This year, I’ve been reading backlisted titles I’ve missed along the way. These are mostly well-known titles by established writers, which is why they’re still occupying library space; of these ten, only the two from small presses (named) might be difficult to find overseas. They also lean towards international settings, with only three set entirely in Canada—the first in a boarding school near Ottawa, Ontario and the second in Montreal, Quebec, which also is where Neighbourhood Watch and part of Dogs at the Perimeter are set.

Colin McAdam’s Fall (2009) was an awards-list darling. For years, I thought it was a coming-of-age story and that’s not wrong, but it’s also not the point. The point is, that being in Noel’s head is an increasingly uncomfortable place to be and his view of relationships (particularly with his roommate’s girlfriend Fallon) reveals more than readers initially understand. McAdam plays with voice—Noel and Julius (he apparently afforded Fall a voice in the novel’s earlier drafts) and pacing so that 350 pages fly. (I also absolutely loved A Beautiful Truth.)

“We’re quiet because we suspect we are imperfect. Grotesquely imperfect. But that suspicion must never be acknowledged; that suspicion is the quietest part of our soft-spoken souls.”

The best thing about Mordecai Richler’s St. Urbain’s Horseman (1971) was, for me, the unexpected appearance of Duddy Kravitz, hero of one of the earliest Canadian classics I read. Richler’s a key figure in Canadian literature, and his novels explore the vulnerable side of men who present themselves to the world as confident and radiant husbands and fathers but inwardly struggle with a deep sense of disappointment and yearning, but their brash and burly tone keeps me at a distance. (I’m a big Jacob Two-Two fan, though, and consistently enjoy the films made of his books.)

“Of course Duddy was the bushiest, with the longest, most menacingly veined, thickest cock of all. He won so regularly when they masturbated against the clock, first to come picks up all the quarters, that before long they would not compete unless he accepted a sixty-second handicap.”

It’s no exaggeration to say that I’ve intended to read Gil Courtemanche’s A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali (2000) for more than twenty years, but I resisted this well-decorated novel about the Rwandan genocide. There’s a point at which a book’s nomination for literary awards becomes a taunt of sorts, as though it can’t possibly be that good, but this one is engaging from start to finish, and Courtemanche pulls readers into ordinary scenes and characters’ lives seemingly effortlessly, the prose consistently light, despite the heavy themes and elements of devastation. I’m sorry that I waited so long to read it.

“There ought to be a word for the atmosphere surrounding these Whites who talk, laugh and drink in a way that makes the whole pool know their importance—no, not even that—just their vacuous existence.”

If there was an award for Most-Frequently-Borrowed-Yet-Still-Unfinished, Austin Clarke’s The Polished Hoe (2002) would be a contender in my experience, but it’s also claimed many more meaningful literary awards. Miss Mary-Mathilda’s story is presented to a member of law enforcement, in her own words—nearly five hundred pages worth—her personal speech rhythms evocative and her memories relived in the telling. Years ago, I heard how her story ends, so my reason for returning to this modern classic was to see how Clarke shapes it. It’s hypnotic and feels timeless (but I wish I could have discovered it as Clarke’d intended).

“But even if we in this Island do not see ourselves as slaves, the treatment that Ma tell me about that she suffered through, and what my great-great-gran went through, you would have to invent a new name for it, if not slavery.”

Madeleine Thien’s Simple Recipes is one of my all-time favourite short story collections and her Dogs at the Perimeter (2011) reads like a collection of linked stories as it’s told from various perspectives, individuals who have different relationships to Cambodia and horrors endured under the Khmer Rouge. The resonance between the characters’ stories allows for power to build across the slim volume, while allowing readers some space to reflect and absorb. A tautly controlled but moving story.

“I’m trying to keep a record of the things he told me: the people he treated, the scientist he knew. This record fills sheet after sheet—one memory at a time, one place, one clue—so that every place and every thought won’t come at once, all together, like a deafening noise.”

Thien’s novel fits beautifully with Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost (2000), another which explores love and loss, and interrogates the historical record for what’s missing and obscured. For those who’ve struggled to find a way into Ondaatje’s fiction, I think this would be a great introduction. Many of the hallmarks are here—beautiful prose, musings on memory and history, and multiple perspectives with multiple settings—but presented with clarity and intention to firmly root the reader.

“In the last few years he had found the hidden histories, intentionally lost, that altered the perspective and knowledge of earlier times. It was how one hid or wrote the truth when it was necessary to lie.”

When Anosh Irani’s The Song of Kahunsha (2006) was a contender for the Canada Reads competition, its defender declared repeatedly that though the book contained much poverty and misery and struggle, it was ultimately an uplifting story; I didn’t think those elements should count against it, but I also didn’t believe her. However, she’s right. Somehow, Irani creates a singular note of celebration that infuses young Chamdi’s character and view of the world. I’ve admired Irani’s work (especially The Parcel) but this one landed him on my MRE list.

“Light falls hard on the sidewalk, which is busy and breathing.”

Marina Nemat’s Prisoner of Tehran (2007) is a memoir so beautifully written and astutely observed that it feels like fiction. It, too, was a Canada Reads selection, bringing this relevant and compelling story of a sixteen-year-old girl in Iran, who challenged the Islamic regime, to public attention. Nemat had not intended to write about her imprisonment and torture, but she was haunted by it and, when confronted by another woman’s silence on the matter, reconsidered. It feels astonishingly current and I understand why it’s been so widely lauded and recommended.

“It wasn’t too long ago when we were all in school, playing tag and hide-and-go-seek at recess. Now we were political prisoners.”

Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette’s Neighbourhood Watch (2010; Trans. Rhonda Mullins, 2020 via Coach House Press) landed on my stacks because I was reviewing another of Mullins’s translations and realised I’d missed this kaleidoscopic look—spare prose, fragmented scenes—at three children living in a Montreal apartment block. The English translation includes an interview with the woman who inspired the character of young Roxane, allowing readers to contemplate the collision of fact and fiction.

“Roxane would play a concert just for them. A prostitute concert, a concert for lost women by a lost girl. The music would be just for them and would warm everyone up. Even when the music was finished, it would stay in their stomachs, or somewhere close.”

Pamela Mordecai’s Red Jacket (2015) is a hefty, engaging, character-stuffed story from Mawenzi House, set on the fictional island of St. Chris. Of all the books discussed here so far, this is the one for which I had the most trouble selecting just one quotation—so many of the characters are memorable and feel as though they reside simultaneously at the heart of the novel. Her attention-to-detail and social observation remind me of Olive Senior and her rich characterization and themes remind me of Ingrid Persaud.

“Seems to me that’s how she deal with all her personal problems: never identify whys and wherefores. Just pass through, swallow like medicine and press on.”

Which of these appeals to you? Have you recently found time for a backlisted title that you’ve neglected? And what do you think of just a couple of sentences for novels like these? Sometimes I think, “What can you tell from a couple of sentences?” and sometimes I think “That’s all I need, to know whether I want to read this book”.