or that one is dead, Catherine’s perceptions seem almost rational. [For a truly unsettling tour of some of the extremes of human experience, hop down the “delusional misidentification syndrome” rabbit hole. You will emerge a changed person.] The conflation of a very possible threat to Catherine’s well-being (a business rival) with the idea of the evil double, who also wants Catherine’s life, provides a realistic seed crystal, so to speak, for Catherine’s paranoia. Catherine’s transitions between rational thought and delusion and paranoia are seamless, transporting readers from factual practicality to psychosis is an alarmingly smooth ride, with no sense of where the wrong turn might have been, and with, one would suspect, an increased uneasiness about the flickering evanescent miracle that is everyday sanity.  If this story was only a chronicle of a descent into madness, it would be an enlightening, and terrifying experience, in and of itself.  But there is more to be mined.

Having appealed to and thoroughly unsettled one’s left brain, Taylor then goes to work on the right, making skillful use of the link between defamiliarization and uncanny affect.  A classic one-two punch. Acutely alert to particulars of place existing just beneath familiar perception, Taylor brings them to our attention in a way that seems to draw a veil back, revealing a world of portent, newly significant, and rich in signs and synchronicities:  a quick image of an orange-vested roads crew, leaning on shovels, staring into a hole, “seem[ingly] transfixed by something in the darkness down there,” or, against the background of a strangely quiet city street, “the scrape of a plane passing overhead, a white seam opening in the dusty blue as if the sky itself were being minutely torn.”  Consider, as well, the following scene, in which a disoriented and emotional Catherine paces through the nighttime streets of Chicago, desperately trying to walk off her growing panic after a destabilizing meeting with Dr. Rostock, and finds herself at that city’s famed Crown Fountain,  experiencing,

the looming video pillars of the Crown Fountain, children’s faces in LED loops, smiling, laughing, pursing their lips to synch with the water that issued forth from the face of the monoliths at regular intervals. It was possible to be mesmerized by this rotation of citizens on statuesque display.  The children seemed to Catherine as if they wanted to speak and were being constrained across time and distance, whispering inaudibly from within the matrix of colour and shape and moving shadows.

(Indeed, Taylor makes good use of the city’s public art, referencing, as well, the Cloud Gate sculpture,  another installation that explores distorted  perception, and suggests alternate realities.) Forced to view familiar landscapes through unfamiliar lenses, one feels a heretofore unsuspected pulse of meaning beneath the everyday surface of things, and obvious reality is suddenly less stable. Our resistance to this destabilization adds to the tension of the story, and to our investment in its outcome.

As Catherine’s dilemma deepens, the reader, in an experience parallel to Catherine’s own, must try to decide between two possibilities (as the title suggests) each terrifying in its own way. Either the Hawkingsian one, in which Catherine is entirely unhinged, trapped within a faulty subjectivity, and being driven to self-destruction (and there, but by the grace of some delicate chemical balance about which we have little knowledge, and over which, dubious control, go we) or, the Kingsian way, in which, as a result of some extremity of the crash, and/or the stress of the aftermath, Catherine has been given a glimpse into an alternate universe ruled by realities not bound by human logic and thus unknowable, unpredictable, and uncontrollable. Catherine’s dilemma resolves with a return to a more stable mental state, and hardcore materialists amongst us will no doubt close the book with an satisfying sense of returning home to an immutably rational universe after an exhilaratingly unsettling ride.  Less deterministic souls, however, may note that a number of questions remain. For example, Kate Speir hid an extra key to her apartment in exactly the same place Catherine did. To say coincidence strains credulity. Simply a part of Catherine’s delusion? Possibly, but the scene is at best ambiguous on this point.  Kate Speir also disappears from Catherine’s life after their climactic confrontation — evidence of Catherine’s mental recovery or decisive victory over a malevolent force? Why, also, and touching on larger points, were the six survivors’ post crash experiences so similar? Why did Catherine and Rostock both experience the “black bird” phenomenon — what were they, and why are they such a persistent motif in diverse folklore, myth and legend? Ditto for the idea of the double. As Taylor himself makes a point of observing:

Virtually all cultures since the beginning of recorded history have spoken of the phenomenon, people who found themselves facing the deadly, ill-willed opposite. The nearly identical evil twin.

There is mystery in that.

The double, the doppleganger, the evil twin, has proven to be both a persistent and a flexible cultural and literary concept. In more ancient versions, it functioned as a sort of soul-envelope (the Egyptian ka), death harbinger (the celtic fetch) or supernatural usurper (the changeling) trailing suggestions of incomprehensible realms and realities.  In more modern times, it has been used to explore our human duality — our  private versus public selves, or the unconscious stranger within us, redolent of dangerous unknowns, and unsuspected, mysterious depths. In general, threat and deceit seem integral to its nature; one innately understands that it can’t be good, and few concepts can match the high-voltage limbic jolt of an encounter with one’s double. It attacks one’s sense of certainty at a fundamental level, challenges one’s mental integrity, and renders one’s world instantly strange. As mentioned in the opening preamble, certainties of all kinds are in retreat these days — it’s a bit of a rout, actually. I may not feel certain of much, but I like to think that I am certainly me. The proposition of a double disputes even that. It may be coincidence arising from my peripatetic reading habits, but I  have, over the relatively short period of a few months, encountered the idea of the double in three separate works of recent literary fiction (The Rule of Stephens, Michael Redhill’s Bellevue Square, and, from a slightly different angle, Peter Unwin’s Searching for Petronius Totem)  In Taylor’s story, Catherine’s dilemma (surrender to an illogical world and thus lose one’s agency within it, or try to reason without any useful certainties)  is a more extreme version of my own earlier discussed conflict. One is forced to at least wonder if this archetype is now being bent to a new purpose, used as an apt vehicle for the exploration of mental conflicts inherent in our age of ultimate uncertainty.

Science (at its best, magnificent) has claimed the rational as its corner while the arts and religion (also, at their best, magnificent) to varying degrees afford reason and logic less privilege.  Both have also revealed the dangers of extremes —  in science, mercilessly logical calculation and rigid, in-the-box (or closed system, as you prefer) thinking; for religion, maniacal delusion  and rabid intolerance. We live in a time when both modes, it seems, are ascendant. The stakes are high. At some point (perhaps rapidly approaching) we shall have to confront ourselves…

and then we’ll see who wins.


[For a fascinating account of a real life scientist forced to contend with an alternate reality, see this talk by Jill Bolte Taylor (no relation that I know of) a neuroscientist, who, fascinatingly, managed to observe and analyze her own out-of-body experience, as she was having it, as a result of a stroke, and who survived to tell us about it.]





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Unwin, Peter: Searching For Petronius Totem

Searching-for-Petronius-Totem-cover-Jan26Unwin, Peter
Searching For Petronius Totem
Freehand Books, 2017
Softcover, 247 pages

Let me get straight to the point. This is a brilliant book: a savagely satirical romp, a slaughterhouse for sacred cows (tender sensibilities beware) an eulogy for the Romantic hero, a fever dream of early 21st century anxiety, a midlife identity crisis, and a voyage of self-discovery. Simultaneously poignant and absurd, it is also, somewhat counter-intuitively, an assertion of the primacy of love and family, all rolled into an hilarious, madcap, fantastical, infinitely quotable, Canadian road trip saga, with, I suspect, the spirit of Bertolt Brecht presiding. Rather astoundingly, never once does Unwin lose control of the proceedings.

As I have noted, the framing structure of the story is quite standard — a road trip of self-discovery.  Unwin’s treatment of it is anything but. Jack Vesoovian (the various connotative associations of whose name will reward a ponder) is a Canadian poet and author of a certain vintage and type, immediately familiar to those of us who came of age in Canada in the seventies when the country was in its cultural adolescence, that supremely beautiful, supremely awkward stage of unfiltered idealism when the question of our artistic/cultural development assumed a glow of unassailable profundity.  Unassailable profundity, by definition, mutes one’s critical faculties, and is, of course, fertile ground for all manner of self-delusion.  For those susceptible to the siren call of the arts, (perhaps, in particular, idealistic, young males in thrall to the cult of the Romantic hero, and its echo, the Beat aesthetic) sorting out just where one falls out along the brilliant/delusional continuum can be the major psychic work of middle age. Having retired, de tout hauteur, to a poetic aerie/squalid rooming house (depending on one’s perspective) clutching his treasured collection of Grove Press first editions, and his righteous idealism, and reeling from a domestic dispute of relationship-ending proportions,  Jack, it seems, has arrived at this painful juncture.

When an attempt to construct a self-sustaining artistic brotherhood amongst the rooming house patrons fails for want of a common purpose, Jack defaults to another literary trope — a mythic Canadian road trip, in search of his old friend/ alter ego, and quintessential Canadian Romantic literary hero, Peter Tidecaster, aka, Petronius Totem, who, he has intuited, may be in peril.

As Jack rumbles along the trans Canada north of Superior in his (possibly ex-) wife Elaine’s “rotting Ford Sable,” and plunges into the static-and-star-filled night beyond the reach of modern telecommunications, there is time to reminisce about his long relationship with Peter/Petronius, and come face-to-face with his own middle-aged self. The reader is regaled with tales of Petro’s prototypical sex and booze-soaked adventures in the green pastures of a nascent Canadian art scene — the Kamp Can Lit Debacle, in which an uncharacteristically blameless and chaste (or nearly blameless and chaste) Petro unwittingly finds himself the catalyst for a night of Dionysian revel and awakening amongst the participants in an arts camp for teenage girls, and the hilarious Road Book/Book Road cross-country extravaganza, “the greatest, most ambitious, and surely the most poorly organized multimedia event in the history of art.”  A tinge of pathos creeps into the story as, having earlier informed the reader of Pete’s ascent to the realms of glory,  (the publication and aggressive marketing of his celebrity, myth-affirming memoir, TEN THOUSAND BUSTED CHUNKS. The Life of Petronius Totem*) Jack recounts his ignominious fall — revelations that the contents of said memoir were mostly fictitious.

Jack’s own reminisces of the young Pete Tidecaster’s home life, in all its squalid and desperate suburban insanity (laid bare in a brilliant series of observational sketches  each of which deserves an appreciative paragraph of its own) unveils something unexpectedly remarkable and admirable at the core of Petronius and makes it clear that, in Peter Tidecaster’s case, invention WAS necessity. By the time Petronius launches his last great stunt — the first attempted solo circumnavigation of the mighty Lake Superior in an inner-tube, sustained by fish caught by hook and line, an ample supply of Canadian rye, and the twenty-six novels of Georges Simenon — one has developed an awkward admiration for this aging figurehead of a dying aesthetic, and derives little glee from the utter inanity of his exit from the public stage — last seen drifting helplessly beyond Slate Islands, he is eventually recovered, after a cataclysmic storm, snagged in a tree, up-side-down and unconscious, a scant six hundred yards from his launch point.

We learn, further, that this is not the first time Jack has dropped everything to find his old friend. Four years earlier, Pete had disappeared suddenly from Hamilton (where the two had grown up together) necessitating a cross-country pilgrimage on Jack’s part to rescue him from a sketchy hotel in Vancouver in which he had holed up, apparently to drink himself silly and, hopefully, elude an impressive number of creditors.  Perhaps unduly influenced by Elaine’s ringing anti-endorsement — “Pete Tidecaster is a stinking drunk, and the world will be better off when his liver gives out,”– it is only too easy to believe Pete when he confides boozily to Jack that he thinks he “might be in some serious shit,” and pleads for his help.

This particular reminiscence allows Unwin to lay the groundwork for another major narrative thread — a dark conspiracy involving Leggit International Fibre Optic and Fast Food Incorporated, a shadowy multinational with fingers in the prison system, apparently bent on monopolizing a new technology: take-out cyber chicken, home delivered in the form of edible drones, “fibre optic fried chicken that [flies] straight through your window and [lands] on the kitchen table.” Before one writes this off as hilariously hyperbolic techno-anxiety masquerading as a plot device, one would be well advised to peruse the following article from the CBC radio program Spark, entitled “This Week In Edible Robots,” which posits that “we may experience in the near future, robotic pizzas that just hop onto your table, ready to slice.” It is hard to judge whether Unwin was being uncannily prescient, or whether, in this age of constantly accelerating change, where, every day it seems, the laughably impossible becomes possible, it’s just very difficult to hyperbolize. In any case, rumours are circulating that Leggit Chicken has ambitions that go far beyond the fast food market, that they are, in fact, taking a proprietary interest in reality itself, and to that end, have been buying up patents on human DNA, and hiding edible microchips in their order-in.  If there is any doubt left as to their general dastardliness and the threat they pose to the Canadian way of life, consider this: they are believed to have been planting digestible digital sensors in Timbits.

As Petronius warns Jack, just before his final disappearance,

We’ve been mediated, commodified, signified, digitized, deconstructed, neo-liberalized, and now we’re getting chickenized.

As it turns out, Petronius should know, as he has, apparently, stolen the latest version of Leggit’s software (version 5.1) He is, thus, a person of particular interest to a multinational conglomerate with an eye on world domination — one whose operating budget far exceeds the point at which concepts of justice, crime or punishment cease to have any relevance. This is, as one might intuit, an extremely tenuous situation in which to find oneself, and one which Jack inadvertently inherits when he agrees to fill in for Pete at his hotel desk clerk job while Pete uses Jack’s plane ticket to make a hasty getaway. Leggit’s muscle soon arrives, looking for Peter and mistakes regarding identity ensue, a crucial confusion which will complicate Jack’s life for some time to come.

