I love books. I love to read them, smell them, and feel them in my hands. I love the way a treasure from a used book store has its previous owner’s name written on the inside cover and some of the pages still dog-eared. In fact, you can usually judge how good a book is by how many pages are dog-eared; if the previous owner felt the need to stop every five or ten pages and take a break, it probably isn’t that great. I love the way a vast collection of books presents itself upon a bookshelf with the dim lighting from a gentle standing lamp beside it casting a warmth upon the different colored spines, a comfortable chair nearby luring you to put off your chores and fall into a tome. Above all, I love the way a book can capture you, transport you to a new world, and even alter your worldview.
Naturally, I spend a lot of time in bookstores. I also spend a lot of time talking to people about books. In fact, I’ve spent practically my entire life with those two pastimes as the backbone of my very existence. Yet somehow, until I moved to Canada a few years ago, I never really heard anything—good or bad—about Canadian literature. Well, except for Margaret Atwood. But more on her later.
It wasn’t even that I didn’t try to find some Canadian books while I lived in the States. Frankly, if you go to Borders or Barnes and Noble, you’re not going to find the good stuff. Sure, you’ll find plenty of the predictable stuff Atwood writes, and you may even find a copy of Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient. But that’s more or less where it will end.
Fortunately, I started reading up on Canadian literature when I arrived in Montreal in the fall of 2008. I also took a summer course, “Canadian Literature: Experiments in Genre.” My aim is to share with anyone interested what I have learned so far. As a disclaimer, however, I don’t claim to be an expert in Canadian literature. Far from it. At best, I’m a casual admirer. Furthermore, I don’t claim to be terribly well-read, either; my experience so far is up to around twenty texts, max. But, I’ve found that to be more than enough to formulate an opinion, and it is as follows: Canadian literature is some of the most underrated, enthralling, and original literature in the world of letters.
Unfortunately, one person has become “representative” of Canadian literature. And I hate to bash her, dwell on her, or even discredit her. Margaret Atwood is not a bad writer. She just isn’t an excellent writer, and she is far from representative of the type of writing Canadians do best. High schools across America assign The Handmaid’s Tale, probably just to get a feminist perspective on dystopian literature and to get a break from other masterpieces of that genre, such as 1984, A Clockwork Orange, or Brave New World. But when I read that book back when, it left a stale taste in my mouth. It was good, but again, not representative of the dystopian or apocalyptic-future genre.
I’m not one to let a single bad experience ruin something for me, though. Actually, I’m probably the person who gives more chances than anyone else I know. Or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment. Whatever the case, I continued reading Margaret Atwood, hoping I could figure out exactly what her appeal is. I’ve come to the conclusion that The Handmaid’s Tale (1986) is pretty much the middle of the spectrum for her works. At the absolute bottom is The Journals of Susanne Moodie (1970), a somewhat rambling, obtuse, and horribly boring collection of “poetry.” At her best, she has The Penelopiad (2005), a book with an interesting premise—almost an attempt to do with Penelope what James Joyce did with Odysseus—but not terribly well executed even then. The book is cute, clever at times, but leaves the reader wondering why it couldn’t have been so much better in the end. So, enough about Atwood. Let’s talk about some real Canadian writers.
As a starting point, I want to bring Michael Ondaatje back into the thread for a moment. Interestingly, he isn’t even Canadian technically; he’s from Sri Lanka. But, he lives in Canada, calls himself Canadian, and Canadians consider him Canadian. That’s one of the things I love most about Canada; regardless of your skin color, ethnicity, or even place of birth, you can be simply a Canadian, no modifying adjective before your nationality. Again, more on that later. Back to Ondaatje. I read The English Patient (1992) and loved it; I still haven’t bothered to watch the movie, maybe because after reading the book, I don’t need to. But a far superior text by this stellar writer is his brilliant The Collected Works of Billy the Kid (1970).
