15 Toronto Books in 15 Minutes

In the spirit of participation, but mostly because my postings on here have been both sporadic and anemic, I'm taking up the 15 Toronto Books in 15 Minutes meme, which I first read about on Rose-coloured; her list is here (make sure you read the comments because there are some excellent suggestions for further reading), and which she read about on Kate's Book Blog, with her list here. My first thought to this was, There's no way I'm going to be able to come up with 15 books that are set in Toronto, never mind 15 books that I like. Yet, within about five minutes I was able to rattle off about 10. (My rules weren't too strict: if I thought some of it was set in Toronto, it could be listed.) In the end I was able to conjure around 20 titles, which I've whittled down to these 15 (in no particular order):

Cat's Eye/The Robber Bride/Alias Grace – Margaret Atwood
I'm lumping these three together under the banner of "Atwood Corporation." (I suppose one could also include The Blind Assassin, but I'm not a big fan of that work.) Interestingly, perhaps, Cat's Eye was the first book I remember reading that used Toronto extensively as a backdrop, just as the city itself was entering my consciousness. I was still a teenager at the time and living in the suburbs, but would go downtown often to shop at Sam The Record Man (R.I.P.). About two years later, I became a full-flown Toronto resident when I started my undergrad studies. If memory serves, the main character in Cat's Eye worked for a time at Swiss Chalet, most likely the one that used to be across the street from the Royal Conservatory (which was, I believe, the first one in the city; I heard Robertson Davies used to eat there). It's since been demolished to make room for a condominium. Blah. Of these three books, Alias Grace, with its mid-1800s Toronto setting, is the one I enjoyed the most (although Robber Bride comes a close second).

Unless – Carol Shields
My personal favourite of Shields' work. The Toronto scenes involving her daughter take place in the neighbourhood I was living at the time (Bathurst/Bloor), making things that much more immediate.

The Rebel Angels – Robertson Davies
While the university setting is fictional, it's supposedly based on the University of Toronto's Trinity College (with a further nod to Massey College, where Davies was the Master for many years). This book is great fun, and contains the best character Davies created, Parlabane.

King Leary – Paul Quarrington
I read this and Quarrington's other great comic novel, Whale Music, back to back. I was playing a lot of shinny hockey on a makeshift, primitive rink on Brunswick Ave. when I read this, which added to the fun of reading a book about the sport.

The Romantic – Barbara Gowdy
Truthfully, I don't remember much about this novel, except how much I enjoyed it when I read it. I was also single at the time and most likely believed in an idealistic, romantic love, so I was probably an easy target for this kind of book. Oddly, and this is something I should correct, it's the only Gowdy book I've read.

The City Man – Howard Akler
Yes, the author is one of my oldest, closest and dearest friends. (I think he might have bought me King Leary, actually. And the rink on Brunswick where we played hockey was across the street from his dive-y basement apartment.) Yes, the author was passing me bourbons bought for him at the launch of this book (he had an open tab for his own bourbon). Despite all that, this book is flat-out wonderful. Beautiful, spare, hard-boiled language, and a fun story to boot. Who knew there was so much to know about pick pocketing?

Fugitive Pieces – Anne Michaels
After struggling through the first 50 or so pages with Michaels' poetic prose, it finally "clicked." And even though about half (I think) of the book takes place in Toronto, the scenes in Greece are the most beautiful and memorable.

Typing in 26 Keys – Matt Cohen
I read two memoirs back to back dealing with similar time frames: George (formally Doug) Fetherling's Travels By Night: A Memoir of the Sixties, and Cohen's book, and much preferred Cohen's. (And any book that pisses off Robert Fulford must be doing something right.) It made me wish I was around in the late 1960s and hanging out with the Rochdale College crowd. (It also made me wonder: when is Dennis Lee, who is perhaps the most influential person from that whole period, going to pen a memoir?) Even though I enjoyed this book, I've still yet to finish one of Cohen's novels. And I probably never will.

Shadowmaker: The Life of Gwendolyn MacEwen – Rosemary Sullivan
I really should put a Gwen MacEwen poetry collection here instead of this fantastic biography, but MacEwen's work doesn't necessarily seem rooted in Toronto. It doesn't need Toronto, in other words – MacEwen's poetry lives and breathes in some other mystical, magical place. Yet Sullivan's book truly evokes the city, particularly the 1960s when the Bohemian Embassy played such an important role in the development of this city's literary culture. A fascinating study of a poet whose stature will only continue to grow with each passing year. (MacEwen died in her apartment on Robert St., the same street I lived on for about four years.)

