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A JOURNEY THROUGH CANADA'S FORGOTTEN, NEGLECTED AND SUPPRESSED WRITING
The Writers' ChapelAll are welcome!
St Jax Montréal
1439 St Catherine Street West
(Bishops Street entrance)
Tuesday, October 3rd at 6:00 pm
Under the comprehensive title of "Revenge," Robert Barr collects a score of the wildest flights of his imagination, which land us in all sorts of places. Horrors dire lie cheek by jowl with the broadest of farces. All tastes are suited save those the readers who wish to derive moral benefit from their literary pabulum, for there is not a scrap of moral to be extracted, although one can be invented to fit almost anywhere.The first American edition, with illustrations by Lancelot Speed, Stanley Wood, and G.G. Manton, is a thing of beauty. I wanted a copy for years, I searched for a copy for years, and in the end settled for this crummy print on demand thing from Dodo Press. I'm glad I did because Revenge! was not only this summer's favourite read, but it renewed my interest in its author.
In some natures there are no half-tones; nothing but raw primary colours. John Bodman was a man who was always at one extreme or the other. This probably would have mattered little had he not married a wife whose nature was an exact duplicate of his own.With all divorces one must pick a side. I chose to be with Mrs Bodman (she has no Christian name), but as the tale progressed she fell out of favour.
"It seems to me," he answered, not looking at her, "that it is rather late in the day for discussing that question."Mrs Bodman becomes increasingly agitated:
"I have much to regret," she said quaveringly. "Have you nothing?"
"No," he answered."
"Very well," replied his wife, with the usual hardness returning to her voice. "I was merely giving you a chance. Remember that."
Her husband looked at her suspiciously. "What do you mean?" he asked, "giving me a chance? I want no chance nor anything else from you. A man accepts nothing from one he hates. My feeling towards you is, I imagine, no secret to you. We are tied together, and you have done your best to make the bondage insupportable."
"Yes," she answered, with her eyes on the ground, "we are tied together, we are tied together!"
"Why do you walk about like a wild animal?" he cried. "Come here and sit down beside me, and be still." She faced him with a light he had never before seen in her eyes — a light of insanity and of hatred.Bloody hell! What an ending!
"I walk like a wild animal," she said, " because I am one. You spoke a moment ago of your hatred of me; but you are a man, and your hatred is nothing to mine. Bad as you are, much as you wish to break the bond which ties us together, there are still things which I know you would not stoop to. I know there is no thought of murder in your heart, but there is in mine. I will show you, John Bodman, how much I hate you."
The man nervously clutched the stone beside him, and gave a guilty start as she mentioned murder.
"Yes," she continued, "I have told all my friends in England that I believed you intended to murder me in Switzerland."
"Good God!" he cried. "How could you say such a thing?"
"I say it to show how much I hate you — how much I am prepared to give for revenge. I have warned the people at the hotel, and when we left two men followed us. The proprietor tried to persuade me not to accompany you. In a few moments those two men will come in sight of the Outlook. Tell them, if you think they will believe you, that it was an accident."
The mad woman tore from the front of her dress shreds of lace and scattered them around.
Bodman started up to his feet, crying, "What are you about?" But before he could move toward her she precipitated herself over the wall, and went shrieking and whirling down the awful abyss.
The Writers' Chapel
St Jax Montréal
1439 St Catherine Street West
(Bishops Street entrance)
Tuesday, October 3rd at 6:00 pm
We know by many a tender token
When Indian-summer days have come,
By rustling leaves in branches oaken
And by the cricket's sleepy hum.
By aspen leaves no longer shaken,
And by the river's silvered thread,
The oriole's swinging cup forsaken,
Emptied of music overhead.
By long slant lines on field and fallow.
By mellowing portals of the wood,
By silences that seem to hallow
Inviting us to solitude....
Are there young hearts in France recalling
These dream-filled, blue Canadian days,
When gold and scarlet flames are falling
From beech and maple set ablaze?
Pluck they again the pale, wild aster,
The bending plume of golden-rod?
And do their exiled hearts beat faster
Roaming in thought their native sod?
Dream they of Canada crowned and golden,
Flushed with her Autumn diadem?
In years to come when time is olden,
Canada's dream shall be of them —
Shall be of them who gave for others
The ardour of their radiant years; —
Your name in Canada's heart, my brothers,
Shall be remembered long with tears!
We give you vision back for vision,
Forgetting not the price you paid,
O bearers of the world's decision,
On whom the nations' debt was laid!
No heart can view these highways glowingMiss Coleman's poem also features in John W. Garvin's Canadian Poems of the Great War (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1917), in which we find another "Autumn, 1917." This one comes from the pen of Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald, sister to fellow poets Sir Charles God Damn, Theodore Goodrich, and William Carman Roberts.
