From these ten books alone, anyone might conclude that “we” have a lot of antiques and tigers, typewriters and troubled sisters, and that we all wear sandals with socks in Canada. (I am not a fan: if it’s cold enough for socks, it’s too cold for sandals.) Moving from 1988 through 2024, these books by Canadian authors stood out in my stacks, and I’ve marked the few that are indie-press titles. (I’ve written briefly about two of them previously.)

Timothy Findley’s Stones (1988) was a reread to mark his death on June 21, 2002. It’s a collection that I haven’t read since it was new, and it was a pleasure to revisit. It’s quintessential Findley: themes of memory and madness, history and war, mothering and men-loving-men, despair and love, art and loneliness. But I wouldn’t have recognised the various elements drawn from his own life, when I first read Stones (illuminated via Inside Memory (1990), From Stone Orchard (1998), and Journeyman (2003), in addition to Sherrill Grace’s 2020 biography), so that added an interesting dimension to this reread. As did the specific Toronto settings—Queen West, especially Parkdale—which wouldn’t have been so well-known to me back then.

“He could see the great grey fog that lay above the city [San Francisco] and he thought of all the men and women living in its shadow. Here was a city, he thought, that once was the symbol of all the bright hope in the Western world. And now it was a city gripped by terror numbed with the shock of AIDS.”

Contents: Bragg and Minna, A Gift of Mercy, Foxes, The Sky, Dreams, The Name’s the Same, Real Life Writes Read Bad, Almeyer’s Mother, Stones

Another collection of stories but this a fresh read: Budge Wilson’s The Leaving (1990). Her work landed on my TBR after she undertook to complete the prequel to L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables: Before Green Gables (2008) which I enjoyed far more than expected. These are the kind of stories that affirm the inherent value of stories about ordinary women and girls: an English literature teacher appreciated only years later, a middle-aged housewife keeps a diary but chronicles the past more than the present, and the “secret self” of girlhood. Their east-coast sensibility is consistent: “One way or another, a climate like this is bound to rub off on people.” There are strings of pearls from Woolworths, Nancy Drew mysteries, placemats made of paper lace in restaurants, and high rubber boots.

“It was late September, and some of the low-lying bushes were already scarlet against the black of the evergreen forest. Dried flowers waved stiffly against the blue of the bay, but the gulls were acting as though nothing had changed, as though sailing above on the wind currents were enough for them, now and for always.”

Contents: The Metaphor, The Diary, Mr. Manuel Jenkins, Lysandra’s Poem, My Mother and Father, the Leaving, My Cousin Clarette, The Reunion, Waiting, Be-ers and Doers, The Pen Pal

I was inspired to read W.O. Mitchell’s Roses are Difficult Here (1990) after Ms. Whispering Gums wrote about humourous literature in Australia, which brought the Leacock Award to mind (along with the idea that I haven’t read many of its winners). It opens with Matt sitting in his office, reflecting on his six years in “solitary confinement” there, after he inherited the Shelby Chinook newspaper from his Uncle Ben (who won a Pulitzer) and moved to the Alberta town. So small that it’s like “taking up residence in the underwear section of the Hudson’s Bay catalogue”, he observes. Whenever I’ve returned to Mitchell, I’ve been afraid I’d find him too old-fashioned, but his use of dialogue and meticulous scenes consistently carry me beyond that concern. There are antics involving a visiting professor, poison-pen letters, secrets kept with the best intentions, and goats. Also, I love finding a typewriter on the page.

“One the same table, during the early years when he had lived at the Arlington Arms, he had tried to write poetry. He no longer tried to write poetry, for he was a clear-minded man and his almost humble honesty had told him that the sprung rhythm and rhetorical strophe of his verse leaned more and more toward an unfortunate enumerative quality—as though the margin release of his typewriter had become stuck well over to the left.”

Edward O. Phillips’ The Queen’s Court (2007) contains a subtle reference to Findley and his longtime companion William Whitehead, with talk of another gay couple who lives parttime in Stratford, Ontario but winters in warmer climes. A quiet nod to the idea that Findley’s fiction focussing on gay men created a space for writers like Philiips. But The Queen’s Court is widow Louise Bingham’s story; she’s leaving the west coast behind, returning to her hometown of Montreal, purchasing an apartment in the titular building. She’s slyly observant and readers are in-her-head the whole time, as she dodges interference, from well-meaning friends and needy ex-lovers, to protect her independence. The antique-hunter next door is flamboyant and ambitious, and he captures her son’s attention when he comes for a visit. Which only highlights suspicions Louise previously expressed. A little mystery in a comedy-of-manners: Phillips’ novel was great fun to read. (This might be OP, library-only.)

“Finding the right house or apartment is not unlike falling in love. You understand at once this is what you want, then you work backwards in a process of justification, of rationalizing the snap decision you have made on a gut feeling. I knew the second I walked through the door of the apartment in Queen’s Court hat I had, in a manner of speaking, come home.”