Notably, it was published the same year as Atwood’s The Journals of Susanna Moodie and does something fairly similar. But Ondaatje actually delivers something profound, intelligent, and entertaining. The book is impossible to classify. It is part poetry, part prose, part mixed media, part autobiography, part fiction, part history . . . Everything under the sun, really. Its premise is to offer a sort of journal of Billy the Kid’s life and death, but it doesn’t focus on Billy the criminal. Instead, it works hard to paint a human portrait of a young man caught in bad circumstances and forced to make do with the hand life dealt him. In the end, you can’t help but feel as though you’ve come to know him—and Ondaatje—at a personal, hauntingly intimate level. Although a bit tough to follow at times because of its bizarre structure, if you treat it like a Tarantino movie you’ll come out on top, admiring Ondaatje’s masterpiece.
Continuing with the idea of what it means to be a Canadian, Vancouver resident Fred Wah serves up a fun and provocative dish in The Diamond Grill (1996).
This book is straight-up autobiography, but with a distinctively Canadian twist. In brief vignettes and anecdotes, Wah recounts his experience growing up as a half-Chinese, half-white-Scots-Irishman who was born in China but grew up mostly in Canada. In his search for a national identity, he decides to cut out all the adjectives and simply be Canadian. But the book is about so much more; it is loaded with scenes from the family diner that gives the book its title, using location to perfectly capture the essence of the human condition and the pervasive power of family, tradition, and community. Best of all, Wah offers an abundance of maxims that stick with you long after you’ve finished reading, such as “Cook your silence, but don’t let it simmer” (Wah 92). This book is especially ideal for anyone with any restaurant work experience.
For poetry, look no further than Alberta’s Robert Kroetsch. His somewhat obtuse-sounding poetry does what all other obtuse poetry always fails to do: it begins to make sense with a bit of reflection and probing. So put down Poetry magazine or the latest issue of The New Yorker, and read something satisfying for a change. Grab yourself a copy of Completed Field Notes: The Long Poems of Robert Kroetsch (2000).
Don’t let his unorthodox structural style scare you off—part of what he does so well is prevent his readers from finding the beginning or ending of a poem. Instead, he often tries to drop you into the middle of things and sort your way out from there. My personal favorite is “The Sad Phoenician,” a jerky poem broken up into stanzas alphabetically and with the first word of every line alternating between “and” and “but.” From what I can tell, it’s a monologue of a regretful, middle-aged man with a masturbation addiction looking back on the mistakes he’s made in relationships past. But I think it could mean lots of entirely different things, too; why don’t you read it and tell me what you think?
The last person I want to talk about (for now, at least!) is Ontario’s Timothy Findley (who apparently used to be my girlfriend’s father’s neighbor!). Although Findley is dead now, he is one of Canada’s most respected novelists, famous for his seminal work, The Wars (1977). I haven’t read that one yet, but I have read Famous Last Words (1981), an enthralling piece of historical fiction that puts you into the world of an ex-patriot fascist writer and friend of Ezra Pound named Mauberley during World War II.
He finds himself involved in high European affairs, rubbing elbows with some big names, and ultimately getting wrapped up in a plot to kill Hitler, believe it or not. Interestingly, the entire book is presented as being read by an American soldier off the walls of a hotel Mauberley stayed in while hiding out from an assassin. He wrote the story on the walls as a final testament before death; during the entire novel, you already know he’s been brutally killed, but you don’t know how or why until the final few pages. This book is a bit hard to come by these days, but if you can find a copy, grab it and enjoy!
Some runners-up for serious discussion include Sheila Watson, George Elliott Clarke, bpNichol, and Elizabeth Smart. Perhaps someday I’ll write a second plea for Canadian literature. If you’re an American looking for a good book that satisfies in a way John Updike simply never did, or if you’re one of the many Canadians I’ve spoken with who has no idea how great your country’s literature is, go out, find some of these books, and get yourself a comfy spot in that chair by the bookcases.
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