Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Morley Callaghan

My thoughts:
I enjoyed this immensely, my favourite of Callaghan’s so far. Callaghan is a great guide to the literary world of the twenties. He was obviously well-regarded by his slightly older contemporaries, including Hemingway and Sinclair Lewis and Ezra Pound and James Joyce. I love his enthusiasm as he meets up with his idols one by one. In between stories of these encounters, he talks about his day to day (or night to night) routine of walking around Paris and discussing literary and other things in the cafés over wine, punctuated by weekend boxing matches with Ernest.

From a coming-of-age, portrait of the artist as a young man in the first part of the book, we move to an older man’s reflection upon the sincere friendship of three men gone awry in the last act. The breakup of the friendship of the three men over something so small and inconsequential was sad and unnecessarily unfortunate. Or, perhaps, according to Morley’s analysis of their natures, unavoidable.

Great, inspirational passages about writing as an art, an interesting description of a renowned time and place with famous people entering and exiting the stage, and a meditation on the vicissitudes of friendship.

Today the novel is recognized as marking a significant shift in fiction written in and about the Canadian West. The accuracy of its detail makes it one of the finest examples of local realism in Canadian writing. It is also a fascinating chronicle of conflicting personalities, and of the genius of British Columbia hand-loggers, the culture of camp life, and the intrigues and corruption of the lumber business at the turn of the century.”

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Woodsmen of the West

My thoughts:
So from Ontario, we travel west to the rough frontiers of British Columbia on the other side of the young country. It took me quite a long time to read this one, even though it’s not that long a book (plus it’s episodic, so one might think it would go quickly).

It reminded me quite a lot of Moby-Dick without all of the biblical overtones–the western loggers were rather a secular bunch–and without the extensive descriptions of the process (in this case, of logging rather than whaling). We don’t get the minutiae of the procedure we get from Melville, as the focus is rather on the character of the men who work on the frontiers of civilisation and the culture which they have constructed. I loved to read the descriptions of frontier life. I think the illustration of the Western ideal, the Western character, is still today the mythos in which Western Canadians see themselves: tough, uncomplaining, independent, active, educated by doing rather than reading books.

I liked Marty and his self-deprecation–he seemed to embody the amateur outsider, just there to observe the culture into which he’d been dropped. Carter, the obsessive, cruel taskmaster seemed a close cousin of Ahab.

It is quite modern in tone–a precursor to the unembellished prose of later decades–and very episodic. It has the feel of a memoir rather than a novel.

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Leaven of Malice

My thoughts:
Brilliant. Funny. Poignant even at times. Robertson takes us back to Salterton some four years after Tempest-Tost, where someone has placed a false engagement notice about Pearl Vambrace and Solomon Bridgetower in the paper. Professor Vambrace is outraged, thinking that the mysterious ‘X’ did it as an insult to him. When he doesn’t get the apology he wants from Gloster Ridley, the Bellman’s editor, he decides to sue for libel. Everyone in town seems to be affected by the hubbub created and we get to eavesdrop upon conversation after conversation (accompanied by Davies’ delightful and witty commentary) as the overlapping ripples spread out and reflect back on each other. All of the characters are human and flawed, but Davies loves them anyway and we do too. With the dean’s speech on malice at the climax, Davies takes another step toward the mythical and philosophical atmosphere of his later trilogies.

Sympathetic, humorous, and wonderfully detailed, The Imperialist is an astute analysis of the paradoxes of Canadian nationhood, as relevant today as when the novel was first published in 1904.”

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Sara Jeannette Duncan

My thoughts:
Before I started, I thought that from the description this sounds like it’s the same kind of book that Edith Wharton or perhaps Henry James would write, but with a distinctly Canadian twist. But I found that she writes a little more like George Eliot or even Elizabeth Gaskell but with a Modern burnish, almost anticipating Virginia Woolf at times.

The middle of this book was rather tedious as the author went on and on explaining Lorne’s positive support of imperialism* and his party’s wavering position on the issue. I wish Duncan had spent more time on her characters, their relationships, and a little less on political philosophy. But the parts she spent on those things were very good.

From the setup, the natural ending would have been an electoral success for Lorne and romantic disappointment for Advena, but Duncan switches things up and at the last minute, Lorne’s political career crashes and burns (along with his proposed marriage, but good riddance), and Advena’s marriage suddenly becomes convenient as well as desirable.

