February 6, 2023
What Remains of Elsie Jane, by Chelsea Wakelyn
Chelsea Wakelyn’s debut novel WHAT REMAINS OF ELSIE-JANE reads a bit like Joan Didion’s THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING, but narrated by someone who is not a cool customer, instead a human being wracked with pain and grief and lust and longing after the death of a partner from drug poisoning, a loss that has left Elsie Jane with a backyard full of weeds, an addiction to dating apps, and two small children who need feeding and caring day-after-day, and Elsie Jane is hanging on, just barely. Or not really at all…but then she decides to contact a space-time wizard via Craigslist who can help her return to the dimension where Sam lives and Elsie Jane’s life was still whole and functioning, and her biggest struggles were with Sam’s drinking and also the grief she carried from the deaths of her parents, back when she thought that constituted “the worst.”
This novel about death just pulses with life, with a force as compelling as the one that kept me turning the pages. It reminded me a lot of Rebecca Woolf’s memoir ALL OF THIS, about a complicated widowhood, brutally honest and beautifully human. I absolutely adored it.
February 2, 2023
Brotherless Night, by V.V. Ganeshanathan
In her novel Brotherless Night, V.V. Ganeshananthan writes about the way that Tamil fighters would take over ordinary homes in 1980s’ Sri Lanka, during that country’s brutal, decades-long civil war, and how, when they were finished with these spaces, they’d leave them laden with traps and mines, which seems like an appropriate metaphor for what such tumult, violence and devastation from civil war does to the notion of home in general. Though I suspect Ganeshananthan’s protagonist, Sashi, would have something to say about my employment of metaphor at all, about my liberty to have one thing stand for another, war being, for me, an abstract concept, which is something Sashi doesn’t take for granted in her telling: “Imagine the places you grew up, the places you studied, places that belonged to your people, burned. But I should stop pretending that I know you. Perhaps you do not have to imagine. Perhaps your library, too, went up in smoke.”
I learned so much from Brotherless Night, a story whose title comes from Sashi’s loss of her revered elder brothers to violence and also from how even those with loyalty to the cause of Tamil freedom were used and made to suffer in its name. And while the specifics of the political events, between 1980 and 1989, were new to me, the overall narrative is a familiar one—of people yearning for liberation, about noble causes hijacked by ego and violence, and how women are always collateral damage in war, the ways in which their suffering, by some, is simply expected.
When the story begins, Sashi is dreaming of becoming a doctor, following her elder brother in this dream, and her greatest hardship is that her father has forbidden her and her brothers to ride their bicycles against the backdrop of political tension. And as the tension builds and violence and ensuing traumas begin to rob Sashi of her innocence and her youth, ordinary life proceeds as best it can—when most electricity is no longer functioning in Jaffna, Sashi and her medical school colleagues gather by the hospital with their school books to study under the outdoor lights there.
Eventually Sashi takes a job working in a Tigers field hospital, dismayed by what their cause has done to the boys she’s grown up with, including her own brothers, but also feeling obligated to offer care to any person who needs it. All the while, however, she works with her charismatic feminist professor to keep an apolitical record of atrocities committed by all sides in this complicated conflict, which means that eventually her protection by the Tigers is compromised.
As much as Sashi’s story itself was fascinating and illuminating for me, however, it’s the way she tells it that is the most compelling aspect of the narrative, instances of direct address (such as the passage about the burning library above), her evasions, her unwillingness to choose definitiveness, and also her acknowledge of how language and translation complicates and obscures—the nuances of Tamil that cannot be conveyed in English, all those parts of this story that those of us reading from a distance will never actually understand.
Beautiful, devastating, brutal and meticulous at once, Brotherless Night is a read that’s unforgettable.
January 27, 2023
Small World, by Laura Zigman
I’ve never read Laura Zigman before so I don’t really know what I was expecting with her new novel, Small World, which is weird, because I’d read her interview with Lauren LeBlanc, what turned me onto the novel in the first place, so I knew that this was a story of a divorcee on the cusp of 50 whose sister moves in with her after many years of a continent between them, and that their coming together again prompts a reevaluation of a childhood spent in the shadow of their sister Eleanor, who was born in between them and lived with disabilities until her death which led to the end of their parents’ marriage and their mother’s fervid mix of despair at this loss and years of activism in a fight for disability inclusion.