With gold transmuted from the clod,
But crowns your glorious manhood, knowing
You gave us back our faith in God.
AUTUMN, 1917
The rain and the leaves togetherGo drifting over the world;Autumn has slipped his tetherAnd his flag of death unfurled.
'Tomorrow — tomorrow — tomorrow — 'Hear how the grey wind cries!Tomorrow the stark bare branches,Tomorrow the steel-cold skies.
The garnet leaves and the goldenAre tossed and trampled and thrownAs the hopes of man when the trumpetsOf crimson war are blown.
Unleashed are the hounds of anguishThat hunt the heart of manTo tear its dream-bright garments,To rend its valiant plan;
Honour and valour, the pricelessBlood of our heroes slain, —Shall their offering all be wasted,Their sacrifice be vain?
No; for the great idealFor which our hearts have bledLives — by each field of honour,Lives — by our countless dead;
And a wind of Life is blowing,A golden trumpet calls:—'Rally — rally — rally, —Till the dark fortress falls!'
I hesitate in describing Comeback as an extraordinary novel because it is not very good; what I mean to say is that it’s unlike anything I’ve read. Let’s begin by recognizing that the author modelled protagonist/rapist, singer/songwriter Cornelius Barnes IV on himself. Like his creator, Barnes achieves fame in his early twenties with a hit considered by some as “the most romantic song of the decade,” but his star soon falls into the gutter. Now pushing thirty, it’s been five years since his last hit, and Barnes is without a recording contract. The other characters of note come from the author’s life: Cornelius Barnes III is modelled on his father, Daniel Hill III. Timothy Reynolds, Barnes’ high school friend and musical collaborator, is based on music producer Matthew McCauley. Timothy’s father bankrolls Barnes’ first album, just as McCauley’s did for Hill. Bernie Fiedler, owner of the legendary Riverboat Coffee House, plays himself.You can read the whole thing here:
Sadly, Lawrence Hill, the author’s Giller Award-winning younger brother, does not feature.
Brian shares ten noteworthy finds on his bibliophilic journey, including gossip about the Eaton family, radish-heavy dialogue, and "the worst sex scene in all of Canadian literature."The good folks at All Lit Up have just posted my overview of ten favourite Dusty Bookcase finds. You can read it through here.
1She felt awkward – no man had undressed her before. Her legs were pressed so tightly together that he finally had to pull off her suit in hurried jerky motions. She felt his warm breath against the opening of her vagina. As his hands opened her legs she shuddered and whispered. "No – please – don't."
"It's alright," he murmured, his breath pounding into her, "it's alright."
2Her nipples felt as soft and pliant as the erasers at the tip of a pencil, but her breasts were hard and unyielding – like a pair of Prince Edward Island potatoes
3She drew my mouth against hers, kissing me with unusual tenderness, but the moment I closed my eyes she slid her hand into the salad bowl, scooped up a handful of grapes, and dropping them down the front of my pants. I squawked indignantly, sliding down the refrigerator and toppling on the floor, pulling her down on top of me as I fell. The salad bowl hit the floor with a crack and I slid it out of our way, leaving Maria and me a good double bed's worth of space to flop around in.
4"You can touch it if you like."
I timidly obliged.
"Now trace your way down...slowly...softly...until you reach the opening.... That's right...hmmmmm...hmmmm...that's right, you're catching on...just a little at a time.... Oooohhhh, that feels like...hmmmm...like you've got the knack of it...."
5She started running her hand up and down my thigh, as if I were nothing more than an extension of the bedspread, something that needed to be unwrinkled, smoothed over.
Sadly, this has now lost its innocence:6I felt her hands pull down my pants, felt her mouth take me in – gradually, a little at a time. My body stiffened, coiling itself up for impending release. I tried to step away. But she clasped her hands around my buttocks and drew me closer, deeper, and I lost myself to the sensation sweeping through me like a waterfall. I started falling to the floor – I didn't care – and my hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, pulling her with me. Somehow her mouth stayed fastened to me – my body curled around either side of her face – her mouth still sucking long after the last drop had trailed down her throat.
Even if you're not interested in reading the books, The Dusty Bookcase's tour through an alternate New Canadian Library is well worth reading for Busby's good humour. But if you're the sort of person who spends time digging through used bookshop dollar bins looking for forgotten gems, this is an indispensable guide to the hits and misses of Canadian literature's past.Once again, the head doth swell!
