An Invitation from (and to) Biblioasis

An invitation to a book launch arrives... and with it comes the realization that publisher Biblioasis has received so little mention on this blog. Seems strange. I've been an admirer and customer since their first book, Leon Rooke's Balduchi's Who's Who, issued in a limited edition back in 2004.

In the eight years that have followed, Biblioasis has come dominate my new book purchases. Caroline Adderson, Clark Blaise, Terry Griggs, Stephen Henighan, Annabel Lyon, Judith McCormack, John Metcalf, Patricia Robertson, Rebecca Rosenblum and Norm Sibum account for just some of the Biblioasis books in my dust-free bookcase.

Such is the publisher's appeal, that I was convinced to purchase an old favourite...

Biblioasis, 2006

...when I already had a couple of copies:

House of Anansi, 1969

Porcupine's Quill, 1989

So, I return to my long-abandonned role of bookseller in inviting anyone not yet familiar to explore the publisher's website.

And I'll pass on the invitation to attend the launch of Anakana Schofield's Malarky this coming Tuesday:

Dora Keogh
141 Danforth Ave, Toronto
15 May 2012, 7pm

You can bet on me being there.

A Leo Orenstein Triptych

© The Estate of Leo Orenstein

Three more uncommon Leo Orenstein covers courtesy of the artist's family. I find J.-K. Huysmans' Against the Grain the most interesting if only because it was the novel that most influenced John Glassco's fiction. He first encountered the Decadent masterpiece in 1935, courtesy of a copy loaned by H. Burton Bydwell, the “fat little lecher” of Memoirs of Montparnasse.

After reading the novel for the first time, Glassco turned to his journal, describing the work as one of the finest things he’d ever read: "it even gave me a bit of a set-back – just a slight jolt – to see how thoroughly, conclusively, & beautifully the spirit of Perversity has found expression."

I'm certain that Orenstein's Against the Grain cover was done at some point in the 'fifties. Who commissioned the work I can't say. If it was published – I can find no evidence – the fifty cent price point would have been steep for the time.

© The Estate of Leo Orenstein

The remaining Orenstein covers are less mysterious... in a way. Bowdler, the foremost collector of early Canadian paperbacks, identifies both as publications of Toronto's short-lived Randall Publishing Company. How short-lived? Well, it would appear that they issued only two titles: Stuart Martin's Seven Men's Sins (1950; first published in 1929 by Harper & Brothers as Only Seven Were Hanged) and The Queen's Hall Murder by Adam Broome (pseud. Godfrey Warden James).

© The Estate of Leo Orenstein

How many copies of The Queen's Hall Murder are out there... and did they ever find that missing apostrophe? Bowdler has never seen a copy and neither have I.

A curious thing about Seven Men's Sins is that Randall lived long enough to reissue the novel with a garish cover by pulp regular Harold Bennett.

Less Dalíesque, but the influence is still apparent.

Related posts:

The Curious and Unknown Leo Orenstein

Figuring Out the Queers of New York

The Talented Mr. Orenstein

The Great Fire of Ingersoll Remembered

One hundred and forty years ago today – May 7, 1872 – the small Ontario town of Ingersoll lost Oxford Street, then its main commercial thoroughfare, to fire. Newspaper reports of the day record that flames were first spotted just before eight in the evening in the stables of the Royal Exchange Hotel.

The disaster inspired verse by townsmen James McIntyre, Cheese Poet and undertaker. He included "Great Fire in Ingersoll, May, 1872" in his 299-page Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889).

Though a nobler town did indeed rise, today the corner upon which the Royal Exchange Hotel once stood now serves as a parking lot used by folks visiting the Dollarama across the street.

A Private Dick's Disturbing Descent into Darkness

Murder Over Dorval
David Montrose [pseud. Charles Ross Graham]
Toronto: Collins White Circle, 1952

Early in this second David Montrose mystery, private detective Russell Teed checks in at LaGuardia Field for a late night flight to Dorval. "Will you be using our limousine service from the airport into Montreal?" asks the airline representative. This same clerk then offers a few nips of Seagram's V.O. in the privacy offered by a back room office.

Teed loses the booze, along with his dinner, lunch and breakfast, during the flight. He isn't alone. All but one of the ten passengers is sick, as poor stewardess Maida Malone moves around a cramped DC-3 with "paper cartons at the ready – lids off, all set to be used."

