A complex, perhaps troubling, work by Italo Calvino
59 minutes ago
A JOURNEY THROUGH CANADA'S FORGOTTEN, NEGLECTED AND SUPPRESSED WRITING
"Do yourself pretty well, I see. Didn't know they paid out heavy dough for drivel."Another day, another age... an alternate universe.
"Oh, come, now," I protested. "Genius must be recognized. We artists don't live in garrets in this day and age."
"Remember, Mister Basil Hayden, that while I am reading this you will be feeling the concentrated HATE of seven people. Seven people in this room are hating you. Feel their hate!"Our narrator, Mort is fifteen or so minutes into his "thrilling mystery" Blood on the Ceiling when it is discovered that Hayden is dead. "Heart attack," pronounces one of Mort's fellow frustrated writers. The group of seven are about to call for the hotel doctor when one of their number, humorist Isaac Grimm, suggests the police. And so, a new plan is born in which the frustrated writers will cry "Murder!" – then mine the scandal.
I jumped to my feet, spilling chicken sandwiches on the floor and breaking the plate. I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until her lovely teeth rattled.Haggerty doesn't move much in this novel, though he is as a man adrift. A mystery himself, the detective's speech alternates between hayseed and a metropolitan sophisticate. Haggerty's ineffective interrogations invariably include a feeble request for the murderer's name. "If only I could pin down the underlying motive", he whines to Mort, before making a bold pronouncement:
You – know – damn – well," I panted, "that – I – make – a – damn sight – more money – than you!"
I shoved her back in the chair and snarled, "One of these days I'm going to beat the living bejesus out of you and knock some sense into your head!" I returned to my chair and sat down again.
Haggerty hadn't moved.
"Why was Basil Hayden killed? When I know that I'll know he murder. I must have the answer here somewhere, and damn me if I don't get it tonight."I concur.
"I hope you do," I answered him. "I'm fed up with the whole thing."
"Murders are fun," mused Audrey, "if you don't happen to be a friend of the murderer."I do not concur.
I guess that summed up the situation neatly.
Two barges, sent down from Meaford with winches and dredging equipment, located the car in twenty feet of water just below the cliff where Lehman had found the tire tracks. The car was barely damaged. the windows and windshield were unbroken and Ron Galloway was still inside, fastened snugly to the driver's seat by his safety belt.So, who's that above on the cover of the 1985 International Polygonics edition?
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,Published in 1995, Sogensha's is the fourth – yes, fourth – Japanese edition. We Canadians are still awaiting our first.
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
The Dusty Bookcase:A Journey Through Canada'sForgotten, Neglected, and Suppressed Writing
BURNS
The following ode was read by the author at the Centennial Anniversary of Burns in the year 1859.
This night shall never be forgot
For humble life none now despise,
Since Burns was born in lowly cot
Whose muses wing soars to the skies.
'Round Scotia's brow he wove a wreath
And raised her name in classic story
A deathless fame he did bequeath,
His country's pride, his country's glory.
He sang her hills, he sang her dales,
Of Bonnie Doon and Banks of Ayr,
Of death and Hornbook and such tales
As Tam O'Shanter and his mare.
He bravely taught that manly worth
More precious is than finest gold,
He reckoned not on noble birth,
But noble deeds alone extolled.
Where will we find behind the plow
Or in the harvest field at toil
Another youth, sweet bard, like thou,
Could draw the tear or raise the smile.
We do not think 'twas Burns' fault,
For there were no teetotalers then,
That Willie brewed a peck of malt
And Robin preed like other men.
'Tis true he loved the lasses dear,
But who for this would loudly blame,
For Scotia's maids his heart did cheer
And love is a true heavenly flame.
So here we've met in distant landFrom Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)
Poor honest Robin to extol,
Though oft we differ let us stand
United now in Ingersoll.