Returning to the present, somewhere on the Trans-Canada, north of Superior, between Dead Horse Creek and Pukaskwa River, and shortly after Jack has discovered the first real evidence that he is on right track in his search for his friend (a bit of phallic hieroglyphic graffiti on a washroom wall) narrative threads intersect and things come to a car-crash of a climax. In an allegorical tangle of Gordian proportions, Jack experiences a figurative head-on collision with a projection of his male delusions manifesting as the mirage-like “beauty of the north shore,” a “ghost-walking stunner who trod the Trans-Canada in a size twelve Aguaclara two-piece and swung her hips like a pony.” This psychic diversion precipitates a much more literal collision with “one of those family vehicles that resemble armoured personnel carriers with the roof stacked high with camping gear,” complete with a squabbling couple with nondescript careers, children, dog, and inflatable water toys.  In other words, the end to any Romantic hero-worshipping, idealistic male artiste’s dreams of greatness. To add to Jack’s troubles, just prior to his accident, a close brush with a Leggit transport truck resulted in their surveillance re-establishing his whereabouts. This, of course, allows loose ends to be gathered although at a very inopportune time for Jack. The resulting run-in with a Leggitt assassin, and a near final moment of clarity, brings Jack to the epiphanic understanding that life, pared down to its essentials, contains only Elaine and his family. 

Energized by his new-found certainty, he launches an heroic quest to regain his hearth and home. Dazed from the accident, various bits of the car impaled in his person, and woozy from loss of blood, he limps to the nearest vestige of civilization, the “Bite Me Bait Shop Emporium: a combination gas station, grocery store, bait shop, restaurant, dance hall, video store, motel, and dew worm outlet, all of which were long bankrupt and now in shambles,” and, significantly, the home of the Petronius graffiti, and a pay phone — a critical link to Elaine.  Rather incongruously, he also discovers Petronius, the target of his original quest, chopping wood at the back of the establishment, looking very ordinary, and Pete-like.  Ushering Jack into his mouldy motel room, noting, in the falling light, that they “don’t have much time,” Pete guides him through a nightmarish vision of the near future, the almost-now,  a world stripped of all meaning by infinite choice, complete with digitized DNA,  and extreme specialization allowing for, amongst other things, personalized, virtual pornography, — the infamous stolen Leggitt 5.1 software. “Reality,” Pete notes, “[is] proprietary now.” However, when Pete waxes grandiloquently nostalgic about the two friends’ role in the defense of the ideals of art,  “the revolution that we forged with our own unstoppable artistic and sexual appetites,” insisting that  (he, Jack, and other like-minds) “waved the raised middle finger of our mighty members into the face of the world,” Jack doesn’t remember it quite the same way.  As he describes, “I stared at him. I remember being drunk and doing several things I wish I hadn’t, but nothing like that.” Clearly, the power of the Petronius myth is fading.  A psychic battle of sorts ensues, as the middle-aged poet comes to terms with his reality and his delusions, a moment that coincides with the physical demise of Petronius Totem — who leaves this earthly coil as only he could —  in the midst of an incoming cyber-chicken attack, in a glorious send-up of the singularity, complete with an aluminum pie-plate helmet. 

In the case of Searching For Petronius Totem, attempts to make the always excruciating decisions about what to include in the discussion, and what must, in the interests of concision,  be abandoned, are confounded by an embarrassment of riches. Above all else, though, appreciative mention must be made of the writing itself.  From his opening gambit, Unwin ascends to a very high wire of whip smart, absurdist satire, and never descends — an admirable enough feat, further amplified by his meticulous sentence craft, and unfailing sense of rhythm. I have always admired Unwin’s mastery of language, but feel it has reached some sort of apogee in this novel.  A compendium of eminently quotable quotes, this writing is catnip for reviewers like myself who admire a phrase with sparkle.  Consider this apt depiction of the interpersonal atmosphere immediately after Jack drops a large conversational bomb:  “The room blistered with silence.” Brilliant in its exact simplicity.  This artistry serves Unwin particularly well in his acerbically telling character observations. Take, for example, a quick assessment of one denizen of a seedy Toronto bar as  “a female alcoholic of limp grandeur,” or his rendition of an improbable, would-be Leggitt assassin as “a ball-busting, bingo-playing, [knitting] needle-packing, overweight prairie girl with an unfinished doctoral thesis in French critical theory … with her heavy, informal breasts, [and] the hair that appeared to be in curlers even when it wasn’t.”  As mentioned earlier, his rapid-fire assessments of Pete’s childhood home life are particularly to be admired — scorchingly succinct observation under the cover of satire, simultaneously revealing, heartbreaking, hilarious and cathartic. As evidence, I offer this tidbit regarding Pete’s mother:

At that point Peter’s mother drifted into the kitchen dressed in a terrifying blue negligee that seemed to be made up of a million butterfly wings all sewn together and all of them swishing when she moved. She did not so much walk into the kitchen as float into it, skimming over her husband [asleep on the floor] without looking down and moving instinctively to the refrigerator, on top of which stood a clear glass cookie jar packed with pills.

She swept down the jar, cradled it on her hip like a bongo, unscrewed the top, and dug out a handful of blue, red, and green pills that she hurled into her mouth and washed down with a gulp of milk from a quart container. Wiping the froth from her lips she held me with an intense glare. Her eyes sizzled in the way of women who are cross-addicted and have given up their dance careers to live at home with disagreeable alcoholic husbands.

The savage style is, importantly, buttressed by substance (significant love of literature, endless wordplay, and allusory wit, ) and serves as a vehicle for what is, at its core, a serious, anguished examination of an artist’s eternal conundrum, and the terrors of our modern, rapid-change, increasingly digitized, and commodified existence.

While commenting on the doings of man, Unwin is implacable and scathing. His style softens, however, whenever his attention turns to the natural world — in particular when describing the iconic and inscrutable beauty of the north shore of Lake Superior.  He returns to familiar symbolic ground here, with a few sly references to earlier works (whistling, northern lights, and the beauty of trout streams, for example). To travel north, to Superior, in Unwin’s work,  is to experience a mystical transition from the quotidien, banal, and human, to the natural, elemental, mythic and eternal.  The point in the trip at which radio signals are lost and replaced with static delineates a portal of sorts. As Jack expresses it, he “drove grimly through the white hiss into the glory and the misery of being alive, or at least not dead.” The northern lights seem to function as harbingers or indicators of a life force, an energy (similar, perhaps to that considered in Don MacKay’s wonderful The Shell of the Tortoise) which I will dub “the natural divine,” and which is, perhaps, best accessed through the imagination, the subconscious, or, in Jack’s case, the semi-hypnotic state induced by solitary, late-night driving.  In one such case, Jack reminisces about a variety of artists of the literary persuasion gathered at the end of a week of mentoring youth in an arts camp, to drink and debrief. As Jack describes it, 

 Our work was done. We had done what artists do. We had thrown gasoline on the fire of young kids.  We made clever statements about the meaning of life and art etc. We dismissed semiotics and went into the mountains and acted foolishly. Now we sat on the deck beneath a serious display of northern lights drinking beer, all of us except for Roddy Trumbaugh who had sworn off drinking beer altogether after breaking two teeth and losing part of his right ear in an incident he couldn’t remember.

Such is the world of man.  The northern lights, however, alert us to the immanence of the sacred, and almost immediately,

the buck appeared and stood stone-still in the field. A towering fourteen-point rack sprouted from its head and a white tuft curled from its neck, giving the beast the look of a powerful mandarin. Clearly it had no interest in writers, artists, columnists, educators, and wind-bags of all stripes. Just standing there it surpassed anything we had ever done. All our “edgy accounts of life in the fast lane” could not compare with what was out there in that field in the unfathomable soul of that animal.

It stood motionless as the red strands of the northern lights swished across the universe, brushing its back with ionic tentacles and shooting up again. Someone whistled. The buck cocked an ear, not in our direction, but toward the trees. A white shiver of light shot straight down to the earth and illuminated the animal as it went from us without concern. It was gone; it had entered another dimension where we could not follow.

Semiotics, it seems, was nothe only thing dismissed.

At its heart, this tale is a reckoning — the story of the idealist’s struggle to come to terms with the disparity between one’s life goals and one’s actual accomplishments, one’s dreams and one’s reality — in short, a mid-life crisis — Jack’s long search for, re-examination of, and final poignant farewell to Petronius, its signposts.  Although Petronius Totem/Pete Tidecaster is believable as a character in and of himself, presented, of course, through a lens of satiric hyperbole, an argument can be made that he is also a fragment of Jack’s personality, his idealized, romanticized, self-image, the maintenance of which is growing increasingly untenable as he ages. Jack’s various portrayals of himself (although simultaneously self-aggrandizing and self-mocking) leave little doubt that he identifies with the Romantic hero (a là Byron et al)  and views domesticity as a primary threat to his freedom and potential as an artist. Life, in the form of Elaine, has presented Jack with an ultimatum — choose: your artistic idealism or your family. It is not insignificant, in an allegorical sort of way, that Elaine loathes Pete Tidecaster (who speaks naturally in iambic pentameter, and whose promotional picture is explicitly compared to Byron), and that it was a domestic crisis which resulted in Jack wandering, exhausted, through the foggy midnight streets of Hamilton, feeling the conflicting pulls of family and art. Having been rejected as inconsequential, even by the neighbourhood dogs, he has a quasi-mystical experience:

I moved on beneath a soft rain of ash, stopping only to sneeze.  When the sneeze was over, I saw it.

The sign.

The sign bearing the face of Petronius Totem.  My old friend was on a sign. More than a sign, he was on a honking big billboard.  There was that blatantly photogenic, plangent, clear-eyed face in a familiar pose. The pose was Thomas Phillips’ portrait of Lord Byron all over again, the one with the big eyes and the fat lips.

. . .

Not Pete Tidecaster, but the new faux classical celebrity golden-boy author’s nom de plume in lights and forty-foot letters. Petronius Totem™ had been born.

Not long after, Jack sets out in search of his old friend — now a “totem” — a revered symbol (as the billboard made clear) of the quintessential Romantic hero, and, there’s little doubt, Jack’s alter ego — pushed to the sidelines and threatened by the demands of middle age.  On his long drive through the wilds of Superior,  Jack comes to terms with his friend’s legacy, and, in fact, with himself — his youthful identity as a Romantic hero, and the true measure of his talent. It is Petronius’s  gentle observation, “You’re a good man, Jack. You’re not a great man. But you’re a good man.” that releases Jack from his idealism, allows him to honour it (“At least we tried.”) and then to refocus his energies on his family, knowing that he has not betrayed an ideal, but acknowledged a truth.  


If Searching For Petronius Totem was nothing more than a sustained, virtuosic scream at the world, it would still, in its own right, stand as a significant, and significantly entertaining, accomplishment. But, of course, it is much more. If one is too blinded by the flash, dazzle, and sheer audacity of the satire, and the wicked humour, it can take some time to register the searching sadness that underpins the writing, but the lament for lost things (youth, dreams, idealism, connections to nature, the Romantic ideal, the possibility of heroism, respect for the value of art) is keen and deep.  This dual quality of the writing, at once reverent and disdainful, provides insight into the core of Unwin’s concerns. It is a topic which, in certain respects, has occupied others, including Sheila Heti , and,  Jonathan Franzen who, in a recent absorbing piece by Taffy Brodesser-Akner in the New York Times, discusses, amongst many other things, the intricate balance an artist must try to maintain between self-doubt and self-confidence. The thin line, indeed the pivot point, upon which this balance is maintained (or not) is the psychic space of Unwin’s story.  It is, at one level, the story of an artist’s confrontation with his alter-ego, a struggle to come to terms with his talent and its limitations, to confront the heroes/demons/pretensions populating his youthful idealism, and to find the most meaningful focus for the time and energy remaining to him.  This age-old artistic conundrum, however, gains significance when it merges with the more timely struggle of how to know what is true in general — a task growing rapidly more pertinent and difficult in the maelstrom of exponential technological change in which we find ourselves (remember the robo-pizza!).  Consider this take-down of modern material coolness, levelled by the sharp-tongued Petronius, as he attempts to bolster Jack’s flagging faith in himself:

All they [non-artist males] do is walk around in suits, talk on cell-phones, order sushi, flip real-estate, and update their Facebook pages. That’s it, Jack. You’re not like that. You’re down-to-earth, man. Earthy. Are you kidding? Women are crazy about that. They kill for earthy. Just wait till they find out you wrote The Fly That Would Not Die For Love But Did Anyway.

What, exactly, is being mocked here? What begins as a take-down of shallow materialism in favour of an artistic ideal, is immediately devalued by the suggested motivation for the idealism.  This is a small example of Unwin playing both sides of the knife-edge — a repeating pattern throughout the story, involving ideas large and small.

In what or whom should one believe? — Jack Vesoovian, latent literary genius or  “pathetic skirt-chasing middle-aged white male with a drinking/drug problem who couldn’t see past his masculine privilege”? Pete Tidecaster, vapid poseur, glibly manipulating a fledgling Canadian culture’s susceptibility to pretension, or, Petronius Totem, a brave and admirable survivor and defender of art for art’s sake, a technological mastermind who engineers his own brilliant escape into cyberspace, or a pathetic drunk, gone to ground in a mouldy motel room, a tinfoil pie plate strapped to his head;  a devious plot to commodify and monetize existence, or a brave new technological utopia; bloodless technocrats who insist that all value can be commodified or creative zealots, scornful of any practicality? At what point does the ideal become ridiculous, techno-anxiety become paranoia, belief in oneself become a delusion?  On a different level, therefore, the story is a dialectic between cherished ideals and reality, between confident identity and self-delusion, between, ultimately, the sacred (that which is worthy of dedication and sacrifice) and the profane (that which is not) and, in this rollicking absurdist satire, Unwin has found the perfect vehicle with which to present it. 

Unwin’s writing has been preoccupied for some time with the tension between one’s aspirations and one’s abilities, one’s ideals and one’s limitations, potential, performance, regrets and reward — a recurrent theme in Life Without Death.  In this latest effort, the conversation reaches a crescendo — at once furious, outrageous, incisive, and rib-crackingly funny, and existing, brilliantly, at the intersection of very current cultural and personal issues.  One has concerns, of course, for the fate of this work in the current climate of fragile sensibilities and the tyranny of taking offense, but regardless of its reception, it stands as a significant piece of writing. Although Petronius’s amicable integration into Jack’s mature self seems to signal a resolution of sorts, one can’t help but hope, for purely selfish reasons, that Unwin’s own artistic endeavours continue full force.