There are threads in this book that we can see working their way through Canadian identity in the future…

*In this book “imperialism” does not refer to colonial oppression and extermination of indigenous cultures and peoples as it is used today. Rather, it refers to protected, preferential trade agreements between the mother country and daughter countries (in this case Britain and Canada).

As her story unfolds, we are drawn into her past. We meet Hagar as a young girl growing up in a black prairie town; as the wife of a virile but unsuccessful farmer with whom her marriage was stormy; as a mother who dominates her younger son; and, finally, as an old woman isolated by an uncompromising pride and by the stern virtues she has inherited from her pioneer ancestors.

Vivid, evocative, moving, The Stone Angel celebrates the triumph of the spirit, and reveals Margaret Laurence at the height of her powers as a writer of extraordinary craft and profound insight into the workings of the human heart.”

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for The Stone Angel

My thoughts:
Brilliant book, just as good as I remembered (though I remembered no details, so it was like reading it fresh). I’m all teary and goopy ’cause I just finished it. Hagar’s a great character to read about but she would be hell to live with (and I don’t mean just when she’s old). I felt much more sympathy for Marvin and Doris than I did the first time reading it. I mean, imagine being in your sixties and having to deal not only with your own issues, but having to take care of a woman who seems unable to make anything easy for anyone. My own mother is 68 and suffering from Graves disease which is giving her double vision, photo-sensitivity, and constant tearing. I can only imagine what a burden it would be for her to have an even older, sicker, and more difficult parent to take care of.

Anyway, I’m wondering if Laurence was writing with a moral—since anyone can see that Hagar would’ve had a happier life if she’d married someone her father (coincidently or not) approved of—i.e. pride was her undoing. Or are we supposed to admire her independence and willingness to speak the truth as she sees it? Or are we just supposed to be neutral, afforded a glimpse into the mind of someone who finds some strange comfort in being miserable and keeping others distant?

A supremely well-crafted book.

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Ralph Connor

My thoughts:
Summary: This book was worth reading for the shinny chapters alone. Hockey takes its place within the Canadian canon. Longer review to come when I have some time. Eight and a half out of ten for the shinny rivalry, six out of ten for Hughie’s moral journey, three out of ten for the butchery of the bear, two out of ten for the religious conversion of Craven and crew.

Thoughts amidst reading:
Certainly not as heavy-handed as the bulk of Man From Glengarry, thank goodness. In addition to Angel Mrs. Murray, we have Saint* Mrs. Finch. Connor really had a thing for idealising (in a Christian Victorian mould) and idolising the mature women in his stories. Yet his opinion of girls and women in general is hyper-patriarchal (for the most part…I keep thinking of Kate driving that frisky team of horses). The girls scrub and clean up the school room while the boys have the freedom to go out in the woods and gather evergreen branches, playing the entire time. The man of the house is expected to lay down the law in the form of a beating and only relents when challenged by another man (his wife is yelled at and told to STFU). The denigration of the “gurl” teachers and the general consensus of everyone, including Her Holiness Mrs. Murray, that a man is required for the position.

A couple other interesting points of observation:
The gun culture is crazy. It’s really more expected than not that the boys will be playing with real guns. I know the focus in this part of the story is about Hughie’s fall into temptation, but I can’t help but be distracted by the fact that the object for which he fell was a pistol that he could shoot squirrels with.

Foxy reminds me of a baby Milo Minderbinder from Catch-22.

***spoiler for Chapter 9 ff.***
*and Martyr, one would presume

Final thoughts:
I was kind of turned off by the whole mass conversion thing. Surely Tom Finch, Hughie, and Craven could think of doing something better with their lives than becoming ministers.

Apart from that, we had the expected deathbed martyrdom of the female saint, which was also rather…I dunno, can something be maudlin and twee at the same time?

All made up for with the shinny chapters. Really got me in the mood for the World Juniors which started the day after I finished the book. It’s worth reading those chapters alone.

Met with international acclaim when published in 1901, The Man From Glengarry is a tale of courage and an exciting portrait of life in 19th-century Canada.”

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Ralph Connor

My thoughts:
My response to this book was variable. It can be summed up thusly:
(Loooong) First Act: A sermon, a funeral, a conversion, a Christian “revival”: Tedious, painful torture. One star.
Second Act: A young man and his friends being young people in Quebec City: Great fun, enjoyable. Eight stars.
Third Act: A young man establishing himself in his career (and his love life) and single-handedly making sure Confederation with BC did not turn into a disaster: Good, but not developed enough: Six stars.

