By strange coincidence, I’m in the midst of re-reading the Deptford Trilogy right now. Somehow in our storage/moving adventures, a large box of Can Lit has disappeared. I suspect it accidentally went to a friend’s church book sale when we were culling the library. Either that, or somewhere in the basement there’s a mislabeled box of Margret Atwood, Robertson Davies and Timothy Findlay books having it off with one another… A friend who is ‘down-sizing’ gave me all of her Robertson Davies for free.
It’s a tough question. I think for many of us in our forties and older, we have unpleasant memories of being forced to read something dreary, and it has coloured our impression of Canadian literature ever since. Strangely, we’re more accepting of all the other stuff on the required reading for high school list - we may well come back to Shakespeare, maybe we come to accept Thomas Hardy or Charlotte Brontë, but the pain of reading about someone in the North End of Winnipeg who is always poor and cold sticks with us.
Too bad - one of the great things of the last 40 years has been the expansion of Canadian writing into all genres. Mysteries - Howard Engel, Louise Penny, Kathy Reichs, Lyn Hamilton; Science Fiction - Robert Sawyer, Karl Schroeder, Spider Robinson; Fantasy - Charles de Lint, Guy Gavriel Kay as well as the blossoming of ‘serious’ fiction - Ann-Marie Macdonald, Carol Shields, David Richard Adams, Miriam Toews… The field has never been richer, and the themes have expanded beyond our quest for identity in the wilderness of the north.
Which is why it’s funny that I’m stuck between two favourites, one of which is Gabrielle Roy’s 'La Montagne Secrète, which deals with a painter’s search for his identity in the wilderness of the North. The other is Michael Ondaatje’s ‘In the Skin of a Lion’.
Least favourite - really hard to say. A couple of recent novels, ‘The Life of Pi’ and ‘Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures’, I felt were hugely overrated, but that’s not the same thing at all. I wouldn’t have been disappointed in them if they hadn’t been built up so much. Maybe ‘As For Me and My House’ by Sinclair Ross will bear the brunt of my wrath - another of those Grade 11 required reading jobs with the hideous cover that was too small to hide Tolkien, which was about the only thing I wanted to read in those days anyway.
I’m out of time, but I’m thoroughly enjoying having this discussion.
ETA: I’ve managed to exclude Paul Quarrington, who is usually dismissed as writing light, humourous novels, but who also has themes of mortality and questing spirituality in society’s losers.