INTRODUCTION
ALLEN
For Maimie's Sake - Grant Allen
The Devil's Die -Grant Allen
Michael's Crag - Grant Allen
Under Sealed Orders - Grant Allen
Hilda Wade - Grant Allen
AWARD-WINNERS
The Unreasoning Heart - Constance Beresford-Howe
The Plouffe Family - Roger Lemelin
Mr. Ames Against Time - Philip Child
Fasting Friar - Edward McCourt
The Sin Sniper - Hugh Garner
The Secret of Jalna - Ronald Hambleton
Orphan Street - André Langevin
BIGOTS & BUSINESSMEN
The Destiny of The British Empire and The U.S.A. -
"The Roadbuilder"
The Canada Doctor - Clay Perry and John L.E. Pell
The Squeaking Wheel - John Mercer
The Happy Hairdresser - Nicholas Loupos
Bilingual Today, French Tomorrow - J.V. Andrew
Retaliation - Richard Rohmer
Enough! - J.V. Andrew
CATHOLICS & CLERGYMEN
Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk - Maria Monk
Neville Trueman - W.H. Withrow
The Master Motive - Laure Conan
The Broken Trail - George W. Kerby
The Abolishing of Death - Basil King
The Pyx - John Buell
Jean Rivard - Antoine Gérin-Lajoie
Arming for Armageddon - John Wesley White
DICKS & DRUGS
Up the Hill and Over - Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
Bannertail - Ernest Thompson Seton
Artists, Models and Murder - Tedd Steele
The Penthouse Killings - Horace Brown
Die with Me, Lady - Ronald Cocking
Hot Freeze - Martin Brett
The Darker Traffic - Martin Brett
Return to Rainbow Country - William Davidson
EROTICA, PERVERSION & RIBALDRY
The Door Between - Neil H. Perrin
Touchable - Lee Scott and Robert W. Tracy
The Whip Angels - Selena Warfield
A Stranger and Afraid - Marika Robert
FUTURE PAST
Erres boréales - Florent Laurin
The House that Stood Still - A.E. van Vogt
The Lord's Pink Ocean - David Walker
The Last Canadian - William C. Heine
For My Country - Jules-Paul Tardival
Fermez la porte, on géle - René Carrier
GOTH
The Midnight Queen - May Agnes Fleming
The Lane That Had No Turning - Gilbert Parker
Cattle - Winnifred Eaton
Crazy to Kill - Ann Cardwell
The Little Yellow House - Jessie McEwen
Satan's Bell - Joy Carroll
THE MILLARS
I Die Slowly - Kenneth Millar
The Iron Gates - Margaret Millar
Vanish in an Instant - Margaret Millar
An Air That Kills - Margaret Millar
The Fiend - Margaret Millar
MOORE
Disowned and Distant
Sailor's Leave - Brian Moore
This Gun for Gloria - Bernard Mara
Intent to Kill - Michael Bryan
Murder in Majorca - Michael Bryan
POLITICS
The Land of Afternoon - Gilbert Knox
Forgotten Men - Claudius Gregory
The Governor's Mistress - Warren Desmond
Margaret Trudeau - Felicity Cochrane
How Do You Spell Abducted? - Cherylyn Stacey
POP & PULP
The Adventures of Jimmie Dale - Frank L. Packard
The Hohenzollerns in America - Stephen Leacock
Manhandled - Arthur Stringer and Russell Holman
Love is a Long Shot - Ted Allan
Soft to the Touch - Clark W. Dailey
Sugar-Puss on Dorchester Street - Al Palmer
Present Reckoning - Hugh Garner
Flee the Night in Anger - Dan Keller
A Body for a Blonde - Ken McLeod
Dale of the Mounted: Atlantic Assignment - Joe Holliday
The Quebec Plot - Leo Heaps
ROMANCE
The Story of Louis Riel, the Rebel Chief - Anonymous
Barbara Ladd - Charles G.D. Roberts
The Chivalry of Keith Lancaster - Robert Allison Hood
The Wine of Life - Arthur Stringer
Miriam of Queens - Lilian Vaux MacKinnon
The Window-Gazer - Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
He Will Return - Helen Dickson Reynolds
Firebrand - Rosemary Aubert
STRANGE SISTERS & LAVENDER MEN
Dark Passions Subdue - Douglas Sanderson
Murder Without Regret - E. Louise Cushing
The Queers of New York - Leo Orenstein
TRUE CRIME
Bad Men of Canada - Thomas P. Kelley
Adopted Derelicts - Bluebell S. Phillips
The Confessions of a Bank Swindler - Lucius A. Parmalee
VERSE
The Four Jameses - William Arthur Deacon
Everyday Children - Edith Lelean Groves
Poems of Arthur Henry Ward Jr. - Arthur Henry Ward
WAR
In the Midst of Alarms - Robert Barr
Similia Similibus - Ulric Barthe
The Hidden Places - Bertrand W. Sinclair
The Runner - Ralph Connor
The Sixth of June - Lionel Shapiro
THE WRITING LIFE
Toronto Doctor - Sol Allen
The House on Craig Street - Ronald J. Cooke
The Errand Runner - Leah Rosenberg
I Lost It All in Montreal - Donna Steinberg
''Your power extends over more than superstitious savages,'' said Fred, "my father, stern and haughty as he is, quails before you as he has never done before any other living man. Would I knew the secret of your mysterious power!"The chance that Fred – and, presumably, the reader – would one day "learn all" didn't provide much incentive, and still I tramped onward.