So much for the romance of air travel.

The sole passenger to be spared the unpleasantness and indignity is Senator Cedric Kelloway. But he's dead of a head wound before the plane lands.

A DC-3 at Dorval Airport, roughly a decade before Senator Kelloway's murder.

Teed, the first to notice the senator's injury, suspects murder. Wanting "Grade A homogenized cops" on the case, he has the pilot radio for Inspector John Dorset, RCMP, a man who has "a mind like a Friden automatic calculator".

This is meant as a great compliment.

Ça change.

But then Teed too has changed. The private investigator introduced in The Crime on Cote des Neiges (1951) is something less in this follow-up. Gone is his preference for Dow – now any beer will do, and the hard stuff has really begun to flow. Teed's corporate clients appear to have been washed away. More of a drunk, he's grown dark and disturbing.

Your business has decayed pretty badly, Son", warns his old McGill pal Danny Moore. "Nobody outside a padded cell would take risks like this without reasons. Have you got reasons? Are you still doing jobs you want to, for some crazy motive? Or have you slid into this? If you have, please let me slap it out of you."

Danny doesn't know the half of it.

Later that same day, Teed will run his Riley over the already broken body of a man who'd tried to kill him:

There was a bump as the right front wheel went over the form, and a scraping tearing noise as the oil pan caught in something and then pulled away again. The differential ploughed through something more solid, and then we were clear.

He'll find a girl waiting at his flat and will suggest that she might be more comfortable in his bed:

   There was no reply, but bare feet whispered on the floor. Then my bedroom door clicked.
   I counted up to ten, just to give her time to reconsider. But even if she had changed her mind, I don't know what she could have done. There was an eight-storey drop from my window, and no lock on the bedroom door.

Just how low can he go?

Full disclosure: I'm Consulting Editor for Véhicule Press' Ricochet Books series, which last year returned Murder Over Dorval to print.

Object: A fragile, yellowing paperback, the anonymous cover art is all wrong. DC-3s had twin seats on one side of the aisle and singles on the other. The senator had chosen a single seat. A "neat little man" with sparse white hair dressed in the "executive grey suit", his final moments are described at the end of the fourth chapter: "The colour had faded from his smooth pink face, leaving it white with a grey overcast. He was slumped down in his seat, head back and mouth slightly open."

I'll add that the hair on the head of that panicked stewardess Maida should be "smooth and shining like black satin." Such is its sheen that Tweed can't help but notice as he attends to the dying senator.

Access: Véhicule's 2011 reissue features the same cover art and has the advantage of being properly printed and bound. Montreal mystery writer Michael Blair provides a Foreword. Price: an even twelve bucks.

Like all Montrose titles, the original edition enjoyed just one printing. A lone copy is listed for sale online. Price: US$59."Extremely RARE number in the White Circle Paperback series", says the bookseller. Can't disagree with that.

POD Cover of the Month: Special Montreal Edition

An ambulance races a sedan in the Grand Prix, a female Olympian takes aim in the War of 1812, Vancouver thrives in the Canadian Arctic... Seem familiar? All were featured in a post published here some six months ago about the whacky Wikipedia packages put together by Alphascript, Betascript and other imprints of Germany's VDM Publishing.

Montreal Aquarium is graced with the publisher's latest series design. Attractive, I suppose, but not so captivating as this image of a man waiting impatiently for the October Crisis to end.

Time moves much more slowly as a child. In my mind the October Crisis consumed much of third grade. Police cars crawled as I walked the five blocks to elementary school, but the real drama and horror played on stages public, private and hidden several kilometres from my Beaconsfield home.

One of Montreal's older suburbs, Beaconsfield had a certain beauty, but looked nothing like a Mediterranean town. And this isn't Montreal:

Nor is this:

Three decades ago, I left Beaconsfield for the city. I never imaged Montreal would give birth to the world's greatest band, or that another of its suburbs would inspire a song played around the world.

Arcade Fire are big – so big that Betascipt has begun offering books devoted to each of their songs... well, the songs that have Wikipedia articles anyway.

Betascript's 116-page Wake Up (Arcade Fire Song) can be purchased through Amazon.ca. Price:  $50.56.

I wonder who that is on the cover.

Related posts:

Alpha, Beta, Dada
Alpha, Beta and Other Crap Sold by Amazon

POD Cover of the Month: Montreal for Tourists..