In the Skin of a Lion – Michael Ondaatje
Not much to say except that it's perhaps the greatest of all Toronto books, particularly Ondaatje's wondrous descriptions of the construction of the Bloor St. viaduct and the Harris Filtration Plant. A book that's essential to understanding the immigrant experience of early Toronto.

Consolation – Michael Redhill
Enjoyable for a glimpse into early Toronto, as well as early photographic techniques! Redhill nicely weaves the two separate narratives into a cohesive whole. (Yikes, does that sentence sound pretentious?)

1978 – Daniel Jones
I got interested in this novel because of some correspondence I came across in my work from Jones (who was known primarily by that one-name moniker). He's one of the most interesting figures in the Toronto small press literary scene, and his poetry readings, from my understanding, would sometimes feature his penis. He struggled with depression and committed suicide in 1994. This novel captures the punk-fueled Toronto scene in the late 1970s. It's lively, energetic and chaotic, much like the years it depicts. You can read an excerpt here.

Save Me, Joe Louis – MT Kelly
I put this on the list because Kelly captures the tawdry, somewhat depressing world of boxing so evocatively. Also, the author gave me an autographed copy of a book about cats and a nice bottle of red wine about two years ago. I'm easily bought.

Raymond and Hannah – Stephen Marche
A wonderful and unconventional love story. Not to mention it explores the modern romance, where e-mail can play a significant role in the wooing process. Parts of this book are set in my workplace as well, which breeds familiarity. Other parts are set in Israel, which is not as familiar.

Once – Rebecca Rosenblum
No, I'm not including this because her blog gave me the idea for this post... But because it's the most recent book set in the city that I enjoyed. Perhaps oddly, given how I consider myself an urban dweller, my favourite scenes in the stories tend to take place in the outer reaches of the city, such as the buses that reach out to the more distant Toronto and the extended city's strip malls. (That being said, I found myself on the 123 Shorncliffe route last night at 10:00, which was a somewhat surreal experience.) Besides, she gives good blog.

Please note: no Russell Smith.

randomness

A few things rattling in my brain this evening:

- I forgot how different camping is in the US versus Canada. I spent many summers in my youth in a Coleman trailer in the wonderful United States of America - living in Montreal, the folks confined our travels to the eastern seaboard, primarily Maine (which I'd love to visit again) - but have camped almost exclusively in the last 10 years (when I rediscovered the great outdoors) in Ontario. I had an extra-long long weekend this past weekend camping in upstate NY, at Letchworth State Park. It was a spontaneous trip planned on the fly, and was largely quite wonderful. It helps that I have a thing for running water and water falls. Yet, spoiling the experience was some terribly unruly campers from NY who were intent on speaking very loudly at midnight ("quiet time" was supposedly 10 pm), hitting the car with a soccer ball, and walking through our site to visit the loo. I don't remember experiencing the same type of camper in Ontario's Provincial Parks. More important, was I loud and obnoxious when we camped in the Adirondacks when I was a kid?

- It's fun to read a Spenser novel by Robert Parker after so many years. Ideal campsite reading. (For those curious, it was Looking for Rachel Wallace. I have the 1980 Dell paperback if someone wishes to borrow it. A fun read.) I brought Jane Austen's Emma as well, but didn't get around to breaking the spine. (Well, I broke the spine when I was supposed to read it in my Introduction to the Novel class during my first-year undergrad, but never got past page 30 or so. I'm determined to finish all the books in my various syllabuses from years past.) I think it might be next in the queue, particularly since I don't have any books waiting for me at the TPL. I also bought Leonard Michaels' The Collected Stories, which I'll dip into over the next few weeks.

- Hiking really is a great stress reliever for me. File that under "note to self."

- Hooray for Argentina! I booked an Oct. flight to Buenos Aires on Thurs. Nice to have some travel to look forward to.

- You have to love the post-camping shower.

what's happening at the 'nation?

So it seems I've made another one of my periodic disappearances from the blogging world. Not sure why I can't see to sit down for more than 10 minutes to craft a post. For example, I started writing a review of Saul Bellow's Herzog, got about three paragraphs in, had to stop (because I was writing at work and began to feel guilty about blogging rather than, you know, working), and then just haven't had the motivation to return to it. I've been rather busy socially, which is a good excuse not to be spending time in front of the computer when I'm away from work. And on those days when I don't have after-work or evening plans, I find I just don't have the mental stamina to sit down and craft something interesting. I've been working on some writing projects during the day at my job, and it appears I only have a limited amount of writing in me on a given day. Which is somewhat sad since at one time, back when I was a full-time freelance writer, I really used to be able to crank it out.