*likely an allusion to the James Frey A Million Little Pieces controversy
















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Kowalski, William: The Best Polish Restaurant in Buffalo

Best Polish Restaurant KowalskiKowalski, William
The Best Polish Restaurant in Buffalo
Orchard Street Press, 2017
Softcover, 193 pages

I first reviewed a novel by transplanted American (now Canadian) novelist, screenwriter, locavore and pickle-maker extraordinaire,  William Kowalski, in 2013 — his wonderful The Hundred Hearts — and noted, at the time, that its dissection of the heart of the American dream was apropos, considering the times. Now that American political life has descended into a circus that daily outdoes all attempts at parody, it is, perhaps, fitting that some parallels can be drawn between Kowalski’s latest literary effort and an obituary.  Lest this observation seem discouragingly dire, let me rush to assure readers that all the elements for which Kowalski has been praised in the past by others — “unflappable good nature,” “gentle pacing,”  and myself — clear-sighted empathy,  and humour — can be found in The Best Polish Restaurant in Buffalo. 

The organizational framework for the novel  juxtaposes two stories — that of Aniela, the beginning of everything, and of Iggy who presides, funereally, over its end.  In 1908, as a young peasant girl of sixteen, Aniela, the eventual revered matriarch of the Podbielski restaurant dynasty, fleeing both Prussian and patriarchal oppression, immigrates to America with her mother Sofia and two sisters, Jadwiga and Catharina.  Although little effort is spared by Kowalski to  impart the horrors and stench of a steerage class transatlantic passage at the dawn of the 20th century, in the end it turns out to have been worth it. The women’s risky bid to escape their bleak present was providentially timed as it also allowed them to avoid the even bleaker future which unfolded in Poland during the First World War. Their early experiences as newcomers to the land of the free are prototypical. Having landed in the Black Rock area of Buffalo (a bit of a Polish enclave) for these simple peasants every day presents an exponentially steep learning curve and they teeter continuously on the brink of novelty overload, astounded by such marvels as electric lights, laundry machines, and horseless carriages. As Aniela notes,

It wouldn’t have surprised her a bit to look out the window and see ladies’ dresses and men’s suits taking themselves for a walk, with no people inside them That was the kind of thing you came to expect in Ameryka.

By dint of hard work, cooperation and resilience (i.e the requisite input) the women begin to flourish in their new home, acquiring a financial security unimaginable back in the old country. Despite early discouraging experience with males, Aniela (eventually anglicized to Angela) marries Jan Podbielski, a sweet, smart, up-and-comer, and her future as the wife of a grocery magnate seems assured.  However, after only five years of happy marriage, Aniela, mother of a four-year-old daughter and pregnant with her second child, suddenly finds herself widowed when Jan dies unexpectedly of an aneurysm. Thus her legend has its real beginning, as, true to the ideal, Aniela, with the help of her sisters and a lot of backbreaking work, prevails in the face of withering odds — managing to raise her children on her own, working first cleaning houses, and later, opening, along with her sisters, a bakery.  The bakery is a huge success, due, not in small part, to the fact that its sourdough bread is made from a “mother” or starter, which Sofia managed to keep alive on the long ago voyage from the motherland, as it were.  Members of the large Polish population in the neighbourhood find this living link with the old country irresistible, and eventually, on the strength of this popularity, Aniela opens the titular restaurant, a solid, no-nonsense-Polish-country-food kind of eatery, which quickly becomes the gravitational centre of the Polish community, and known as the best Polish restaurant in Buffalo, providing a good living for four generations of Podbielskis.

We first meet the forty-five-year-old Ignatz Podbielski, (Iggy for short) Aniela’s great grandson, in the fall of 2015, standing in a parking lot, staring unprepossessingly at his equally unprepossessing restaurant.  A stubborn anachronism which refused to evolve, Angela’s restaurant’s glory days are now a distant memory — as are Iggy’s. Nominally a family-owned enterprise, Angela’s has, for quite some time, existed solely as a result of Iggy’s unimaginative but unwavering devotion to the idea  and ideals of the restaurant and of his heroic great grandmother, a portrait of whom still presides. Having had the bad luck of being handed the reins from his father just as the business started to wane, the result, in large part, of the inevitable succession inherent in any immigrant story — a gradual die-off of its natural clientele — homesick (but thrifty) Polish immigrants in search of a decent (and, of course, reasonably priced) old-fashioned Polish meal,  Iggy finds himself presiding over the last days of the Podbielski empire, a time when simple adherence to the values of hard work and reliability no longer functions as a business model.  Dogged, stalwart, and simple in his beliefs, Iggy is a low-key kind of guy — the sort that can leave his wife without her noticing — and thus it comes as little surprise that he is unable to ignite a sense of history and purpose in his disinterested extended family and the decision to sell the restaurant is made — demolition and redevelopment of the site its inevitable fate. In the three days prior to the closure of the sale, Iggy has time to reflect on the arc of the restaurant’s story, to deliver, in effect, an eulogy for Angela’s, and the energy, work, and beliefs that made it possible — a sombre Puck, as the curtains close on this particular American dream.

As noted earlier, the hallmark strengths of Kowalski’s writing are all present in this work — gentle, warm, compassionate, and humorous appreciation of the ordinary life, the celebration of a good story simply told and of the courage and dignity at work in what might otherwise be considered unremarkable lives.  This is, once again, apparent in his rendition of Iggy — a character reminiscent of Jeremy Merkin in The Hundred Hearts — a seemingly hapless schmuck, doggedly courting disdain in a world of endless self-promotion, and illusory reinvention, who quietly delivers a master class in integrity and dignity.  From one perspective, Iggy’s last day at work at the restaurant could not be more pathetic. He stubbornly insists on prepping the evening’s offering, and remaining at his post as host, maintaining rigid standards of hospitality, even though it is reasonably certain no guests will arrive. When, to his initial delight, a group of well-dressed business types do appear, it is not to eat but to inspect their new acquisition, and Iggy comes to understand that the buyer of the restaurant is, in fact, his wife’s lover. His humiliation, it seems, is complete. However, Iggy, rather magnificently, turns the tables on his disdainful guests. Ignatz Podbielski may be going down, but he provides, in the process, a virtuosic demonstration of the art of losing well. and, in the end, it is not he who is left with vague intuitions of an inadequate belief system and intimations of Mordor.

The characterization of Aniela, the Podbielski matriarch, and flag bearer for the immigrant dream of America, is somewhat less successful, and illustrates, perhaps, some of the dangers inherent in any attempt to fictionalize a revered family legend — the trademark Kowalksi “honeyed glow” teeters on the brink of sentimentality, and although hints of a deeper self do occasionally shine through, overall, the depiction of Aniela suffers from an excess of reverence. One can make the argument that this is fitting, representing, as she does, the triumph of the immigrant dream, an icon from an age when this dream was still pure and attainable,  a sort of personal family Statue of Liberty.  An icon’s strength, of course, comes from its surface beauty, and the faith and ideals it represents, and it is perhaps, simply rude, and somewhat misses the point,  to scratch the surface to peer at the plaster beneath. That being said, as a reader, one wishes to have known Aniela more deeply.

Beyond the obvious examination of the beginning and end of one immigrant family’s American dream, the homage to the possibilities America once offered, and the spirit, energy, and determination that were required to realize those possibilities, it is the overall atmosphere of the story which suggests the comparison to a funeral. An air of elegy, of quiet resignation and relinquishment, centred in the character of Iggy, pervades these pages — the sort of respectful sadness one feels in the presence of a once great but now fading hero. Respect, of course, is due, and must be paid, but, like an idea whose time is up, like a story which has run its course, like Angela’s restaurant, the American dream, as it once was, Kowalski seems to be saying, is dead. For the time being, the villains (or clowns, or, perhaps, villainous clowns) may have control of the plot, the energy, purpose, and possibility drained from the dream and its inhabitants, and pandemonium (in the original sense of the word) reigns.  For the time being? In a mischievous nod to the infinite potential of life and the power of the human spirit, Kowalski inserts an element of regeneration into this death notice — breaking the sourdough mother out of the closet in which it had been imprisoned throughout the period of the restaurant’s decline (tended only by the aging cook) and bearing it into the future in Iggy’s arms.  One suspects there may be something righteous yet bubbling in that cauldron.












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Casper, Claudia: The Mercy Journals


Casper, Claudia
The Mercy Journals
Arsenal Pulp Press, 2016
Softcover, 231 pages

Claudia Casper is a Vancouver writer, who, over the last twenty years or so, has been making a name for herself with a series of well-regarded novels beginning with The Reconstruction (1996) followed by The Continuation of Love By Other Means (2003) and culminating (thus far) with her 2016 meditation on post-climate-change-induced- apocalypse life, The Mercy Journals.  Born in Toronto, an only child, the complexity of her familial situation eventually grew to encompass ten half-siblings, an observation which might be without significance for this post were it not for the psychological acuity  with which her characters are portrayed. (More about this later.) One suspects that this facility may have been honed in the trenches.

The organizing framework of the story, as the title suggests, is a series of journal entries made over a period of approximately 2 months during the spring of 2047 by the protagonist Allen Levy Quincy.  However, as we are informed at the outset, the journals were not discovered until 2072, twenty-five years after the last entry, and so, a complex chronology is proposed.  The overarching perspective is of a reader, who, by the dictates of time and space, must exist in a post-2072 future, presented with a narrative, which within the confines of the story is long since past, but in real time, actually represents a real reader’s near future.  Although this complexity demands some focus, and is, indeed, occasionally disorienting, it does provide an atmospheric distance, forcing the perspective above quotidian concerns and beyond individual lives: whatever the outcome, it has long since been decided.  One can’t help but speculate that this stance may reflect (consciously or otherwise) the recent turn in the climate-change narrative, the finality with which the scientific community has now declared that whatever the outcome, the advent of critical climate change has been long since decided — a shocking thought for a culture for whom all things (and in particular anti-climate change efforts) have been treated as endlessly negotiable.

The details of the demise of life as we know it and the establishment of Allen’s “post nation state world”  are delivered efficiently, sparingly, and without fanfare. The crisis itself is not the focus of this story.  Suffice to say that a chillingly familiar litany of premonitory events (rising oceans, drought, fires, new viruses, political instability, wars, failing economies) and the equally familiar inadequacy of the political response, led to the great “die off,” — “three and a half to four billion people, dead of starvation, thirst, illness, and war, all because of a change in the weather.” It was, as Allen explains, not so much the big things, that, in the end, precipitated the collapse. Progress was made in many of the areas that loom in the popular imagination as key climate change issues — fossil fuel extraction and use, airplane emissions, deforestation, and the acidification of oceans. However, as is true in any complex system whose remarkable built-in reserves of function have been exhausted, once the tipping point is reached, the inter-dependency of all components becomes glaringly apparent, and a cascading array of critical failures can be initiated by a minute alteration in any one of an almost infinite number of factors.  Thus, as Allen chronicles, an overwhelmed international governing body  found that “the small things got away from them” — plankton, bacteria, viruses, disruption of critical biochemical processes in the soil and food chain — all leading to  “nation-states collaps[ing] almost as fast as species became extinct,” and in an historical blink of an eye, the dominion of humans was over.

Returning to the essentials of the story, as mentioned earlier, we first meet the 58-year-old Allen Levy Quincy, in extremis, the first journal entry (March 9, 2047) a will of sorts, in which he enumerates the physical accoutrements of his spartan, post-apocalyptic existence in Canton #3 (formerly Seattle) although no beneficiaries are named. Sober for 18 years, he has recently returned to heavy drinking and is experiencing a death wish which materializes in the form of hallucinatory party worms, who beseech him to join them.  He has taken up journal writing in an attempt to re-stabilize. In his world, life is grey, its possibilities severely curtailed, the sunshine dangerous, food and heat scarce, travel difficult, energy consumption severely rationed and strictly regulated. A one child per couple reproductive sanction is in place. Angry mobs (climate vigilantes) have been known to inflict murderous justice on anyone found violating survival protocols laid out by the One World emergency global governing body. Spending is prioritized to provide essential health care and food to “as many people as possible,” and scientific research is restricted to that which impacts immediate survival. Allen, a Royal Military College of Kingston alumnus, and veteran of the conflict in Afghanistan, served in Mexico as political unrest intensified and conflict over water resources escalated. Eerily, the Mexican “wall” is imagined pre-Donald Trump.  Allen has seen things no man should and fallout from his PTSD has cost him his marriage. When we first meet him he is essentially alone, his ex-wife dead of a new hanta virus variant, and two grown sons scattered, whereabouts unknown.  In a passably effective attempt to alleviate his psychological distress, Allen has shut down emotionally and created a minimalist life for himself, “a kind of monk’s existence minus the religion.” He works a menial job as a parking attendant, lives alone, focuses on remaining sober and experiencing the simple physical details of his life, his one extravagance a pair of pet goldfish.   As he explains it,

I shrank my life to an existence so small nothing important could penetrate.

Having worked so hard to establish this uneasy equilibrium, Allen finds it quickly torn asunder by the entry into his life of two powerful but opposing forces:  Ruby Blades, of the scarlet sandals, a new and at first glance, unlikely love interest, and his younger brother Leo.  Together, they are about to move his story forward. As her name, the colour of her shoes and her appetites suggest, Ruby is a force of nature and will preside over Allen’s gradual emotional re-awakening, his coming to terms with his past, and his re-engagement with life.  Leo, on the other hand, is an essentially negative force — a narcissistic, egocentric super-consumer, an enthusiastic proponent of the high-rolling habits and attitudes which contributed so significantly to the crisis.  He chafes mightily under his new, restricted lifestyle and finds no value in the idea of individual sacrifice for the greater good.  From this point on, Allen’s actions will be primarily guided by the generative aspects of Ruby’s influence, or the need to resist Leo’s destructiveness.