The Little People of Expo 67

Expo 67: Album Souvenir/Souvenir Book
Montreal: Benjamin News, [1966?]

Expo 67 opened forty-five years ago today. The most successful World Exhibition, it once held the record for single day-attendance: 569,500. I was one of those people. My father spent 28 April 1967, and nearly every day of the following six months at work in the International Broadcasting Centre.

A sort of unofficial CBC pavilion, the IBC housed the largest studio the corporation has ever built. Visitors might watch a news broadcast, an opera or take in the fun offered by some technical guys working behind angled plate-glass windows.

Not much to look at, architecturally the Centre was overshadowed by pretty much every other pavilion of the Exposition. My favourite, the Canadian pavilion, graces the cover of this album souvenir.

A curious booklet, it appears to have been put together well in advance of the fair itself. It presents no images of the actual site, rather a selection of models and sketches that were done in advance of the Exposition.

All are remarkably faithful to the final product. No false advertising here.

The exception comes with the German pavilion.

The roof that went up – in a mere six weeks, it was boasted – was less transparent, less elegant, and looked much like a sturdy foundation garment.

The award for most accomplished model goes to that created for the French pavilion.

 Those working on the Venezuelan pavilion had a much easier time of it.

And, finally, we have the pavilion for Monaco, which looked for all the world like an elementary school art project.

"A reminder that art class is tomorrow. Don't forget to bring in those toilet paper rolls you've been saving at home."

Kindergarten brought an abrupt end to my Expo experience. Over the years that followed, from vantage points at the old port and Île Sainte-Hélène, I watched with some sadness as its pavilions were dismantled. It wasn't until 1980 that I returned, passing the rusted carcasses of the Expo Express to take in the B-52s at the Place des Nations.

I vowed to never go back. And I haven't

Object and Access: A 32-page, staple-bound booklet in full-colour. It would seem that at a later date the album souvenir was reissued with photographs of the completed pavilions replacing the models. Once steady thrift shop stock, copies still show up from time to time. The impatient might try the internet, but should be forewarned that most vendors are flogging the more common later edition. Six copies are listed for sale online, five of which can be had for US$15 or less. The sixth, offered by a Montreal bookseller at C$75, should be ignored.

The Curious and Unknown Leo Orenstein

© The Estate of Leo Orenstein

Leo Orenstein is worthy of much overdue attention for his work as one of this country's early television directors and producers. I hope that a bookish fellow like myself will be forgiven for focussing on his even earlier work as an illustrator.

Curious Relations of Mankind is one of two recently discovered cover designs that come to me courtesy of the late Mr Orenstein's family. Curious, indeed. It would appear that the book it was meant to grace was never published. WorldCat gives us no hits, Abebooks is silent... and yet the identity  of the intended publisher is clear. Those familiar with the eariest days of Canadian paperbacks will recognize the three-sided Fireside Publicatons style in the price.

But what was Curious Relations of Mankind? And who was Doctor J.G. Wood? I step out on a limb in suggesting that the good doctor was Reverend J.G. Wood. I'll even be so bold as to suggest that Curious Relations of Mankind was the clergyman's The Civilized Races of Men retitled and bowdlerized.

It would not have been the only time Fireside gave an fresh title to an old book. Here's their edition of Jules Verne's From the Earth to the Moon:

Now, to be fair, From the Earth to the Moon is naught but a translation of the true title: De la Terre à la Lune. Yes, it's the most common, but we've also seen the novel published as A Trip to the Moon in Ninety-seven Hours, A Voyage to the Moon, The Moon Voyage, Balbicane and Co.,  and The Baltimore Gun Club. The problem I have with Rocket Flight to the Moon is that the novel features no rockets – the adventurers are sent to the moon in a projectile shot from a massive cannon.

Of the two discovered Orensteins, I prefer this mock-up for The Queers of New York (Pocket Books, 1972), his lone novel.

© The Estate of Leo Orenstein

One is left to assume that Those Queers of New York was a working title, just as the cover itself was something that was not quite ready. The Queers of New York is a better title, I think.

A favourite Canadian cover of that lost decade, my only complaint is that Leo Orenstein's name is so very small.

Related posts:

A Leo Orenstein Tripych

Figuring Out the Queers of New York

The Talented Mr. Orenstein