But I didn’t know how such a book could turn out to be so funny, how sisters Joyce and Lydia could turn out to be both be so difficult (with each other, and the world in general) in such different ways, and how this story that weaves back and forth between the sisters’ childhood and the present day could be so perfectly complemented by the inclusion of found prose poems Joyce has taken from posts on a Neighbourhood app called Small World, similar to Nextdoor:
INCONSIDERATE NOISE
I’ve lived on what used to be
a quiet street in
West Cambridge
I say “used to” because
recently
two families with young children
moved in
and destroyed the peacefulness of the street…
The tension between Joyce and Lydia remains unaddressed until the arrival of new upstairs neighbours operating a yoga studio/wellness centre above their living room forces things to a head, Joyce frustrated by the neighbours’ lack of adherence to rules and general decency, and by Lydia’s lack of support as she tries to resist their friendly overtures, and things between them get even weirder and uncomfortable, but their childhoods made for weird and uncomfortable, for them, a most familiar terrain, and it’s here where they finally begin to understand how much they lost and also never really realized they had during the years they had Eleanor and afterwards.
This is a novel about inclusion on all kinds of levels, about how both sisters felt removed from their mother’s connection to Eleanor, and from the family life that had Eleanor’s care at the centre, and about what community means and what family means and the impossible standards people (mothers in particular) are forced to live up to, and those miraculous people who see us, who save us.
January 16, 2023
Modern Fables, by Mikka Jacobsen
Modern Fables started out strong and never quit, a collection of personal essays that begin with a wake (with whisky, which leads to a brawl) and concludes with a wedding (with watermelon vodka-cocktails, which leads to Jacobsen fucking the best man, and the dissolution of her friendship with the bride). And in between, a wide of stories that take no sides, but instead examine every side—on sports and mascots (you can read an excerpt at 49thShelf); about a white Albertan’s relationship to the Indigenous peoples upon whose land she lives (complicated by her psychologist mother’s shamanism); such an artful revenge essay on a shitty ex-lover who turns out to be a plagiarist but which is also a treatise on women’s work and textile arts, and Mrs. Ramsay’s brown stocking.
In “Kurt Vonnegut Lives on Tinder,” Jacobsen notes how an affinity for the Slaughterhouse Five author is shorthand for something on the popular hook-up app, and resolves to figure out just what that means. “Modern Fables” tells the story of a relationship with a seeming pathological liar, and also catfishing, and cats, and rabbits, and other dead household pets. “Me vs. Brene Brown” is another story of a love story gone sour, in this case between Jacobsen and Brown’s ideas about been empathy and shame, which seem revolutionary at first, but Jacobsen soon realizes she’s read something like them else before (oh, yeah, right, in almost every work of literature ever, not least of all The Scarlet Letter), not to mention how Brown’s work seems to preclude the possibility of a fulfilling life outside of a nuclear family, and what Brown’s folksiness might suggest about what she thinks of the intelligence of her readership. And finally, “David Silver,” taking on the 90210 actor and other notable Davids (including he who battled Goliath) in a rich and provocative piece on mental illness, convening with the spirit world, and the possibility of cosmic order.
I loved this book, a collection that relit my flame of passion for the personal essay, a collection up there with Susan Olding’s two, which are some of the finest in CanLit—in Freehand Books, Jacobsen and Olding share a publisher. These essays are gorgeous, brutal, stunningly crafted, and pack a punch, like a one-two, WHAM, and then another, and then another, you’re sad when it’s all done.
December 8, 2022
Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands, by Kate Beaton
In October I went to see Kate Beaton present her graphic memoir Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands at the Art Gallery of Ontario, and the force of that presentation kind of made the book itself beside the point, hence the reason I’m posting about it two months later, but it’s still on my mind.
Before Kate Beaton made a name for herself drawing ridiculously clever comics inspired by classic literature and history, she was an arts grad from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, with student loans to pay off and little opportunity for lucrative employment, and certainly not anywhere near her home, from which people have been leaving to find work since even before the coal mining industry went bust. In her AGO presentation (the most riveting, hilarious, generous, and vulnerable author talk I’ve ever been to, complete with music and singing), Beaton talked about her grandfather travelling to the prairies to find work as a farmhand, decades before her own journey west. She talked about what it does to a place to be robbed of its people and connections, and what it does to a self to belong to a place where you’re taught that a future isn’t possible.
In the early 2000s, Beaton moved to Alberta for well-paid work in the oil sands, and it was a strange and lonely existence rife with contradictions, which she captures beautifully in Ducks. Lonely and never alone, out of place but surrounded by people she recognizes as like those from home, earning money but nothing to spend it on, small in an immense awe-inspiring landscape being desecrated by industry.
Beaton’s drawings are composed in shades of grey, which is fitting for a story with such nuance. While Beaton doesn’t shy away from showing the reality of such a peculiar social environment, that women suffer in places like this, she also shows that the suffering isn’t limited, and that people being forced to travel far from home for work that is soul-destroying, not to mention ecologically devastating, are suffering too, and the real culprit is capitalism, a system that devalues people and communities, a system that pushes people to the point of breaking.