Here are the comments I made as I read it (beware spoilers ahead):
@Chapter 3
The description of Mrs. Murray is a little over the top. She’s like a living saint and gets her angel’s wings by sacrificing her own needs and intellectual stimulation to obediently serve her husband and his parishioners, a good servant of the Christian patriarchy. The description reminded me a bit of Marmee in Little Women.

I peeked ahead to read the afterword, to find out whether Alison Gordon mentions her or not, and discovered that Mrs. Murray is modelled after Ralph Connor’s mother. Ahh. No wonder she’s so perfect and idealised in her role. Apparently, there’s another female character who’s more independent coming up.

When Maimie realized that the service was really over, she felt as if she had been in church for a week.

So did I by the time I finished reading about it!

I did my Honours thesis on eighteenth century sermons, so either my patience for this kind of thing has thinned considerably or this treacly Christianity is, for some reason more difficult to bear for me.

@Chapter 8
It is very difficult for me to wrap my head around the concept that the danger of fire is just nature being itself (i.e. “don’t get too close, the wind blows out the flames”), Ranald actually saves Maimie from injury by his quick action, but all the credit goes to God, that they all have to stand around and pray to. In my book, if God is responsible for sparing the girl injury, he’s responsible for putting her in danger. If the fire acts as a result of physics, it’s human intervention that saves her and it’s Ranald and he alone who deserves praise. (In fact, I take door number 2). This worldview where God is responsible for “miracles” or good events and nature or accident or humans are responsible for the danger and the suffering that takes place makes no sense whatsoever (201 people die in plane crash. Miracle child survives!).

Oh, and this one stuck out at me:

But his wife [Mrs. Murray] came to the table with a sweeter serenity than usual, and a calm upon her face that told of hidden strength.

Um. Mrs. Murray is already portrayed as a saint upon the earth (or perhaps she walks just above it). How can she possibly be even better on Sundays? LOL.

I’m hoping that the book will actually have a plot eventually.

The last act of the book is a breath of fresh air. Echoes of Armand Durand with the man from the country rising up in the world. It’s rather fun hanging out with the young people in Quebec City: a bit of drinking, a bit of gambling, a bit of fighting in the street, a bit of courting, a bit of canoeing. Lots of great characters, none of them unlikeable. And Kate is quite the modern gal, more at home driving a feisty team of horses than corseted up for sermons and tea.

Of course, the nation-building theme is quite obvious there at the end.

Ranald and Mrs. Murray are much too idealised, both by the author and by the other characters. They’re both utterly competent to any situation, and neither have any failings. People just aren’t that perfect. And would we really want them to be?

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Alias Grace

My thoughts:
This was a very good book, possibly my favourite of Atwood’s so far. So many layers of meaning and a wonderfully unreliable narrator. She had me guessing the entire time: manipulative? a psychopath who merely reflects back what her interlocutors expect? a victim of early abuse and tragedy who’s put out of her mind when faced with trauma and never really regains herself? or a placid philosopher who takes things as they come and reports things as they happened? And what of Dr. Jordan? and Jeremiah? and Jamie Walsh? People appear and disappear and are never surely who they seem to be. Loved it!

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Ernest Thompson Seton

My thoughts:
I’m still working on this, but it’s really tough going for me. I’m not so bad with the stories in which the animals suffer or meet a bad end due to “natural” causes (though I’m still sad), but I really have a problem with human cruelty and disrespect for other animals. Under other circumstances, I’d likely have stopped reading during the story of Lobo and abandoned the book, but since it’s a CanLit Challenge book I decided I had to finish it.

There were a couple of stories I liked a lot (my favourite was about Silverspot the crow), but most were very difficult for me to get through. I can’t stand deliberate ruthlessness in the treatment of animals, and there were plenty of cruel, relentless humans in the pages of this book. I suppose Seton himself felt as though presenting the stories this way, with a proper respect for the animals’ point of view, could change peoples’ attitudes toward our furry and feathered relations (in this respect it reminded me much of Black Beauty), but in me he’s preaching to the choir.

Other useful links:
the Wikipedia entry for Duncan Campbell Scott

My thoughts:
Not what I was expecting at all. Some of the stories contained some humour, some were rather sad, a few were actually spooky(!)–kind of in Turn of the Screw territory. My favourite was the last story “Coquelicot”, which wasn’t in the original collection. Tracy Ware’s afterword put things in perspective.