I was recently reflecting on my most fruitful blogging days: about two or three years ago when I was going through some tremendous emotional upheaval, and when the blog served as part-therapist, part-catharsis. It was a lifeline, a way to assemble the crazed jumble of thoughts and emotions I was experiencing. I had a lot more readers back then as well - they helped provide some necessary support and feedback. My life is much more settled these days, so my blog writing suffers as a result. And while I wouldn't want to go back and relive those turbulent days, a part of me misses experiencing those emotions, when things were so raw and uncertain and provided grist and fuel for my addled brain. When writing didn't seem frivilous, but a necessity.

It's a trade off. And sometimes (perhaps naively and stupidly) I miss those moments.

BTW, that Bellow review? I'll get to it, eventually. The mini, mini review: it was good.

Mini-review: Lauren Kirshner's Where We Have to Go

After taking a few days off from novel reading upon finishing Anna Karenina - I'm usually anxious to pick up the next book in my reading queue after turning the last page on a book, but I wanted to digest AK, and not muddy my thinking with a new work - I took the library-loaned hardcover of T.C. Boyle's The Women from my bedside table, laid on my bed, and turned to the first page. I had read a review of it a few months back, and it sounded like an ideal read (largely because I'm fascinated about the life and work of Frank Lloyd Wright). I'd also read a couple of Boyle's short stories in the New Yorker, and figured I should give one of his novels a shot. Unfortunately, I was barely able to get through the first few pages. I chalked this up to simply not being in the mood for it - it's nobody's fault, sometimes that happens with me with books. (Not to compare Boyle to a legend, but it's my usual routine with Hemingway. My readings of Hemingway are "do overs," after I've barely managed to make it through the first 20 or so pages on my first attempt.) So I'm not-yet giving up The Women; in fact, I may give it another shot this week.

I then tried Arthur Phillips' new novel, The Song is You. Again, this is another book I'd heard much about, and again the subject matter seemed to be in my wheelhouse: any book that relies so heavily on music, one of my great loves, to help propel the plot must be interest. Not to mention that Phillips is a much-lauded stylist. The opening of the novel, about the protagonist's father attending a Billie Holiday concert just before being shipped out to the Pacific theatre in the second world war, is a wonderful little introduction. Yet, it's been downhill from there. I've managed to make it to page 87, but I've since put it down. Not only is the story a disappointment - it reads too much like a middle-aged man's fantasy, of being a muse to a young, beautiful and up-and-coming Irish singer/songwriter - but Phillips' writing style does nothing for me. (I was warned early on when he twice refers to the arm of a turntable as a "tone arm." Ugh.)

Giving up on one book is acceptable; two in a row, and I'm ready to dial 911.

Mid-week, Toronto writer Lauren Kirshner's first novel Where We Have to Go was waiting for me at the Lillian H. Smith branch of the TPL. I didn't know much about Kirshner or the book, except that she was a graduate of the MA Program in Creative Writing at the University of Toronto, and I have a very minor association with the program (as well as Kirshner's mentor from the program, Margaret Atwood.) But I enjoy reading books set in my city, Toronto, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

It's been a joy to spend a few days with the narrator, Lucy Bloom, and a good way to cleanse my system after two disappointing efforts at reading a new novel. Kirshner's voice is wonderfully assured, and her Lucy leaps off the page from our first introduction to her at age 11. She goes through some typical (but not trite) growing pains, including an eating disorder, that revolve around acceptance and the eventual discovery of self (aided by her high school friend Erin). It brought me back to my own adolescence - while I didn't suffer from an eating disorder, I did struggle with issues dealing with popularity (or lack thereof) and finding my place and "voice." (It wasn't easy at a school that reeked of old money, that had fraternities and sororities, and where one's popularity was often defined by how well you played football.) The big difference in Lucy's life is, while she's having to cope with these adolescent issues, she's also dealing with a family that seems to be falling apart. I was especially captured by her father's story: a one-time photographer who was now working as a travel agent in a dreadful office in a nondescript strip plaza. It got me thinking of that thin wedge between success and failure, and how high aspirations can give way quickly to crushing disappointment. The theme that kept replaying in my head was hope and promise vs. defeat and dead-ends. Even though Lucy suffers through a tough adolescence, there's still so much hope and promise in her future. It's never stated in the novel, but I imagine her biggest fear is ending up like her parents. The novel's conclusion, however, doesn't suggest that: as a reader, I felt Lucy was going to make it.

The novel is not perfect. (What novel is?) There were some over-wrought metaphors and some details that left me wanting (how was it, for example, that Erin was living alone in the city when she was around 15?). But these are minor quibbles. One major quibble: McClelland & Stewart needs to employ some better proofreaders. I caught at least three glaring errors, including this groaner on page 318: "But Mom never sped. You know, she would press the break when she went through the intersection, even when the light was green." Also, what's with not having numbers on the verso pages?