As a result of Ruby’s influence, and his brother’s prodding, Allen, in the company of Leo, and Leo’s stepson Griffin, attempts a return to the family cabin, far north on what was once Vancouver Island, Canada, partly in the hopes that he might find his sons there.  Journal #2, began in late April, 2047, deals with this quest to return to an Eden of sorts, and its repercussions. We rejoin Allen as he clings precariously to life after having been attacked by a cougar. This brutal encounter with nature has a profound effect as he experiences (possibly as a result of incipient infection) a mystical communion of sorts and, rather counter-intuitively, develops a protective fixation on the animal.  Eventually reaching the cabin, the party discovers it inhabited, not by Allen’s sons but by the young and pregnant Parker Leclerc. The four settle in to attempt to homestead and enjoy a somewhat uneasy survivalist idyll. There is trouble in paradise, however, as the mental landscape remains precarious, with Allen pursuing interactions with the cougar, and Leo seemingly increasingly unhinged, his egocentricity and law of the jungle mentality the death knell for communal life.  The conflicts eventually escalate to an hallucinatory, climactic scene in which Allen murders his brother, and then, abandoning Parker and Griffin to their newly cleansed Eden, attempts a return to his canton and Ruby.

Although I am informed by people who know that quibbles can be had with the details of the downfall of the capitalist industrial complex as depicted in the story, the overall scenario is at least convincingly plausible. Plausible enough, and familiar enough, to establish a tone of unsettling imminence and dread in the minds of readers. As mentioned earlier, the focus of the story is not the horror (or spectacle) of the collapse, but an exploration of cause, perhaps buried deep in the human psyche, and the possibility of some way forward, into the ever after. With these thoughts in mind, there is much to admire in Casper’s writing. A particular strength is the compelling veracity with which she depicts personality through dialogue and observation.  Her characters are utterly believable, and interact in utterly believable ways. Dialogue flows naturally from character. The relationship between the brothers, Allen and Leo, is particularly insightful, and while, in the end, they come to represent archetypal characters, at no point do they lose their intense and particular humanity. Harking back to her own complex family situation, one can intuit that she has been a keen and astute observer of intricate human interactions, and this serves her well in her writing.  The representations, as well, of hallucinatory experiences (which can so easily go awry) are psychologically adroit, and handled with convincing technical aplomb.

Leo’s abrupt arrival in Allen’s life illuminates a deep sibling rivalry which has existed between the brothers  since childhood, a conflict whose origins were situated, Allen believes, in an early family tragedy, in real or perceived parental favouritism, and which has evolved into visceral resentment on Leo’s part.  It renders their dialogue taut with subliminal tensions as their emotional meters flicker erratically across the love/hate interface. The brothers are almost symmetrically opposed in their habits and sensibilities:  Allen stoic, self-sacrificing, monkish, and Leo hedonistic, narcissistic, self-serving and extravagant. As Allen says, “Leo was not someone I would have ever known if he wasn’t my brother.”  Their first interaction in the story, in which Leo is discovered subverting environmental laws to his benefit requiring Allen to save him from an angry mob, is typical of their relationship — Leo’s egocentrism forcing Allen into conflict over loyalties — save his brother, or save the planet? Although Allen acknowledges the power of the blood connection, his distrust of his brother’s innately  opportunistic nature runs deep, and his understanding of the destructive, irrational nature of Leo’s resentment is clear-sighted.   In a sense, Leo is Allen’s evil twin, society’s shadow self, entitlement juxtaposed with Allen’s sacrifice, the true significance of which only becomes apparent in the second part of this tale (Journal #2) as the story seeks to transcend individual lives and resonate on a more fundamental, archetypal level.

For those readers alert to literary nuances, the quest by Allen and Leo to return to the wilderness of their childhood reverberates with Eden-like associations, complete with a new Adam and Eve of sorts (Griffin and Parker) and ideals about a life lived in harmony with the natural world.  “Nirvana,” the name of their childhood sanctuary, encourages a widening of conceptual parameters to include Eastern thought, and possibly Jungian psychology and the idea of archetypal reckonings. In any case, as the quest for Nirvana and the shift, in Journal #2, of the narrative away from the city and the ways of man to the wilderness make obvious, the story is now centred in a mythic or psychological domain .

It also becomes obvious that Casper has gone to considerable trouble to set up the allegorical roles which Allen and Leo will assume, and to narrow the mythic focus to the old testament story of Cain and Abel. The deliberate parallels to the biblical story found in Allen and Leo’s relationship are the keys to the true nature of this tale and a source of hope for the reader which might otherwise seem to be absent.  Allusions to the story of Cain and Abel, and of the world’s first experience of sibling rivalry and murder, increase in the second journal.  A longstanding chill between the brothers arising from Leo’s belief that their parents favoured Allen, sets up a general parallel which is reinforced with multiple references to Allen as the good brother (Abel) and Leo, the jealous, self-centred one (Cain). This general correspondence is made explicit in an exchange between Allen and Leo, as Allen prods his younger brother about his intentions:

What are you up to Leo?                                                                                                        Up to?                                                                                                                                        Hey I’m your brother. Something’s going on.                                                                   But are you my keeper?

— an obvious echo of Cain’s testy rejoinder to God on being questioned regarding his brother’s whereabouts:

       I know not. Am I my brother’s keeper? (King James Bible Gen. 4.9)  

If any further evidence is required, it is noteworthy that Allen, in the final climactic fraternal confrontation, references the biblical mark of Cain, when he recounts seeing “a mark across his [Leo’s] temple” and, later, after having dispatched his brother, leaves us with the final words, “I am marked, but I have survived.”      

Having deduced a clear and deliberate parallel between the old testament account of Cain and Abel and Casper’s story of the Quincy brothers, the reader is left with the task of interpreting the reversal of the brother’s roles.  In the biblical story, both brothers offered a sacrifice to God, and God favoured Abel’s offering. Cain, in a fit of jealous resentment kills Abel, thus committing the first murder and ushering evil into the world. However, in The Mercy Journals, it is Allen (the good brother) who, in order to protect Parker and Griffin, and, by extension, the new Eden, kills Leo (the evil sibling). As suggested earlier, one can interpret Leo as Allen’s evil twin. In fact, when Allen asks the universe for a sign to indicate he should not kill his brother, he refers to this act as “a wager made in a mirror (…) — twins winking.” In a larger sense, the two brothers represent the light and dark of human nature, the self and shadow of society.  From this perspective, Allen’s murder of Leo is a triumph of light over dark, a renunciation and conquest of the materially greedy, self-interested, planet-destroying elements of our human natures.  It is not insignificant that, according to the terms of their parents’ will, assets were to be divided evenly, but, should irreconcilable differences between the brothers arise, Leo was to receive the material effects while Allen inherited the land. Destruction of the planet would seem to qualify as an irreconcilable difference, and Allen’s murder of  Leo can be interpreted as the defeat of materialistic consumerism so necessary for the salvation of the natural world.

There is considerable support for this allegorical interpretation in the story itself.  Allen’s enhanced role is hinted at early when he admits to having a sense that he is alive for a reason, and that, perhaps, fate has chosen him for a specific purpose. This idea, though, is so deftly anchored in the more mundane probabilities of PTSD delusion or related psychosis that it is only in retrospect that one recognizes its premonitory aspect. However, as Allen prepares to confront his brother, there is also reference to “wrestling titans, frozen in time,” and later, in a nice bit of pathetic fallacy, as the final confrontation looms, and as the wind “pushes” Allen towards his sibling, the elemental nature of the conflict is mirrored in the landscape.

Wind blasted across the field and grabbed the trees on the edges and shook them, making their tops fly back and forth like the heads of children being shaken to death.

The clincher, so to speak, arrives as Allen admits to planning Leo’s demise, musing that he will

Murder murder with murder

in other words, reverse the first evil of the world — consuming greed and self-interest, personified in Leo/Cain — by destroying it. As Allen notes, as a result of his confrontation with his dark twin, he was marked, but he survived. So may we all.








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Barwin, Gary: Yiddish for Pirates

Yiddish for PiratesBarwin, Gary
Yiddish for Pirates
Random House Canada, 2016
337 pages

For someone who considers herself at least somewhat versed in the Canadian writing and arts scene, I am mystified as to how it could be that I had not previously known of Gary Barwin. A veritable polyglottal polymath, both a poet and a one-man band, an uber-menschian everyman, his curriculum vitae includes a PhD in music composition, other and various degrees in education, creative writing, English and the fine arts, a command of at least three languages, multi-level teaching experience, including work with at-risk street youth, and writer-in-residencies at Western University and the London Public Library. In his spare time, it seems, he freelances as a writer and editor, creative writing workshop leader, and music and literary festival performer.  Described elsewhere as a “multifarious experimental scribe and noted small-press denizen,” he is also a writer of critically recognized children’s books and volumes of poetry.

The central premise of this, his latest oeuvre — that a 500-year-old, multilingual parrot, who may or may not have been splashed  by the eternal-life-giving waters of the fountain of youth, has deigned to entertain you with the tale of his most significant other, Moishe, (an expatriate Lithuanian Jew, turned pirate, on the run from the Spanish Inquisition) and their riotous adventures plying the Ocean Sea and beyond — may or may not intrigue you, depending on your relationship with the rational. I have chosen to be charmed.  To be more precise, I had no choice.

                                       There’s no greater ache than an untold story…   

If, as Aaron the parrot (apparently versed in Angelou) opines, “there’s no greater ache than an untold story,” then he must have been one sore bird. The adventures of pirate and parrot that spill from his articulate beak are almost endless and endlessly varied.  In fact, the word “story”cannot quite contain the contents of the book — imagine that proverbial sack of  weasels with the word “STORY” imprinted across its front. Now add the cartoon action — frantic squirms and wiggles and bulges and shrieks, the occasional tooth or claw piercing the fabric. Now you have some idea of the relationship between this Barwin opus and the general idea of “a story.”

But, to begin at the beginning;

Fin-de-siecle Europe (fin de 15th siecle, to be precise) was a dangerous, turbulent time, particularly if you were Jewish or a resident of what was about to be labelled the new world.  The Spanish Inquisition was in full swing, and the murderous and acquisitive Ferdinand and  Isabella of Spain were busy expanding their horizons in search of new lands to plunder whilst, simultaneously, aided by the insane Torquemada,  inquiring into the religious sensibilities of their subjects. Those deemed insufficiently christian were purged in ways that seem, in hindsight, even considering the tenor of the times, remarkably unchristian.

Those alert to such details will immediately note the enchanted quality of Moishe’s beginnings  — a hint, perhaps, of his destiny.  Raped in the midst of a pogrom, his young mother died shortly after childbirth, the baby thrown into a river, only to be rescued by a young Jewess.  Named “Moishe,” or “Moses” meaning “he who is drawn from water,” the biblical parallels for his beginnings are obvious. And, indeed, many of his early adventures involve him pushing, pulling, and floating his people towards a promised land. With a head full of ideas too big for his tiny shtetl in Vilnius, Lithuania, the fourteen-year-old Moishe runs away with dreams of exploring the world, taking with him only a few necessities, two silver coins, and a mysterious book he found hidden in his parents’ bedroom.  Finding work on a ship sailing to Portugal, Moishe meets his lifetime companion and voice, a multilingual African grey parrot he names Aaron (biblically, the brother of Moses, and his spokesperson, or in this case, spokesbird). Initially handicapped by his limited ability with language  (basic Yiddish only) Moishe is, early on in their adventures in Portugal and Spain, entirely dependent on Aaron, whose excellent command of both Yiddish and Spanish allows them safe passage through many tricky situations in which it was best not to be identified as Jewish. In this way, Aaron does speak for Moishe, as he does again when he tells us his story.

Moishe’s wanderlust has led him, somewhat inadvertently, into perhaps the most dangerous situation he might find himself at the time — a young, unprotected Jewish boy,  wandering through Spain and Portugal at the height of the Inquisition’s insanity. He quickly becomes embroiled in an effort to save a small band of Jews and their precious, ancient books, in the process falling in life-long love with Sarah, one member of this band. Betrayed by his ship’s captain, witness to the grisly extremes of the Inquisition, cruelly separated from his newfound love, a victim of theft and of violence,  Moishe, the little dreamer, is soon taught a thing or two about pain, grief, power and human nature by the world he had been so anxious to explore.

During one of their many and varied adventures at sea, Moishe and Aaron cross paths with Christopher Columbus, here a bumbling quixotic character who wafts in and out of the story from this point on, and, ultimately, is responsible for Moishe and Aaron’s further adventures in the New World, as they accompany him on his quest, in 1492, to find a westerly sea route to China. Unimpressed, as a result of his experiences, with the “civilized,” world, Moishe, is, very soon, disabused of the notion that goodness might be a matter of geography, or that he can leave greed, cruelty, and injustice behind in the old world. Appalled by atrocities committed by the Spanish against the native Bahamian population, and hopelessly separated from his one true love, he rejects civilization outright, and becomes a pirate.

Moishe and Aaron’s final great adventure begins when Moishe decides that, since they are in the neighbourhood anyway, they should try to locate the fabled fountain of youth. Success in this venture, it seems, requires the acquisition of five secret and mysterious books, allusions to which have popped up throughout the story, and much convoluted adventuring results from the attempt to do so.   Are they successful?  I won’t give it away, but some insight may be gained from the fact that Aaron, self-proclaimed inseparable companion to Moishe,  is left, five hundred years later, to tell the story.

Considering the most enticing topics for discussion in a review of this book, one is confounded by an embarrassment of riches — the wondrous verve and exuberance of the  language, the many and varied literary, cultural and pop cultural allusions and enticing biblical, talmudic, and alchemical references and their possible significance, the examination of otherness, the significance of the sea, the wry and world-weary humour, the meditation on the importance of story… I could go on.