Beaton’s dream is to work in museums, putting her degree to good use, and she gets her break after a year in the oil sands, which she leaves for a part time position at a marine museum in Victoria…which turns out to barely be enough to live on, let alone pay off her loans, and so Beaton returns for another year in the Oil Sands, but here she begins publishing her comics on her Livejournal, pieces that would become Hark A Vagrant, from which Beaton would make her name, become a bestselling author, and (that rarest of things) an artist able to earn a living from her work. After a stint as a New York art sensation, Beaton once again lives in Cape Breton.
A happy ending then, but Kate Beaton is truly one in a million, and in the years since her time in the oil sands, she hasn’t forgotten what she saw, and what she learned. About humanity in the midst of inhumanity, and the worthiness of ordinary people to live good lives in the places where they come from. It’s not black and white, and that’s why Ducks is worth reading.
December 5, 2022
The Elephant on Karluv Bridge, by Thomas Trofimuk
“The elephant came, as I predicted, Really, in the span of more than six hundred years, an elephant was inevitable.”
A novel about an elephant escaped from the Prague Zoo, narrated by centuries-old bridge?
I wanted to read it, and purchased a copy in the summer that I’ve now scrambled to fit into my 2022 reads, and I’m so glad I did, because I loved it. Thoughtful, artful, playful (a note on an opening page reads, “Any resemblance to actual elephants, living or dead, is entirely deliberate), Thomas Trofimuk’s latest novel, The Elephant on Karluv Bridge, is an absorbing literary puzzle and truly a delight to encounter.
Sál, the elephant, escapes from the zoo, and The Bridge saw it coming, but of course, The Bridge has seen a lot already in six centuries. Everyone else on the streets of Prague, however, is caught unaware, including the zoo’s night watchman whose psychologist wife has decided she wants to have a baby, and an American recovering-alcoholic whose isolated life attending a lighthouse on a Scottish island is interrupted by her father taking ill in Prague and necessity that she rush to his bedside, her taxi colliding with a street performer with whom she finds immediate connection; an aging ballerina haunted by the ghostly presence of Anna Pavlova; the conductor whose choir is due to perform early morning on the bridge from which Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart peed into the river in April 1792, and whose lead soprano is keeping a secret; and a bodyguard with PTSD. All of these lives intersecting in ways that are both remarkable and otherwise, these intersections woven with the story of the elephant herself who carries memories of her early life in Zambia and the moments that brought her across continents and into captivity.
November 30, 2022
Flight, by Lynn Steger Strong
“What were the rules for loving people who were not obliged to love you? How did you know when and how to trust they wouldn’t destroy you too?”
Readers who were drawn to Lynn Steger Strong’s articulation of parenting and family life amidst an age of anxiety in her previous novel Want will find the same frantic tension in her follow-up Flight, but with an expanded canvas exploring the psyches of eight different people, including three siblings celebrating their first Christmas since their mother’s death, their respective spouses, and a local woman and her daughter in the rural town where they’re all spending the holiday with the looming question of what to do with their mother’s house hanging over their heads.
And oh yes, anxiety abounds, including financial anxiety, and parenting anxiety, and climate anxiety, and the existential drama of trying to be in the world when the one person who’d held that world and all its meaning together…is gone.
The book resonated, and I devoured it, the plot taut and so compelling as the siblings come together in a moment of extra-family crisis, but I also read it with great interst in and respect for its crafting, for the cumulative depths of so many different points of view, for how so many parts culminate in such a rich and satisfying whole.
Of course, there’s obligatory bitchiness and bad behaviour, all delicious and readable, inevitable when any family dynamic gets put under the microscope, but where Steger Strong really succeeds is in making her story more than that. Imagining something better, the possibility of warmth and connection persisting, of mutual understanding.
November 21, 2022
Ordinary Wonder Tales, by Emily Urquhart
‘I don’t think I just imagined her, the woman I was left alone with in the last few minutes before I was taken into surgery. I don’t know if she was a nurse, or some kind of technician, but she seemed terribly official, sitting at a table with paperwork while I contemplated the IV needle stuck in my hand. “Section?” she asked me, and I told her yes. “What for?” I said, “The baby’s transverse.” Lying across my womb, its little bum wedged in at the top and refusing to budge no matter how much I stood on my head, played soothing music into my pelvis, or shone a flashlight into my vagina. “Well,” said the woman at the table, sorting through her papers. “Kids will screw you somehow. If it wasn’t that, it would be labour, then they’d grow up to be teenagers. They always find a way.” “But it’s all worth it, right?” I asked her. “No.” She put down her papers. “I don‘t think it is.” Then she got up, left through a different door, and I never saw her again.’ —from my 2010 essay LOVE IS A LET-DOWN, first published in The New Quarterly
“She was a witch,” I said to my husband on Friday night as I was reading Emily Urquhart’s essay collection Ordinary Wonder Tales. (Our baby from the essay is now actually a teenager and was out babysitting somebody else’s children down the street.) “The woman from the hospital who told me that kids always screw you. You remember.”