Highly recommended.

So in case you're curious, I'm going to make book reviewing a regular feature of this blog. For the two or three of you that actually read it... Next in the queue: Saul Bellow's Herzog.

Something to add to the "what an idiot I am" scrapbook: I thought I was taking out a Sigur Ros CD from the TPL. (I thought to myself, "Hmm, I've never seen this CD of theirs.") But I misread the cover: instead, it was a recording from the band Sugar Ray! Whoops. I'll give it a listen though, out of sheer curiousity.

The big book

It wasn't a deliberate strategy, but it appears 2009 is becoming the year of the "big book." I've tackled a number of hefty tomes so far, most recently turning the last page (over 800 of them!) on Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. This is the second time I've tackled the classic novel. A few years back, I read about ten pages of the Penguin version, but my heart just wasn't in it. But I bought the new translation (the husband and wife team of Pevear and Volokhonsky, who seem to be tackling the major Russian works; I had intended to buy their Crime and Punishment at the Strand in NYC, but ended up leaving the store without it, although I did walk out with their translation of War and Peace), and I was hooked from the start. A proverbial page turner! The true definition of a classic! A timeless masterpiece! Well, you get the picture. This reading comes on the heels of other lengthy novels, primarily Roberto Bolano's wonderful works 2666 and The Savage Detectives (which was a re-read). I'm coming to the conclusion that I'm a novel reader, not a short story reader.

This actually is difficult for me to admit, that I love the long novel over the short story. For years, I thought I was a true short story aficionado. The evidence, while not overwhelming, was there. I had a subscription to the New Yorker when I was 17, largely because I loved the idea of having a new short story to read every week since, at the time, I fashioned myself to be an aspiring writer. And how does one "break in" to the business? By writing short stories, I reasoned. Yet, I barely remember any short stories from those early reads, although I can rattle off a good number of excellent non-fiction pieces. And even today, while still a faithful New Yorker reader (there was a several-years gap when I barely glanced at the magazine on the newsstand), the short story tends to be the last thing I read. (Unless, of course, they publish a new Haruki Murakami or Roberto Bolano story. I'm not sure David Sedaris counts, but of course I faithfully read him too. And Woody Allen, although his "casuals" are becoming increasingly lame.) I'm not outright dissing the short form - after all, I love John Cheever and Mavis Gallant and Alice Munro short stories, and there was a recent John Updike piece that blew me away; and Salinger's Nine Stories is still such an important book in my reading history - but I think I prefer the sprawling, sometimes messy, aspect of a novel over the "perfection" of the shorter work. Maybe because my own life is so messy!

That being said, I'm currently reading The Song is You by Arthur Philips.

(This post was going to be about my own attempts at writing short stories, but it morphed into something else. Which is a good clue as to why I never become much of a writer...)

The number game

So, I've gone and done the big milestone b-day. It was rather effortless, actually. I was in one of my preferred spots, and indulging in a preferred activity, when the clock struck midnight: at a jazz club in NYC, holding a glass of red wine with one hand and the hand of a beloved with the other. In the end, I'm ok with the aging process. I like to think I'm getting better as I get older. I'm in a good head space, I have money in the bank, I have a job that I enjoy (and, perhaps more significantly, is important), I have a (small) group of wonderful friends. I have my foibles and faults, to be sure, but they seem to be manageable.

And let's face it, it's true what they say: age really is nothing but a state of mind, especially when one has health on their side.

a return

Despite my inactivity - a combination of factors, but mostly just plain ol' apathy/laziness and lack of motivation - I am still here. Sort of. Barely. Just about. Well, you get the picture. It's not that this hasn't been a particularly interesting time for me either. I'm bursting with mental acuity and philosophical musings, but they've largely been confined to the swirl in my head. (I've engaged in some writing, but nothing I feel is appropriate for public consumption. Although, let's be serious here, it's not like I had much of a public to begin with! And those that were with me a couple of months must surely have left the building.) Which is not good - I forget that it's healthy for me to get these thoughts down, to make sense of them. It doesn't necessarily make me more happy, but more content.

Some of the swirls include:

- a milestone birthday (fast approaching)
- better looks (largely the result of straightened teeth!)
- the next half of my life (at least I hope it's only half over)
- crushes and infatuations (both real and imagined/virtual)
- a genetic disposition toward melancholy

All of which to be examined, in due course. Right now, there's Anna Karenina to continue. Only about 400 pages to go...