Can't Lit.

This week, I failed to read the following books by Canadian authors.

Galore--Michael Crummey

And I had such high hopes for this one. He's a former Kingstonist, and was engaging as hell at Kingston Writer's Fest. And it's a sweeping Newfoundland saga with all those elements of epic-ness that slay me everytime--characters with names like King Me and mysterious strangers washing up on shore and all that. And yet I never even bothered to stick a bookmark in it. Instead I used a wadded up Kleenex, and my apathy probably should have been a tipoff (for anyone who borrowed this book from the library and is worried about getting my germs, I assure you it was unused).

February--Lisa Moore

I always recommend her books to other people, but I've never actually read one myself. So I tried, and then stopped trying. I can't quite pinpoint what I didn't like, but then at work today, one of my colleagues mentioned that she's never been able to read Jane Urqhart because she's like the Alex Colville of writers: Stylistically perfect but somehow emotionally incomplete (I'm paraphrasing, but seriously guys, working in a library is this awesome 78% of the time.). That kind of rang true for me as far as Lisa Moore is concerned. It was beautiful, but I couldn't find the heart. At least it had one really great scene, with one of the characters ordering a tea from the world's slowest cashier in the Tim's at Pearson International Airport. I think that might be the most Canadian moment I've heard described in awhile.

The Carnivore--Mark Sinnett

This guy was equally charming at Writer's Fest, and I feel extra bad about not finishing this one, because I'm going to be on a panel with him on Cogeco cable in a couple of weeks (no, seriously.) and I'm worried he might ask if I've read it or something.I blame my inaction on not really feeling like reading a book about a failed marriage, but I'd still totally tell you to read this book. It's about Hurricane Hazel hitting Toronto in the 1960s, and it is fucking crazy. I don't know why they didn't teach us about the monstrous natural and human disaster of it all. So much more awesome than the peasants' revolt of 1837.

See, I think it's really important to read Canadian books. As, like, a civic duty. And I try to keep up on the new stuff, because I like to be that asshole who, ten years from now, will say things like "I TOTALLY knew they'd give Crummey the Order of Canada. I called it that day in 2009." So when I can't get into the books that everyone is telling me I should be into, I get nervous. Not being able to read books like these is like not digging The Stone Angel (arguably the best Canadian novel about an old lady taking a shit in the woods). Actually, I dislike The Stone Angel, so maybe this whole theory is totally out to lunch. Nevertheless, I feel like I let Canada down this week.

I atoned by singing this to myself all the livelong day.



Oh Neil, you're so right. About everything.