Let’s start with the language. As the title implies, Barwin makes ample use of Yiddish in the book, and the text is peppered with Yiddish expressions, some translated, some not. I must say, there is something particularly infectious about Yiddish and one side-effect of reading the story may be that your own speech becomes, as mine has, colonized with these idioms, to the mystification of your family and friends. Barwin has noted elsewhere “There’s something really energizing about an admixture of languages in one sentence. It’s a vibrant polyphonic or polyrhythmic music. A lively dialogue.” Indeed it is! Pursuing the musical reference, beyond the multilingual aspects of the writing, the next quality of note is the rhythm — sentences that careen across the page with unstoppable momentum, beats that cannot be denied.  Add, now, a razor-sharp ability to capture the  essence of a thing in a few choice words, and a grand, rule-shaming, lexicographical derring-do, and you’ve got — well, what you’ve got is a very beguiling mix. Consider, for example, Aaron’s first impressions upon entering the great Spanish church, the Catedral de Sevilla:

Even the dried-out beef-jerky soul of an alter kaker parrot became dazed by the intoxicating lotus-scented pong of Mother Church in such a Xanadu of thurible-fumed fantasmagoria.

I anticipate little push-back when I note that writing a  sentence like that requires chutzpah.

Further consider this description of an encounter in a pub:

Columbus had already called for food and drink from the barmaid who, it seemed, had been sewn together some time ago from old leather and duck meat.

To the exuberance and humour, we can add moments of admirable precision, depth, and compression, as when the social elites are described as being “buoyed by the jewelled palanquin of privilege,” (the longer one allows that image to inhabit one’s imagination, the more apt it becomes) or the quick sketch of the enormous and powerful draft horses of the wealthy  “dressed in silks and resembling cantering four-poster beds.”

The predominant tone of the work is one of a tongue-in-cheek, swashbuckling good yarn, a sailor’s jig of a story, full of the self-deprecating and ironic humour of the oppressed. However, when Aaron, in his preliminary remarks, suggests to a young boy that he “bench [his] fat little oysgepasheter Cape Horn tuches down on that chair and listen to my beaking,”  he has far more than a slapstick tale of adventure to tell. Barwin is going after life here, the whole story, in all its glory, ugliness and pain, and uses the innocence and humour of the pirate adventure trope to pull unwitting readers closer to the heart of life’s tragedy and grief than might otherwise be possible. You’ve been warned. One minute one is rollicking along on the horns of a fine and funny adventure, secure in the belief that one’s hero must, for stylistic and genre-related purposes, prevail, and before one knows it, or can mount any kind of emotional defense, one finds one has been rollicked right into the middle of, for example, an execution scene from the Spanish Inquisition, where with a slight uptick in tension and contrast, slapdash slapstick turns macabre and lunatic, from madcap to simply mad. Barwin has a fine sense of the limits of his readers’ capacity for the terrors and horrors of human history and before things get too sobering — slap, dash, a good joke, and, if necessary, a little deus et machina, and one is whisked off to the next adventure. The near-brush with the dark-side, however, leaves a slow-fading after- image, a sombre counter-point to all the kibbitzing, and thus the story acquires a depth and poignancy that transcends its style.

Books, and the function and importance of story are ideas which infuse the work. The five mysterious volumes, which, purportedly, hold the key to the location of the fountain of youth, and thus eternal life, can clearly be associated with the Pentateuch of the Old Testament and Torah.  They, along with the five section titles of the novel, Air, Fire, Water, Land, and Quintessence, trail enticing alchemical, and kabbalistic associations, which are sadly, mostly beyond my ken. However, even the uninitiated can divine that an examination of the nature of existence, and the meaning of life, may lie at the heart of this work. Throughout, the primacy of the story prevails, and, indeed, ample suggestions are given that an understanding of story is the key to life everlasting.  Very early in the tale, Moishe’s adoptive father explains to his son that “The world (…) was a book. A great scroll. Like the Torah, when it ended, it began again.” He proceeds, more specifically, to point out that, “At the end of the story, the story begins again and so we live forever.” The key, purportedly, to the location of the fountain of youth lies within the ancient books — and, remembering that it is stories that inhabit books,  perhaps the interpretation of this is meant to be more literal than the seekers suspect. Remember, as well, that Moishe has come to life in our imaginations (and in that of Aaron’s young fictional audience) because Aaron tells us his story. Further developing this idea of the story, the book is populated with more or less subtle allusions to many other great stories.  Beyond the obvious biblical and talmudic references, one can find the voices of Homer, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Joseph Conrad, Huxley, Wilde, Angelou, and Leonard Cohen (and no doubt many others) singing within these pages. The overall effect is the sense that all our great stories are connected in a manner reminiscent of some of Northrop Frye’s ideas about an educated imagination, and alive and well in the world, retelling themselves, infinitely, in large and small ways.

This writing bridges the usual divide that exists between levels of life and thought — the philosophical (the meaning and nature of existence) the imaginative life of the mind (stories of identity and quest) and the far muckier absurdity of everyday life.  It manages to exist in all three simultaneously, and with relish. Above all, it is a great, joyful celebration of our human capacity for story, and the magnificent collection we have amassed thus far.


Some further resources:

A brief Yiddish glossary provided by the author on his serifofnottingham blog
(Apparently a complete glossary is planned at a later date.)

Barwin, Gary. Pirate stories, Shalom Village, memory and Yiddish. Hamilton Jewish News. April 2016.












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Wiebe, Rudy: Come Back

WiebeWiebe, Rudy
Come Back
Knopf Canada, 2014
HC 268 pages

Western Canadian writer Rudy Wiebe’s latest novel, Come Back is a searing, psychologically rich cri de coeur — an elderly father’s confused, enraged, heartbroken appeal to the universe to find some meaning in his young son’s suicide, and finally, and belatedly, an attempt to address his own sense of inadequacy, its role in the 25-year old tragedy, the accompanying guilt, and to find some peace.

Hal (Helmut) Wiens is, in fact, a character from Wiebe’s first novel, Peace Shall Destroy Many, an 8-year-old Mennonite boy in that story, but now a 75-year-old retired university English professor, living in Edmonton, Alberta.  His Mennonite upbringing is still a strong influence in his life, and in the story — from the numerous references to Low German, the oral language of his childhood, the deep familiarity with scripture, and the close-knit family structure, to a certain reserved hardiness. Hal has, 7 months ago, lost his beloved wife of 50 years, Yolanda. His grown children, a son (Dennis) and daughter (Miriam) are devoted but separated geographically — one in Toronto and one in Vancouver — with families of their own. Although bereft, Hal seems to be coping, taking refuge in routine structure and, especially, in daily visits to the local coffee shop, the Double Cup, where he enjoys observing the “passing show” of the world outside, and the company of his friend Owl, an indigent Dene man whose opinions and insights Hal has come to respect and value.  Presaged by an unusual gathering of four ravens nearby, which, as Owl observes, is “no joke,” and an image of children vanishing from Hal’s sight along the street, this rickety veil of normalcy is ripped asunder one sunny day in late April when Hal catches a glimpse, through the coffee shop widow, of a tall young man  wearing a bright orange down-filled jacket.  Exploding into the street in excitement and anguish, he races through an intersection, leaving traffic carnage in his wake, in pursuit of the apparition, shouting the name “Gabriel,” but, to his despair, loses the man in the crowds.  Described in short, rapid fire sequences, mayhem erupting on all sides,  his breathless desperation pathetic in the truest sense of the word, this scene reveals Hal’s emotional and physical frailty, and engages the reader in his psychic trauma with remarkable force. The intensity of his reaction leaves little doubt that his relationship with this Gabriel is fraught, and one must radically readjust one’s expectations of the story from, perhaps, a meditation on grief and loss in respect to Yolanda, to an inquiry into this new mystery — one which only deepens and acquires ominous undertones, shortly thereafter, when it is revealed that Gabriel, the man glimpsed in the streets, is a second, long-dead son who, as a young man in his twenties, 25 years earlier, committed suicide at the family cottage.

It is a testament to Wiebe’s skill as a writer that he manages to build so much empathy for Hal within the first twenty or so pages that one now feels a real sense of  dread for his well-being.  The most logical explanation of the events is that grief over the loss of his spouse has unhinged him, that he is experiencing some sort of psychic breakdown, or that dementia has set in.  The presence of Owl however (who, as becomes apparent, represents an element of native spirituality and wisdom) and the unusual concatenation of ravens as a prelude to the event hint at higher metaphysical forces at work.

Whatever the provenance of the apparition, its arrival marks an important turning point in Hal’s approach to his son Gabriel’s suicide.  Although one’s sense of the family is of strength and closeness, there are indications that Hal carries a great burden of guilt about his role as Gabriel’s father — that he fears a lack of alertness, empathy, or a failure of action on his part may have contributed to the suicide.  A thoughtful, educated, and essentially honest man, Hal has no doubt been haunted by these questions for most of his life, but, as one learns early on, he has, since Yolanda’s death, determined to think on them no further.  Indeed, his quasi stream of consciousness musings are peppered with self-admonition, warning his thoughts away from anything that might, by association, lead to the topic of Gabriel. No doubt some instinct for psychic survival has informed him — an intuition that the old grief, and new, together, might undo him.

Reeling from the immediate aftermath of the appearance of his dead son, and the anguished reliving of the moments and days surrounding the suicide which the revenance  precipitated, Hal realizes that:

The Orange Downfill had ripped open what he locked down so carefully every day, every minute — Leo [his Argentinian son-in-law] would call it a barranca. That was it, exactly, a violent chasm torn through the eroded mountains of his life.

To his dismay, beyond the vivid clarity of the initial crisis, he can remember remarkably little about his time together with Gabriel. Had he neglected this quiet, shy child? Had he failed to notice, to guide, to support? Is he failing his child again by willfully ignoring all that is left of him — his true story? Hal interprets the vision to mean that he must, now, before it is too late, confront the truth of his son’s short life, to (as one epigraph hints) come  “face to face” with the enigma of his suicide, to try to understand Gabriel and his actions even if that means confronting his fears as a parent and inadequacies as a person.  It is time, as St Paul, (via the motto of Gabriel’s University of Alberta day planner) admonishes, to find

 whatsoever things are true, [whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise] think on these things.

In practical terms, this means he must descend into the basement of his home to, finally, after twenty-five  years, explore a collection of Gabriel’s diaries and miscellaneous writings, cataloged and stored there by Yolanda. In metaphorical, mythological and psychological terms, this signals a katabasis — a descent into memory/the underworld/the subconscious to rescue a loved one, to find wisdom, and more deeply, to confront the mystery of death and consider the nature of time and the meaning of human life.

And so, the story within the story begins:  Hal’s  trek to the underworld, a confrontation with his shadow which he has been avoiding for twenty-five years, as he forces himself to try to piece together, from the shards of his own memory and Gabriel’s sparse notes, a  belated, but true understanding of his dead son. There are monsters waiting, and (partial and imperfect) understanding is hard-won and comes with pain and regret.  Had he repressed awareness of the potential for suicide? Possibly. Had he missed or misread patterns and signs? Most definitely. Were his attempts to help his son misguided and uninformed?  Often. Was his (self-centred?) engagement with and ease in the outer world a reproach to his son? Maybe. If he had been home that fateful day would his son still be alive? Impossible to say.

In as much as he had allowed himself to consider these things at all, Hal had always identified an encounter between the then twenty-four-year old Gabe and Ailsa, the thirteen-year-old daughter of friends, as the beginning of the troubles that culminated in his suicide.  Described by Hal as “two months a teen” and, therefore,  “unimaginably dangerous,” anxious to explore her developing sexual powers, Ailsa briefly flirted with this shy, older friend of her family, resulting in a disastrous, obsessive romantic fixation on Gabe’s part, which was, ultimately, unrequited and never acted upon.  This situation dominates much of Gabriel’s diary writing thereafter and, within months, he had driven  to Aspen Creek, the family cottage, and asphyxiated himself with carbon monoxide in the family’s pickup truck. One significant realization for Hal is that, although the situation with Ailsa certainly may have initiated Gabriel’s final downward spiral, in fact, the pattern of infatuation with young girls had begun much earlier — in retrospect, had been hiding in plain sight — with boyhood fixations on young Russian gymnasts, which, at the time, Hal had airily dismissed as emotional growing pains. Gabriel, had, however, been acutely aware of the pattern and there is evidence of a heroic struggle on his part to come to terms with himself, to find some workable way to be in the world. Employing strategies perhaps absorbed from his literary father, he had, as his diaries indicate, turned to literature and the cinema, over and over again, in a search of understanding and guidance — the Bible (Songs of Solomon) Rilke (First Elegies) Stendhal’s (De L’Amour) Hardy (Tess of the d’Urbervilles) Donne, Nabokov, and the movie Spring Symphony, are a few of the many works mentioned. In one heartbreaking segment (considering the fact that Hal and the reader encounter it long after the fact of Gabriel’s suicide) he notes:

 I will have faith, not necessarily in any particular future but faith that to remain as I am is a good and worthy thing. Things will work out, life goes on. Caring love survives.

Pedophilia is a radioactive word, and one which hovers uncomfortably around Gabriel’s story.  Tension rises considerably as Hal discovers Gabriel’s accounts of quasi-stalker-like behaviour in regards to Ailsa, (following her home from school in his car, secretly observing her life) and mild sexual fantasies.  Ultimately, however, Gabriel’s infatuation with the girl is never acted upon, and is not even, necessarily, sexual in nature.  Wiebe’s approach to the issue is deeply compassionate, and there is evidence, in Gabe’s diaries, of his struggle to understand himself. At one point he wonders if, perhaps, Ailsa’s fascination can be explained by the associations her age carries with that time in his own life — a time untroubled by self-doubt, depression, failure and “aloneness”.  Gabriel’s sexuality is not straightforward, and never clarified

Slowly, Hal begins to stitch together a picture of a very troubled young man, thoughtful, intelligent, loving and well-meaning, but hyper-aware of, and tortured by, his inability to engage with the world, enervated and depressed, suffering from a pervasive sense of alienation and meaninglessness, self-identified as, not lonely, but “alone,” sensitive about his difference, and his obsessive tendencies but unable to act to change things. Hal, a man with a fundamentally different nature, reading his dead son’s fragmentary thoughts, twenty-five years later, is often only baffled and frustrated by Gabriel’s chronic inability to engage with the world, to act in his own interest, his lack of resilience — Hal’s more dynamic personality continuously finding opportunities, alternative pathways, and positive interpretations where Gabriel, apparently, found none. He does come to gradually appreciate, however, the effort that Gabriel did make, and the grinding exhaustion which eventually led to his refusal to continue.