And he did. Even though he hadn’t been there when it happened, had already been whisked away to get read for the surgery that would deliver our first child into the world, even though these were throwaway comments that someone had made almost fourteen years ago now, but those commets had haunted us, especially in those difficult months after her birth when I was afflicted with what I now know was postpartum depression, and they’d felt like a curse.
“If that was a story, she would have been a witch,” I said, Urquhart’s stories blowing my mind with their illumination of the links between ordinary and extraordinary, how the otherworldly lessons of fairy tales (or “wonder tales”) have much to teach us about our own experiences. Experiences including pregnancy, parenthood and living through a pandemic underlining that we’re all more connected to these stories than we might have imagined, to all that came before us, to superstition, signs and omens, and folklore. We’re all old wives, at heart, is what Urquhart is saying.
Urquhart, whose academic background in folklore informed her first book Beyond the Pale (she is also author of a celebrated book inspired by her artist-father), brings that same approach to these beautiful essays exploring the sublime edge of ordinary experiences including an ectopic pregnancy, childhood memories of a ghostly presence, sightings of her elder half-brother after his death in his 30s, a violent assault delineating the dynamic of woman as prey, an amniocentesis in an essay called “Child Unwittingly Promised,” a radioactive house in Port Hope, Ontario, and her father’s dementia against the backdrop of the Covid-19 Pandemic.
These essays—beautiful, rich and absorbing-will change the way you see your place in the world, and they’ll leave you noticing all the magic at its fringes.
November 17, 2022
Francie’s Got a Gun, by Carrie Snyder
I loved Francie’s Got a Gun, a new novel by Carrie Snyder, whose Juliet Stories was a finalist for the Governor General’s Awards in 2012, and whose debut, Hair Hat, was part of a Canada Reads spin-off I ran in 2010. (Her third book, Girl Runner, was a finalist for the Writers Trust Fiction Prize.) It’s a taut, tension-filled story of a young girl who’s running with a gun in her hand, the question of “where did she come from” taking precedent over “where is she going?” because maybe the ending it inevitable. But is it? The story moving between Francie on the run and the story of what led to the events that sent her running, this latter told through a variety of voices—Francie’s family, her teacher, friends—and it’s a story of community, and responsibility, and how we do and don’t belong to each other, how we stand by and/or fail each other, and these voices weave a gorgeous tapestry of life and heart, a treatise on story itself. How one thing leads to another, for want of a nail the shoe was lost, etc. I started reading this book and found it hard to put it down, but refrained from posting about it until I’d reached the very end, so I’d be able to tell you with certainty that Carrie Snyder has pulled off, with flawless execution, a rich and sprawling story, and she really, really has.
November 12, 2022
The Hero of This Book, by Elizabeth McCracken
Elizabeth McCracken is one of my favourite authors, one of those whose new releases are always a must-purchase. Ever since Thunderstruck and Other Stories, which I read in 2014, I’ve been dazzled by the wonderful strangeness of McCracken’s perspective; in The Hero of This Book, her narrator writes, “I have no interest in ordinary people, having met so few of them in my life.”
The narrator of The Hero of the This Book is not McCracken herself, for this book is not a memoir—and its narrator is just as sure that she is no memoirist (whereas McCracken herself has published a memoir before). The book cannot be a memoir because McCracken had always promised her mother that she’d never appear as a character in her work, never mind that McCracken’s mother would make a remarkable character if she did, and that the eponymous hero of McCracken’s novel (a slim book made up of reflections and memories, ideas about writing and storytelling, and episodes from a trip the narrator takes to London in 2019 in the wake of her mother’s death) bears a resemblance to such a character. “Everything makes more sense if you know what my parents looked like,” a section of this book begins, the narrator’s enormous father countered by his wife who was less than five feet tall, was disabled and walked with canes. “She was a Jewish girl of Eastern European descent, born in a small town near Des Moines, Iowa, the older of twin girls. She always loved what made her statistically unusual.”
It’s the most peculiar, extraordinary love story, an ode to a mother who never said “I love you,” because she didn’t have to. A woman fiercely protective of her own self, her own story, and who would—her daughter is sure—be affronted by being put in a book. But here she is, but it’s fiction, or is it, but it doesn’t matter. Like everything McCracken writes, it’s weird, rich and wonderful.