John Vaillant’s The Tiger (2010) was e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e for a time and remains popular, largely because his style is so inviting: he is naturally curious—loves a good diversion—and pulls his readers along with him. In this instance, I had avoided the book because of the subtitle: “A True Story of Vengeance and Survival.” Revenge narratives unsettle me but, in this case, I had wrongly assumed that it was a person’s vengeance. “Tigers are similar to drugs in that they are sold by the gram and the kilo, and their value increases according to the refinement of both product and seller. But there are some key differences: tigers can weigh six hundred pounds, they have been hunting large prey, including humans, for two million years; and they have a memory.” Beyond that, the history of this region) and the conservation movement (Russia was the first country to recognize the tiger as a protected species, in 1947) were absolutely fascinating.

Marina Nemat’s After Tehran (2010) continues the story begun in her bestselling Prisoner of Tehran memoir. I don’t know which story enraged me more: the original narrative about her torture and imprisonment, or the disavowals and attacks she experienced after telling her story. This book does a fine job of incorporating the first volume’s highlights without seeming like simple repetition, but I think the full power of this volume resides in having read her earlier memoir. Her clarity in expressing ideas and emotions is remarkable. Essential reading.

“Why do we, the human race, make the same mistakes over and over? Why do we torture, abuse, wage wars, and commit acts of cruelty? I can’t say it enough: the only way to stop the cycle of violence is to speak out. As long as victims do not bear witness, their suffering will be forgotten. Children should be encouraged to talk about all that is unspeakable. Torture should be discussed at dinner tables and in schools. In history classes, we should discuss human suffering and read the memoirs of those who have lived through wars, revolutions, genocides, and dictatorships.”

I wanted to read Harold Johnson’s Corvus (2015) because of the cover, but I had to read The Cast Stone first; it’s set closer to the present-day, where Corvus bolts further into a future. If you aren’t obsessed with reading in order, this wouldn’t matter. And if you aren’t into post-apocalyptic (for the first, solidly dystopian for the second), his other fiction, like Charlie Muskrat  or the The Björkan Sagas, might appeal more. There are some memorable characters, but the one aspect of this novel that I haven’t been able to shake, is both so simple and so strange that it’s altered how I look at the winged and feathered; I can’t say how, without spoiling it, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the quoted passage that follows, but it does show how he plays with time and cognition. (Indie Press, Thistledown)

“The lyrics from the old ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ song filtered its way through Richard’s mind while he made a simple breakfast. Lyrics about the wind and how it didn’t matter. He liked this time of day, early, just before sunrise, when the earth has those soft hues, when the light is gentle. Birds like this time as well, sing to the coming light; maybe they are praying, maybe they talk to the universe in their music language.”

How many times had I picked up Dimitri Nasrallah’s Hotline (2022) and replaced it on the shelf? No matter, because just a few chapters into this slim novel, I was checking the library catalogue to see what else was available. It’s a simple story of a single mother who has unwillingly left behind her life in Lebanon (Indie press, Véhicule in Canada, rights sold in the U.S. to be published soon, I believe): she immigrates to Montreal with her school-aged son in 1986. Her husband is missing, his family has dismissed her, and she must find her own way after discovering that the idea of teaching in Canada is untenable. Anyone who enjoys workplace stories will love this, but there’s also a layer to the story that gradually emerges which I found unexpectedly moving.

“It calms people to have someone absorb their worries and reveal, in return, a few finely crafted words, a little bow-tied box of a thought they can open and admire.”

Noor Naga’s If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English (2022) was shortlisted for the Giller Prize and won the Graywolf African Fiction Prize. It’s a slim volume with the enquiring tone of Sheila Heti’s writing and the creativity with form of Claudia Rankine’s. One third is in the form of a Q&A, extensive enough to give a sense of the two characters—one female, one male—to secure readers who prefer a more traditional narrative. One third presents alternating pov’s for these characters that feel more intimate (but footnoted with details about Egyptian culture). And one third (a skinny third) in the form of a script, situating the manuscript as part of a writer’s group, with its members offering feedback. (My branch library shelves it with a little heart for romance.)
Indie publisher, Graywolf Press (U.S.)

“He wore black leather sandals with socks, but one of the soles was loose, flapping like a bottom lip when he walked.”

Rebecca Godfrey’s 2024 novel Peggy was completed, after her death, by Leslie Jamison. It could have been an advantage, entering into this fictionalised biography with only the sketchiest understanding of the Guggenheim family. The scenes are vivid and intense, and all the characters feel like they are pressing against the binding—as though they might escape at any moment. (Despite their privilege, they also often appear to be troubled or grieving, which only compounds a sense of desperation.) Almost immediately, I snagged on a detail about a child which felt incredible to me, directly on a heels of another detail that seemed just perfect. Marrying them, the whole scene felt positively outrageous.

Somewhere around the halfway mark, this began to feel ordinary. And I think that might have been the point. Because I don’t think this could be an ordinary story. On one hand, there’s a man who took her “toward a brightness, and [she] ran faster than him, despite the fact that he was a boxer, a bullfighter, a man who would later be written about in a novel by Ernest Hemingway.” And, on the other: “Man Ray’s photographs make me look so sad, I said. So skinny and melancholy. Why don’t you capture me now, when I’m at my best, with my sister, the only one who can make me smile?” It’s one of those cases where it seems like the truth itself was extraordinary.

“I warned you not to give an allowance to Djuna. All you’ve done is give her the means to become a full-fledged, full-time alcoholic. You’re funding her ruin. The Guggenheim Award for the most loaded lesbian in Paris.”

Have you read any of these authors/books? If not, which of the quotes most aligns and/or diverges from your current reading mood?