Not only must Hal make personal peace with the past, he must also reconcile his son’s fate with his understanding of the universe. By nature and by upbringing, Hal abhors the idea of suicide. Fundamentalist members of his extended Mennonite family were rendered awkward and uncertain at Gabriel’s funeral — unable to find ways, beyond their simple presence, to comfort one of their own who had, as they believed, most certainly lost his son to the flames of hell. Hal’s approach to religion is broader and more nuanced, and, perhaps, had been somewhat perfunctory during his active, adult years. But now, seated as he is, on the edge of eternity himself, addressing the tragedy of his son’s life and death, he is, belatedly, forced to reconfigure his sense of a spiritual universe. The idea of reincarnation is tangentially explored as Hal looks to his friend Owl for help in interpreting the meaning of Gabriel’s fleeting reappearance in his physical world. Noting that the vision appeared to be a young man in his twenties and that Gabriel was 24 when he died, 25-years-ago, Owl tells Hal of stories, imperfectly remembered from his childhood, of the souls of those who died too young being transferred  to those being born.  He can, however, offer no further insights — this thread of cultural knowledge made tenuous by the cultural upheavals of his own society.  There is, further, a tantalizing correspondence between the death in WWII, of Hal’s beloved older brother,  Thomas, and Gabriel’s birth, 16 years, to the day (January 28) later, but, in the end, nothing further is made of this.  A very practical suggestion from Owl that the North Saskatchewan River ravines that transected the city might be a fruitful place to search for the mysterious young man in the orange downfill leads Hal to reflect on the symbolic idea of “river”

always ambivalent; it corresponds to the creative power of both nature and time. On the one hand it signifies fertility and life, the progressive irrigation of the soil; and on the other hand it stands for the irreversible passage of time and, in consequence, for a sense of gathering loss…

Rivers, in fact, permeate the story, and  Hal and Owl’s descent into the city’s river ravines indicates a move toward acknowledgement and an attempt to reconcile these two fundamental forces of life and lays bare the undercurrents of Hal’s ultimate quest and that of the novel itself. The search proves fruitless and leaves Hal convinced that he need look no further for Gabriel’s reincarnation– that the revenant was not, in fact, physical.

What is one to make, then, of Hal’s vision of his dead son?  His ongoing excavations of his memories reveal that, in fact, this was not the first time that Gabriel had made his presence known in the years since his death — two distinct incidents are mentioned.  The first was a visitation experienced by Yolanda, comforting in nature, in which she felt herself encircled in her dead son’s embrace, and reassured that he was alright. Hal, as well, had a very similar experience, approximately ten years after Gabriel’s death. Both incidents, entirely subjective, are open to interpretation, as is the most recent. However, the fact that Owl also saw a man in an orange downfill on the street that day, and the unusual gathering of the ravens, gives the latest appearance greater portent.  Add to this the fact that Hal discovers the same date (April 28) circled in Gabe’s planner to mark an intended pilgrimage to the Oldman River, which he identifies as the best place to do “it.”  The exact nature of “it” remains ambiguous — perhaps suicide, or, perhaps a quest to rediscover his younger, true and happy self.  Significantly, amongst the artifacts preserved in Hal’s basement is a small shard of pottery, saved by Gabriel from a day spent with his father and a family friend, exploring the Oldman River’s eroded banks, suggesting, as well, the idea of excavation of the past, and of discovery.  Gabriel never made his pilgrimage — opting out at the last minute.  His spectral reappearance on the anniversary of its intended date can be interpreted as a message or plea to his father to engage in the psychic excavation and exploration required to discover the truth of his son’s life, before it is too late.  In the end, Hal does reach a sort of fitful peace with the past, comes to understand the courage of his son’s battle, and, in some sense, the reality of a life lived by one with a nature fundamentally different from his own. Also, and importantly, there is a sense of rightness to Hal’s belated witness to his son’s life, his excavation of his true story.

That Wiebe intended his story to have deeply spiritual and psychological dimensions, and to evoke the mysteries of life, love, and time, is clear from the number of correspondences, portents, signs and patterns that he embeds within it, some of which have already been mentioned. Beyond the wide-ranging survey of significant works of art which have wrestled with these ideas, and the many scriptural references, it is worth noting the strange coincidences of dates and in particular the number 28 (which, besides its whiff of moon magic and fertility, trails a whole host of mysterious mathematical, astronomical, religious and cultural associations)  January 28th, as mentioned, is the day of Thomas’s death and Gabriel’s birth, April 28 the day marked out by Gabe for the abandoned Oldman River quest and, also, the day on which the elderly Hal sees his vision of his son. As well, Gabriel’s sister’s wedding is postponed from September 21st to the 28th, as a result of her brother’s suicide.  Gabriel’s name, of course, carries with it associations with messages and revelations. The ravens function at an intersection of folklore, literature, Native spirituality and Jungian psychology, bringing together the ideas of spiritual guidance,  cosmic messages, and healing,  with those of warning, omens, and of  Jung’s shadow self — the dark side of the human psyche.

Old Man in Sorrow Vincent van Gogh [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Old Man in Sorrow
Vincent van Gogh [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The underlying sense of invisible connections, ineffable forces, and unseen influences, is very effectively supported by one particularly strong resonance: the early description of a Van Gogh painting, Old Man In Sorrow, viewed by Hal and Yolanda on a visit to the Winnipeg Art Gallery the day before Gabriel’s birth.  The sight of the painting caused the very pregnant Yolanda to “gasp aloud” and stare intently.  As Hal describes it:

“The ancient body bent forward into the agony of a question mark, seated in an orange — Orange — chair, worn ragged in blue and thick fingers clawed into eyes. Also named On the Threshold of Eternity.”

Wiebe has threaded the predominant colours in the picture — orange (in the omnipresent down-filled vest) and blue (in Gabriel’s bible, the ink of his earlier diary, and the colour of the pickup truck in which his body was found) throughout the novel — guide wires back to the key ideas of sorrow, age, time, and eternity.  As well, the picture acts as a portent, a cosmic comment on the repercussions of Gabriel’s birth, a sign that Gabe would cause Hal to question the universe and all its workings.  Compare this description of Hal as he begins his exploration of his dead son’s artifacts, in his basement, in his 75th year, to the description of the painting above:

He was alone in his basement. Bent, like a question mark on a worn wooden chair

–a cosmic meme, distilled in the work of a great artist and reverberating in the life of a man.

As mentioned in the introduction to this review, this is an intense work. Wiebe is playing for keeps  — addressing life’s essential questions with clear-eyed ferocity, attempting to come to terms with death and grief, with the idea of life as a procession of losses, with a god who would allow such things, and to take the measure of a human life against all of time, to see life, not through a mirror, but to stare the enigma in the face. It’s depths are hard won.  If one prefers the mirror, pass by.


Further Resources: An interview with Rudy Wiebe on CJSW Radio Writer’s  Block

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You’ve Seen It Before: Predictive Imagery in Michael Crummey’s Sweetland

Photo by: Kerry Riley, 2013

Photo by: Kerry Riley, 2013

As mentioned in the main review, Michael Crummey’s Sweetland is full of hints and suggestions of another reality beyond what we might consider the normal everyday — places which, as Moses, the protagonist notes, can’t be found on a map.  It is those people whose interaction with average, everyday, civilized life is not precisely average who seem to experience this other world most frequently.  Jesse, who, as Moses has come to understand, has an intensely personal internal existence, a “private landscape that surfaced now and then into the wider world,”  is one example. Queenie Coffin, the agoraphobe, perhaps another, and, of course, Moses himself, in his increasingly isolated and delirious existence on the deserted island.

While Crummey never pronounces directly on the issue, he does support this air of uncanny possibility, which pervades the novel, and unnerves the reader (in a way that promotes empathy with Moses’s experiences) in a number of ways.  One important strategy which contributes to this outcome is the use of predictive imagery — images encountered by the reader which later events in the story will mirror quite precisely.  One’s direct knowledge of key, tragic events, is foreshadowed with imagery.

The two strongest examples of this are the symmetries found, first for the story of Moses’s brother’s (Hollis’s) death — a defining moment in Moses’s life, which contains a key secret which is gradually revealed in the story, and, secondly, in the description of Jesse sleeping, which portends the details of his eventual death.

The Death of Hollis:

His temporary work as a deckhand on a schooner shipping goods along the coast got Moses involved in an unlikely tourism initiative which involved introducing wild buffalo to Newfoundland in the hopes of attracting more big game hunters.  His boat was contracted to move the animals from Cape Breton to the uninhabited island of Little Sweetland.  In the chaotic process of loading the animals, a cow falls into the sea and drowns, her last moments described from Moses’s memory, as he tells the story to Jesse:

She went down slowly at first, submerging like a boat taking on water.  But once she was under she sank like a stone, as though she was on a line and being dragged down from below. That dark face staring up at Sweetland on the surface, eyes wide, bubbles streaming from the massive nostrils. He could see her descending through the clear water for a long, long time (…) Lost sight of her after awhile. (page 38)

Later, on a fishing trip together, Jesse teases the story of Hollis’s drowning from Moses, a subject Moses has been touchily reticent about.  According to this story, Hollis drowned when he fell into and became tangled in a trawl line of a net, heavy with fish, and was dragged overboard.  Moses, in a moment of bad judgement, thinking he needed to release the terrible tension of the rope straining against the net full of fish, within which his brother was entangled, cut the line. In retrospect, it was the worst thing he could have done, as, now with nothing to prevent it, Hollis is pulled, inexorably, down into the depths by the weight of the net. As Moses describes it:

He could see the white of his brother’s face looking back up to the surface.  Hundreds of pounds of fish on the trawl and the weight of it pulling Hollis down and down into that black. (page 134)

Although Moses’s completely understandable comment that, “I’d have done it all different (…) If I had my time back.” is eventually appreciated for its loaded content, this image carries an accurate image of Hollis’s death, as Moses experienced it, and which the readers  have already encountered in the death of the cow.  One can’t help but admire Crummey’s writerly frugality when one notices, besides its predictive function, the beautiful exactness of this description as a metaphor for the way time (the ocean) swallows up a human life.  The dead remain visible, although receding, in the memories of others, for quite some time, but, eventually, all disappear into the past.

Photo by:  Kerry Riley, 2014

Photo by: Kerry Riley, 2014

Jesse’s Death:

In a second striking example of this predictive imagery, Moses takes a moment at the end of a visit  to check in, tenderly, on his sleeping nephew, whom he finds, fast asleep, in a pair of old pyjamas, far too small, but which he has refused to give up:

The pyjamas made him look hopelessly vulnerable in his bed, his limbs like pale shoots growing out of the fabric, the smooth expanse of his belly exposed.  The little well of the navel a thimbleful of darkness.  Jesse’s face was turned toward the door but angled unnaturally up toward the headboard.  He looked like he’d fallen from a height, dropped from a rooftop or a headland and come to rest in that mangled posture.  Sweetland wanted to ease the boy’s arms back down at his sides, to straighten the leg crooked against the wall.  He wanted to lie down with the boy awhile and listen to him breathe. (page 126)

In the frantic search for Jesse, who has gone missing after it becomes known that Moses has capitulated to the relocation, his mangled body is first seen by Moses floating like flotsam, crashing against the rocks at the base of an ocean cliff. Barry Priddle, of the Priddle brothers, and Moses manage to scrabble down the cliff because of a precarious ladder  drilled into the rock, an artifact from an old landing pad, but they cannot lift Jesse’s body back up to the top.  Moses is left tied to the ladder, cradling Jesse’s body protectively while Barry races for help. (pages 154- 157).

The past and the future are linked through imagery, and both Moses and the reader have foreseen this tragedy.

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Crummey, Michael: Sweetland

Sweetland CrummeyCrummey, Michael
Doubleday Canada, 2014
HC, 318 pages

Michael Crummey, now firmly established as one of our pre-eminent Canadian writers, has, throughout his career, explored, with extraordinary depth of perception, the peculiar and particular emotional ache that arises from our human awareness of the passage of time, and the eternal sadness of lost things.  It is not nostalgia, precisely; it is far grander and deeper than that. It encompasses not just the yearning for a particular time past, but all times past, and, not just the yearning of an individual but a sort of collective regretful reverence, tied inextricably but not necessarily straightforwardly, to our own individual sense of mortality, and the weirdness of possessing a consciousness that allows us to contemplate it.  This connection between our own mortality, and our relationship to, and acceptance of, the inevitable cycles of birth, life and death is explored in Crummey’s latest novel, Sweetland, in which the end of an individual life (that of Moses Sweetland) and the end of a way of life (in Newfoundland’s outports) brilliantly coalesce in a splendid and sombre story.

Moses Sweetland, irascible, taciturn, stubborn, loyal and heroic, is sixty-nine years old, and on the cusp of his seventh age.  An elder of the tiny (population ~90) Newfoundland outport community of Chance Cove, on the island of Sweetland, named after his ancestors who arrived two centuries ago,  he is in the difficult position of being forced by life to contemplate not only his own denouement, but that of his community as well.  His life story is the story of his place, Newfoundland, picking up it’s history from about the time that Crummey’s last novel Galore (a Canadian masterpiece!) left off, and carrying into the present day.

The early death of their father left Moses and his brother Hollis struggling to support the family with subsistence fishing.  There is the obligatory youthful trip to Toronto in search of “good money” which ends catastrophically in an industrial accident which disfigured Moses, and sent him back to Newfoundland, where he worked as a fisherman until the 1992 moratorium on cod. This was followed by a period as a lighthouse keeper, until that was automated, at which point he drifted into retirement. Inexorable change, it seems, has been nipping at Moses’s heels all his life.  Never married, he lived with his mother until her death nine months prior to the opening of the story, surrounded by a family and community shaped and, in some cases warped, by the exigencies of life in the outports.