A shadow passed over the face of the hermit, and when he spoke again his voice was unusually low and solemn:
"Some day, ere long perhaps, you will learn all. Until that time, rest in peace, and believe this mystery is all for the best. I go now to my home on the cliffs, but something tells me we will soon meet again."
And now, reader, farewell We have journeyed together long; but nothing can last forever. All things must have a close, and the characters who have passed before you must disappear from your view at last. I, too, must go from your sight, for the daylight is dying out of the sky, and my task is ended. I trust, however, we may, ere long, meet again.We will, May Agnes Fleming, we will.
The effect was appalling. Sir William staggered back, with ghastly face and straining eye-balls, then with one wild cry: "Oh, Great Heaven!" the strong man fell stricken to the ground.What did the hermit whisper to Sir William? I couldn't wait to find out! But in reading the remaining eighty-six pages I became increasingly concerned. I recognized the story arc, and so came to wonder where all this was leading. The trajectory was ever upward:
All were bewildered, amazed, terrified! Several rushed forward to raise the prostrate man, whilst the others surrounded Fred, who had risen to his feet, under the vague impression that he was in some way about to escape. The hermit, as he passed him, whispered "Fear not, you are safe!" And a moment after he was gone.
In No. 1036 of the NEW EAGLE LIBRARY, there will be found a sequel to "Edith Percival," under the title "Caught in the Snare."
OVER THE TOP
Ypres, July 31, 1917
Calm was the morning, not a Hun to be seen,As I peeped o'er the land which at one time was greenThere in the distance, with a tangle and twineLay the broken barbed wire of the German first line
Peacefull it looks now, but, ah, they don't knowThat our Boys will be over, we have not long to go.As I stood in the trench with my phone on my back,I looked at our boys who were soon to attack.
You could tell by their faces, they were deeply in thoughtAs you'll always see them before the battle is foughtI then heard a whisper, what's that I hear?It was passed by their Captain, is the signaller here.
Yes, I replied, sir, he answered, thank youTwo minutes, sir, for zero, it was time to stand toIn that two minutes, they filled the first line,Then a roll of great thunder and up went our mine.
Oh, what an explosion it made one feel shockedAs we stooped 'til it settled, Lord, how the ground rockedThen, with a spring, a jump and a hop,Like pulled with a string we were over the top.
Crash, bang, went our guns an unceasing clatterAs the German first line we started to batter.It was like one long fire, with a bursting of shellNothing could be worse for him, no, not even hell,
We reached their first line and were slashing them hard,Some called for mercy Oh, mercy comradWith terror stricken faces they were trembling with fright,When we get to close quarters they've no heart to fight.
Onward we went with a rush through the mudFor our next obective which was, this time, a wood.At this we were cautious, they had so many runs,We knew it was fortified with many machine guns.
I spoke on my phone and warned my O. C.Fire on second target, sir, the big scraggy tree.I'm going to fire now, he said, so take a good sightThat is just about it, sir, try two degrees, right
Got them, that's perfect let them have fifty rounds;I knew that would get them, they are running like hounds.Now for a smoke as calmly I stoodWatching my shells burst into the wood.
Then came a runner with a message that readOrder all guns to lift, we will now go ahead.Onward they went, some at the doubleTaking the same wood without so much trouble.
Then came the report; our objectives are gainedThe advance was completed so there they remainedIt was now gettiug late and night drawing nearSo I found an old dug out, says I, I'l stop here.
What a miserable feeling as I sat there aloneAnd smoked up my woodbine with my ear to the phoneThen laid my head on a dirty old sackWaiting, in case of a counter attack.
It poured, Heavens hard, rained all through the night,Wet through and slashed up, I did look a sight;Moreover than that I was feeling half deadBeing forced to partake of some German black bread.
Then came the next morning I was pleased to see light,Thanking God to myself for his guard through the nightOn my phone came a call so I answered hello;A Battery, signaller, you may pick up and go.
I then disconnected, put the phone on my backThen took a glimpse around to make sure of my track.I braced myself up after picking my trace,Then set off in excitement, you bet, a good pace
Firmiy I walked beneath the Hun's bursting shellI am in for a hot time, I know it quite wellThen eventually I reached my old battery once moreI was pleased to sit down by my old dug out door
I sat there thinking of what would come nextI thought of the trenches so badly wrecked.I have been in some battles but proved this the worstI will never forget YPRES on July thirty first