Moses’s immediate community includes his blind brother-in-law Pilgrim, who lives with his daughter Clara (Moses’s niece) and her possibly autistic son, Jesse. Other notables include Queenie Coffin, the chainsmoking, serial-romance-novel-reading, agorophobe, who plants a flower garden each spring by dumping a packet of seeds out of a window into a plot below, and Duke Fewer, who set up a mostly imaginary barbershop business in town after the cod moratorium, where a perpetual game of chess plays itself out over the course of the story.  There is Moses’s hopelessly hapless neighbour Loveless, who can’t take care of anything, including himself. Loveless’s sister Sara, although deceased, still makes her presence felt, as does Ruth, Moses’s sister and Clara’s mother, deceased as well.  The Priddle brothers, albeit somewhat peripheral characters, are nonetheless sketched impeccably — a pair of rogue bachelor brothers most often making big money somewhere “away” and living wildly but returning sporadically to disrupt the community and whose essential natures teeter precariously and unpredictably between dangerous and heroic. Crummey’s approach to characterization might be described as “compassionate hilarious,” and he is unparallelled in his ability reveal characters from the inside-out,  with extraordinary economy, who, once encountered by the reader, become permanent acquaintances. In the process, the essential heroism of the characters’ wry stoicism in the face of life’s tragedies, is celebrated — wryly, and without pretension or caricaturization.

The story opens with the little community facing a death blow.  The government, a gimlet eye on unsustainable costs, has offered a relocation package to the residents of Sweetland: a minimum payment of $100,000 per family to relocate anywhere in the province, the only catch being that acceptance of the deal must be unanimous. Everyone must go. A government man appears at Moses’s door in a blinding blaze of morning light, like an angel messenger from the future. The intruder reveals his alien nature immediately by knocking at the front door, and the metaphorical distance between Chance Cove and the mainland is established with a few words about tea:

“Cup of tea?”

“You don’t have coffee by any chance?”

“I got instant.”

“Tea is fine.”

The agent has arrived to inform Moses that one of the three remaining dissenting households has capitulated, leaving only Moses and his neighbour Loveless obstructing the deal. The news is clearly a blow to Moses. Loveless, as his name might suggest, and whose peculiar nature is ascribed to a pint of kerosene he drank as a baby, can hardly be considered an asset in a battle against the forces of change. Predictably, Loveless does not hold out long. The now ironically named Moses stands as the last obstacle on his people’s path to the promised land.  The deadline for a final decision is September. The outcome is never really in doubt.

Moses is under considerable pressure to accept the deal both from community members and his immediate family. He has, apparently, been finding mysterious, anonymous, threatening letters in his home, the messages amateurishly cut and pasted from magazine text, and there are rumours of threats to burn him out.  When Keith Priddle, one of the aforementioned Priddle brothers, notes that “The old man says he’s going to cut off your nuts with a fish knife, you don’t sign,” it is treated as a joke, but there is an element of real threat. Perhaps most eerily, Moses begins to find mutilated rabbit heads — first nailed to a tree near one of his snares, and later, nailed to his stagehead (a sort of fisherman’s dock) which does, later, mysteriously burn.

Stubborn and independent, but not stupid, Moses is rattled, but not swayed by the pressure. He has his own reasons for wanting to stay, which mostly have to do with loyalty and an only dimly perceived need for meaning in his own life.  On a larger register, he feels a deep sense of attachment and reverence for the island, its history and the lives of the people who have lived there, and is resistant to the idea that they will just disappear in the rush of time.  Approaching his eighth decade, his own life history is more closed allied with the dead of the island than the living, and with no children to connect him to the future, the meaning of his own life resides in the history of his place. He worries about the graves of the community’s ancestors and the inevitable disintegration and dispersal of the island’s collective memory that the relocation will bring.  As Crummey has taken some pains to establish (not the least that the island shares his name) in many ways Moses is the island, not in a geological sense, but in a human, historical sense. Not particularly emotionally self-aware, it is Moses’s tragedy to be struggling to come to terms with the meaning of his own life at a time when the place where he has built this meaning, and where it most securely resides is, itself, dying.

There is one tenuous connection to the future which almost allows Moses to move forward, and to carry his story to a new place and this is his young grand-nephew Jesse, with whom he has developed a special relationship. In a moment of rashness, however, he promised Jesse that he would never have to leave the island as long as Moses had anything to do with it, and, initially, it is loyalty to this promise that further fuels Moses’s determination to defy the government offer, and community pressure.

But, as Pilgrim puts it rather bluntly to Moses:

You’re an old man …And what’s Jesse going to have here once we goes?… Clara’s going to be left alone with the youngster is what’s going to happen.  She’ve got a chance to go somewhere with a bit of money to see the boy looked after. And you’re going to fuck it up.

Forced to the realization that he is not acting in Jesse’s best interests, Moses, does, finally, capitulate and signs the agreement.  This flicker of future possibility, however, is dramatically crushed almost immediately by a tragic accident, perhaps precipitated by Mose’s decision, which claims Jesse’s life, and in a strange and sad way, achieves Jesse’s goal of not leaving, and, darkly fulfills Moses’s promise.  Free now, of any external obligations, Moses’s allegiance lies firmly with his island, and the past, and, somewhat impulsively, but nonetheless ingeniously, he extricates himself from the relocation without jeopardizing it for the others by faking his own death and secretly returning to Sweetland.

In a brilliant evocation of the essential situation, and presage of what is to come, Mose’s. returning home one evening, from efforts on behalf of Loveless’s cow,

turned to see the cove glimmer in the last light, houses and windows glowing faintly orange and red, the colours fading and winking out as he watched.  There was no stopping it, he knew.  Days when the weather was roaring outside his mother would say, Stall as long as you like, sooner or later a body’s got to make a run for the outhouse.  The whole place was going under, and almost everyone it mattered to was already in the ground.

Here, in this passage, lies the essence of the book: a sharp appreciation of beauty, a blunt acknowledgment of truth, and a defiant humour. Although a hardy Newfoundland outporter, better equipped than most to survive in difficult conditions, at sixty-nine, Moses knows he’s going to die, and, on a deserted island, in winter, bereft of the most basic amenities, no doubt sooner than later, especially after, in an ill-considered moment, he jettisoned his boat, believing this would make his disappearance more believable.  But, like so many tragic heroes before him, he enters a beautiful, impossible battle, with courage, resourcefulness and dignity.  Moses’s decision to stay with his dead on the island  is not suicidal — he fights very hard for all of his allotted time.  It is, however, the beginning of a process of passing over, a relinquishing of the physical world, and the approximate last half of the book is devoted to the haunting realization of one man’s passage from a physical to a spiritual existence.  Like much of Crummey’s writing, this section has the air of close observation, as opposed to invention, and it was, therefore, not so surprising to learn part of the inspiration for Sweetland came from his experience watching his father succumb to terminal cancer (1).  We, here on this side of the divide, have names for Moses’s deterioration, as he tries to live alone on the island — delirium, bushed, cabin fever — indeed, the idea is part of our Canadian mythology, but whatever the genesis, it is clear that those in the process of cutting ties with the living spend more and more time “somewhere else.”  Early on, Moses begins to experience small slippages and inconsistencies in chronology, and forms attachments, and carries on conversations, first with the animal world, and then with the dead — bringing a portrait of a long dead uncle into the kitchen for company, and talking with his dead grandfather. His experiences become increasingly fantastical — he sees spectral lights in the deserted Coffin house (as did Jesse before him) believes that someone has resumed the game of chess still set up in Duke’s old barber shop, and is saved from being lost at sea in the fog (in an old boat of Loveless’s that he has resurrected) by ghostly music emanating from the boarded up church. There is a gradual and seamless incursion of mind and memory into the physical world until it is unclear, both for Moses and the reader, where the story resides. Moses reaction is stoical:

he held to what he’d chosen and managed to make a sort of peace with the bizarre incidents that had become a feature of his days, accepted the fact that some of the world he lived in couldn’t be found on a map

This “other world,” of which Moses finds himself increasingly an inhabitant, can be interpreted as the reader sees fit.  Crummey, however, very effectively creates an atmosphere which allows for the uncanny, without pronouncing upon it.  It begins as small  inconsistencies (with easy but unprovable explanations) — the provenance of the threat letters is never established, Jesse (symptom of his condition?) talks regularly with Moses’s dead brother Hollis, and conveys messages which Moses finds quite unsettling. Moses comes to recognize that Jesse has an intense internal reality which is inaccessible to others.  Crummey also uses imagery brilliantly but subtly to foreshadow key events in the story (more on this in a subsequent post) leaving readers with an unsettling sense of deja vu when the actual events are encountered.  And, always and everywhere — the ocean — it’s unfathomable depths and uncharted mysteries, dwarfing the doings of man.  There is a palpable sense of a reality far broader than our every day perceptions can encompass, although we sometimes catch a glimpse of it, and a fascinating evocation of the dilemma of having your perceptions and, therefore, experience, for whatever reasons, fail to align with your idea of the possible. Crummey makes you understand, through Moses, just how easy it might be to get lost, and how delicate a thing certainty is.

One lovely consequence of Moses living increasingly in his own mind and memory is that the reader comes to learn the stories of many of the characters introduced in the first half of the book in a far greater detail — including that of Moses himself, and his complicated relationship to his dead brother Hollis, and sister Ruth — lives of apparently simple people, which on the surface might seem easy to dismiss or categorize, but, in fact, contain astounding depths of perception, complexity, weakness, strength, emotion and endurance.  In a strange way, these musings, shared in the book, accomplish the fictional Moses’s aim — they deeply regard, honour and memorialize, in other words, give meaning, to the lives of those involved.  And, in this way, Moses jumps out of the story, and does the same for a lost way of life, and the very real people who lived it.

Close attention to the evocative, deeply sensate opening scene of Sweetland provides a succinct guide to the themes to be found therein, and presages the ending. Moses, on a trip to the mainland to gather firewood, has, on his way home, has been stranded on the water in fog.   His sight temporarily disadvantaged, he has cut his engine to drift awhile, every other sense keenly alert to the possibility of approaching vessels, but there is

just the lap of the waves against the hull for the longest time.  The wail of the foghorn on  Burnt Head

He heard them before he saw them. Voices in the fog, so indistinct he thought they might be imaginary.  An auditory hallucination, the mind trying to compensate for a sensory lack. The way a solitary man will start talking to furniture, left alone long enough.

Spooked him. Miles out on the water and that voice seeming to rise from the ocean itself.

The voice was, in fact, the desperate cry for help from a lifeboat full of abandoned Sri Lankan refugees, adrift on the ocean, which Moses, in his role as leader, protector, preserver, rescues and tows to land.  So, here we have, from the outset, the idea of a quest for, and the meaning of, home, of concealed realities, of beginnings and endings, the mind versus the external world, the skim of life across the surface of reality, and, all rolled into the ocean — deep time, existence, and the cycles of life.

Crummey is an adept at teasing out the points of intersection between the universal and the particular and personal, and has done so again, the Sweetland, with extraordinary effectiveness.  Within the intersecting portion of a Venn diagram composed of the circle of Crummey’s own experience with death, and that of the universal experience of time and mortality, lies the story of Moses Sweetland, and the island that bears his name.



Further Resources:  Crummey, Michael: How I Wrote Sweetland

See also:

You’ve Seen It Before: Predictive Imagery in Michael Crummey’s Sweetland

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Unwin, Peter: Life Without Death and Other Stories

9781770862432Unwin, Peter
Life Without Death and Other Stories
Cormorant Books, 2013
Softcover, 180 pages

Peter Unwin is a writer for whom I had developed a deep and enduring admiration on the basis of one story alone, read a number of years ago. Attracted, initially, by the title, “Whistling Down the Lights,” I was, in very short order, charmed and intrigued by this deceptively simple and compassionate story of disconnection and regret, its melancholia, its deep sense of a loss that can be felt yet not articulated,  so expertly matched to the twilit isolation of a CN passenger train car, hurtling through the timeless northern Ontario landscape. As I mentioned, however, this was a number of years ago, and, although I have remained somewhat haunted by the story, for whatever reason, I subsequently lost track of both it and its author. It was with some delight and anticipation, therefore, that I noted Unwin’s new publication, Life Without Death, earlier last year, and the inclusion, amongst its story collection, of the memorable “Whistling Down the Lights.”  Although its presence is basis enough for a recommendation, there is, happily, no need to restrict our praise to one story.

Life Without Death is a collection of stories about nothing and everything, small, passing moments which somehow illuminate life’s underlying energies. The stories follow, roughly, an unfinished arc through a life, from conception through childhood, young adulthood to maturity.  Beautiful, dark-haired women flit through the pages like omnipresent life forces, while, contrary to the title, death prowls the periphery, also omnipresent. The stories are often, on the surface, enigmatic, but with that unmistakeable tug to them that is a sure sign that they are tunneling their way into your subconscious and rearranging the furniture.

Unwin’s milieu is the working class world of ordinary people. His stories deal, for the most part, with the quotidien struggles of everyday lives — a husband feels threatened by another man’s attentions to his wife, a high school cool kid goes wrong, a child must begin to relinquish childish certainties and negotiate the complications of the wider world, skirmishes between idealism and pragmatism are lost and won. His wit, of which there is plenty, is dry and commonsensical, and he has a deft way of knocking the pretension out of things.  Take, for example, this wry comment from the opening story, “Circumstances Surrounding My Birth,” in which a potentially destabilizing disparity in  intellectual curiosity between a husband and wife is solved by goodwill and true feeling. The wife (soon to be the narrator’s mother) is a working class housewife with a love of learning who has set aside two hours of every afternoon, during which, as the narrator describes it,

[she] set out to learn everything. She did this, [the narrator continues] at the local library or in the kitchen of Stella Davenport, who had a B.A. in English literature, and was putting it to use raising twins.

One has to admire a sentence which accomplishes so many things at once — establishing the mother’s innocence and uncomplicated enthusiasm, precisely placing the family within an intellectual hierarchy, illuminating the uncomfortable choices available to women of the time, daring one to condescend, while at the same time throwing the choice between idealism and cynicism back at the reader.

For those, like myself, who take delight in the alchemy of words — how, placed economically in just the right order, with just the right rhythm, a series of words can be, sometimes simultaneously (and that’s the best) breathtakingly funny, profoundly insightful, deeply mysterious, and utterly correct —  there is much to enjoy in Unwin’s writing.  The phrasing is straightforward and deceptively simple, a clean, easy read, yet peppered with little, often hilarious, profundity bombs, the power of which only becomes apparent, when, long after the laughter has died, you realize you are still thinking about them.  Take, for example, a slightly tipsy, under-performing writer’s  tidy appraisal of his relationship with his  academic wife from the “The Story I Would Write”:

she’s got a Ph.D. in linguistics so I barely get a word in edgewise.  With her it’s all phonemes and anemones.

or, from “Out West” this lovely depiction of a young woman’s laugh:

it sounded like a trout stream that still had trout in it.

All the stories in this collection are strong, but standout personal favourites include the aforementioned “Whistling Down the Lights,” as well as “Halloween,” “Innocent,” “Nuptials,” and the story of the title “Life Without Death.”  The first two, although dealing with widely disparate subject matter, share a similar quality, one which pervades Unwin’s writing in general.  In both, the superficial situation is quite simple — a narrator shares a train ride through nighttime Northern Ontario with a disparate group of travellers; a community of mostly youngish parents interact while supervising their children’s trick or treating — but there are, beneath the surfaces, significant undertows.

“Whistling Down the Lights,” is a tiny perfect gem of a story with a simple and classic premise: a small group of travellers snake through the darkening northern Ontario landscape aboard a CN train, the dimly lit observation car a small bubble of modernity juxtaposed against the timeless immensity of the Canadian north.  Everyone is drunk including a young native man who confides to the narrator that he is on his way to Kingston to visit his sister.  It soon becomes clear, however, that he has never visited a city before, has no idea where his sister lives in Kingston, and has not been able to contact her to let her know he is coming.  In fact, every detail about his quest is vague and uncertain. He is lost and being whisked towards a new environment with which he is ill-equipped to interact.

There is a clear sense of isolation from the land through which they are travelling, the train moving inexorably through time, southward, away from the wilderness, its passengers helpless in the face of relentless change.  As the narrator notes,

I’m left with a sense of things evaporating into time, things that are no longer what they were.

Although their mode of transportation is a miracle of the modern industrial age, the men on board very soon capitulate to the ancient urge to share stories, and the narrator notes that beyond a few inconsequential temporal details, they were re-enacting a ritual almost as old as our species.  The talk turns to the northern lights, and the narrator, who (he candidly admits) likes to affect a closeness to the land, explains that the aurora have a characteristic sound, although, in fact (as he also admits) he has never actually heard them. The native man trumps this bit of nature lore with his own observation that it is possible to conjure the lights at will by simply whistling.  The narrator is simultaneously intrigued and skeptical:

He says this to me as though offering a piece of canonical wisdom that has been passed down to him through the generations. But there’s something mocking in his voice, as if he knows this wisdom is corrupted now and exists only because of a white man’s need to hear such things. There is something sad and hopeless about this state of affairs, but I can’t put my finger on it and neither can he.

but admits that,

I also knew that one day I’ll try it. (…) I’ll invite the world to jump into my lap like a puppy. Nothing will happen. (…) and  I’ll tell myself that this whistling down the lights is a Native matter, like dropping bone ashes or tobacco into the teeming rapids at Lachine to calm them. It won’t work for me because I’m not a participant in that dialogue.

The conjuring of this scene, the mixing of details of light, speed, change, ancient ritual, the mysterious landscape, with the train (that great Canadian symbol of colonial triumph over the land) illuminates a sense of unease, of distress even, over our increasing disconnection from nature and the land, and our growing sense that we, ourselves, are racing, with unstoppable acceleration into an unknown future with which we may, also, be ill-equipped to deal. It crystallizes a vague sense of loss, nostalgia for a different way of knowing, a different magic beyond the reach of the logistics of language, which, somewhere at the periphery of our gaze, we know we are losing. Briefly, it makes us aware of the cost of our modern existence.  The Native man peers into the dark, eager to speak for the land,

‘This is beautiful land. I know this land, we used to come here.’

but words fail in his attempt to communicate what he knows of the land,

he wants (…) to touch what’s going on outside the window with language and with his fingers and give shape to it, but he can’t.  It’s not the words that defeat him, but the country, the land itself.

One feels the aching stretch of sinew, and, then, the final snap of connections breaking, the known world receding, irrevocably, as we all hurtle, untethered, and at an ever increasing speed, into the unknown.

“Halloween,” although examining a different sort of conflict, succeeds in similar ways. Once again, ancient ritual and pagan sensibilities are juxtaposed with the surface banality of modern existence, in this case, a suburban Halloween evening. The innocence of children and the triteness of this tamed and timid shadow of pagan ritual, are expertly played against the sexual energies bubbling, sulphurously, just beneath the surface of the adult interactions.  The eternal destabilizing power of a beautiful woman, in this case, the alluring “young Mrs. Riordan,” as she shepherds her children through the neighbourhood, stirring libidinal desires wherever she goes, acts as the catalyst for an exploration of that seemingly unsolvable human dilemma: the competing allures and demands of security, family, and community and free and creative self-expression — the old war between the artist and civilization, the greener pasture, the gulf between what is and what might have been, and the question of where one’s loyalties should ultimately lie.

The majority of this discussion occurs in the wry and regretful mind of Martin Skidmore, a self-identified artistic failure, whose plight is economically, and hilariously, outlined in the following passage:

Recently, and with noticeable relief, Martin had come to admit to himself that he was a total failure. A washed-up writer of passionate historical articles that had once appeared in numerous magazines but were now appearing for free on the Internet, and without his permission.  His books were remaindered before they made it out of the boxes.  Only recently had his agent stopped muttering darkly about what she called “the death of the book,” but instead was now making desperate and unconvincing pleas for what she had started to call “the resurrection of the book.”  His editor, a young woman with fine instincts for prosody in general, was in hospital in serious condition after getting struck down at a pedestrian crosswalk by a sixteen-year-old girl driving her father’s car and texting her boyfriend at the same time.

During the interval in which his own wife leads their children on their trick-or-treating adventures while he mans the candy dispensary at home, Martin, not immune, himself, to Mrs. Riordan’s charms, takes stock of his own choices in life, wondering just what his inability to mount an effective bid for her attention has cost him in terms of life experience.  He wonders, as we all do, if his perceived “failure,” is a result of a lack of courage, or of ability, or both, or neither.  These musings lead to wider considerations, and a survey of other members of the passing community parade, who, collectively, offer a reasonable summary of possible approaches to life, and potential outcomes.  At one end of the bell curve of choice, there is Matthew, “a bearded, sessional professor of linguistics with a passion for Scottish dance and inexpensive rum,” and “his permanently indignant wife, with the tight bun of grey hair, hover[ing] next to him furiously handing out candies,” and at the other, “Marianna Scolla, … the Argentinian stunner who had buried two husbands and was now living with a man half her age,” and who, “at the ripe age of seventeen … had found herself sitting on Dizzy Gillespie’s knee at an after-hours club in Rochester.”  Further reflection on Martin’s part leads to an epiphany of sorts — that we all, at a pitch determined by our natures, search for “sweetness,” That “every zombie, every vampire, every transgressive female hip-hop superstar look-alike was marching up and down, door to door, in search of sweetness.”  And, that the universe’s response to this request, from failure to success, catastrophe to miracle, was apt to be quite random — a trick or a treat.

One sees, upon closer scrutiny, that Mrs. Riordan and her bickering, strangely (in the eyes of the community’s males) unappreciative husband  Toby, are not really of this world at all.  In fact, their children are described as “angels.” Male and female principles incarnate, their chaotic energies have broken through the veil between this world and that, stretched so thin across the threshold on Halloween.  This explains Mrs. Riordan’s detached reaction to the attention showered upon her by the mere mortal males of the community.  As Martin explains to us,

because Mrs. Riordan was who she was, she would make a pretty and indeterminate expression with her lovely face and break into an enormous smile and say, ‘Oh thank you,’ as if this was the first time in her entire life that a man had thought to compliment her on her good looks.

Her role, clearly, is not to be affected, but to affect. Similarly, Toby, the only male in the community, it seems, immune to his wife’s charms, is presented as

a premature drunk who would rather watch naked women squirm around in a vat of Jell-O instead of reading The Berenstain Bears to his children.

The story opens with the narrator noting that Halloween seemed to accentuate these archetypal aspects of the Riordan’s  characters, and that this would, more likely than not, end in a spat. The story closes with Martin’s wife’s excited reportage of an epic spat, “an all-out screaming foul-mouthed fight on the corner of Galley and Spenser with the kids in tears, and her screaming in his face and him looking at her with that stupid grin of his and saying yeah yeah yeah,”  as the streets quickly empty and normalcy settles back over the community like a blanket. The conflict has bubbled to the surface, the tensions released, and thus, once again, ritual has fulfilled its purpose.

The titular “Life Without Death,” tells the parallel life stories of the young poet narrator and his  ideal better half, photographer Frank Cole, and represents yet another skirmish between pragmatism and idealism.  Although their lives only actually intersected briefly in their student years in Ottawa, when they were both in love with the same girl, Frank continues to inhabit the periphery of the narrator’s consciousness throughout his life.  Even through the blinkers of youth and sexual jealousy, the narrator has recognized something superior about Frank, an intelligence and depth and generosity of spirit which set him apart.

A few short years into their respective endeavors, the narrator is confronted with evidence of Frank’s artistic vision and power — a series of black and white photographs of an elderly man in the early stages of death being exhibited at the Harbourfront gallery in Toronto. The narrator has been working menial jobs, living in hovels, and, therefore, he felt, suffering appropriately for his art. As he (in his maturity) admits,

I was not pleased to see them. They made me feel that I had fallen behind, that as I stood waist deep in a brown sea of soybeans downbound from Thunder Bay, I was not furthering my art in any way that I had presumed I was.

Not willing, at the time, to entertain the possibility of a disparity in talent/vision/dedication between himself and Frank, he further explains that,

I rejected them right there on the spot.  I rejected them because I was young, I rejected their elitist presentation. I rejected the focus, but I was troubled by the extremity of their formal power.

Twenty-five years later (a lifetime, really) the narrator, who has, as we all mostly do, gradually acquiesced to the demands of an ordinary life, is confronted with further evidence of Frank’s artistic vision and genius — his documentary film called “Life Without Death,” chronicling an indeed death-defying pilgrimage by Frank through the Sahara Desert.  The narrator’s now middle-aged, ordinary, comfortable-life response is one of caution — a need to have warned Frank that,

sometimes what we believe in, what we know to be right, will take us to places that are very far away, dangerous places. You need to be careful Frank, we all need to be careful.

His warnings would, it turns out, have been  entirely apropos, as a short while after the screening of his masterpiece, attempting to relive his travels in the Sahara, Frank is murdered by bandits, his bludgeoned body found tied to a tree near Timbuktu (the name itself redolent of the impossibly exotic, the unreachable place).  Musing over the detail that Frank’s dead body had been tied to a tree, the narrator briefly indulges in the fantasy that this had been necessary because Frank, in his relentless pursuit of his art, had somehow solved the problem of death,

He had achieved life without death. Even with his skull bashed in, he would not give up; he rose repeatedly from the sand and in a civil and firm voice demanded that his assassins return his Bolex cameras and film canisters. They had no choice but to tie his restless and dead body to a tree.

It becomes clear, of course, that Frank has defeated death in other ways — that one solution to death is to stare it straight in the face, and then proceed without fear — understanding that this might very well be the death of you. Much like the Riordan’s in “Halloween,” Frank is a force — in this case, the pure, truth-seeking, creative spirit in all of us, expressed in various degrees, according to our natures and abilities.

The conflict in this story is one which bedevils most thoughtful people, and, perhaps, the artist most of all, most particularly in middle age, when some stock-taking is inevitable. It is the huge question of how to live one’s life in a meaningful way, and the difference between one’s youthful but largely theoretical idealism, and that degree of idealism which life has demonstrated you actually possess.  Did one come to terms with reality or sell out? Should one devote oneself to one’s inner passion, or to the competing demands of family, community, and security?  There is also the sub-question (explored elsewhere by Sheila Heti in her recent work How Should A Person Be?) of how much sacrifice your personal allotment of talent might justify — the terrible fear that one can’t buy brilliance with sacrifice, that no matter one’s sacrifice, the result might be entirely mediocre, which raises the inevitable question: was its pursuit, then, just selfish and silly and wrong? The story presents no pat answers, but one does sense, by the end, that the narrator has made his own peace with the question.

These stories and others in the collection have an undeniable mystique, and energy, and thus fascination.  In attempting to parse this phenomenon, I have come to the conclusion that it is, in large part, a feat of visual translation.  Just as one can recognize that certain tableau seem fraught with underlying meaning, be it a brooding physical landscape, an Alex Colville painting, full of portent, or a grouping at a cocktail party that crackles with potential energy, Unwin understands (whether intuitively or in a consciously deliberate way, I’m not sure) the ability of our subconscious to discover meaning in the physical juxtaposition of things, and to find connections, recognize truths and synthesize new understandings, quite apart from our ability to articulate these new ideas. And so, we are presented with scenes in which the essential, although often very subtle, physical elements are craftily emphasized. With our attention thus carefully directed by the writer, the everyday clutter overcome,  significance is revealed to us, and we understand something about the scene and thus about life, although, again, in ways that often defy articulation. There is a constant sense of recognition of things that you somehow already knew that accompanies the reading of this collection. In a funny way, Unwin is using language to circumvent some of the barriers that language itself presents to a holistic understanding of life.

This happy reunion with Unwin’s writing has left me with the conviction that he is a significantly under-appreciated Canadian writer who deserves far wider recognition and a place in our top literary tier.


 A word must also be devoted to the brilliant cover design for this work. Credited to Angel John Guerra of Archetype, I am sure this image  would attract my attention no matter where I happened upon it, but it is particularly well placed as the visual herald for the contents of Unwin’s collection.  Another design coup for Canadian publishing!

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