Benjibopper

[Click on the book cover image to learn more about the book from Goodreads.com.]

Fiction

The Way the Crow Flies by Anne-Marie MacDonald - based on the Stephen Truscott story, set in early cold war in Ontario at a military base. A murder mystery, abuse of power, divided loyalties, and great writing.



This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen by Tadeusz Borowski - horrifying and unforgettable stories based on Borowski's time as a prisoner in two concentration camps during WWII.


The Rest is Silence by Scott Fotheringham - Kind of a gentle apocalypse story, with gender bending.



The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall - The genius is that he gives a sympathetic portrayal, yet shows exactly how fucked up polygamy is.



Room by Emma Donoghue - I blitzed through the first half to see how the five-year-old narrator and his mom escape their cruel captor. The second half was an usual surprise: the story of the post trauma, the healing process. Gripping story (especially for a parent of small kids I think), masterfully delivered.


Germinal by Emile Zola - Craziest story I ever read. Scenes I thought would never end - miners marauding through the countryside leaving a swath of angry destruction, women ripping the penis off their tormentor's dead body, the collapse of the mine and the drawn out survival of some miners among the relentless corpses of others floating in the floodwaters. Thank holiness I wasn't born in northern France 1860.



Non-Fiction
Mothers and Others: The Evolutionary Origins of Mutual Understanding by Sarah Blaffer Hrdy - academic, but helped me understand parenting (not only mothering) and community and the work I do and why.



Out of the Depths: The Experiences of Mi'kmaw Children at the Indian Residential School at Shubenacadie, Nova Scotia by Isabelle Knockwood - A sad, powerful story that helped me better understand the attempted genocide of First Nations people.



A National Crime: The Canadian Government and the Residential School System by John S. Milloy - Context for Knockwood's survivor stories. Milloy tells the stories of how these horrible facilities of systematic abuse, and the attempt to destroy First Nations culture through their children, came to be.

Labels: 2012, best of, books, canlit

Labels: 2012, nova scotia, philosophy, Poetry

Uncoiling now
Letting time loose
Taking it off my shoulders

Labels: 2012, nova scotia, philosophy, Poetry

Monday again
a week since your death
And yet: Monday again

Labels: 2012, Fiction, nova scotia, Poetry

They were hauled into the office and plunked into cushy brownish-orange chairs that provided no comfort. The cold eyes of Secretary Alice White froze them.

They sat and thought of doom. It was called the principal’s office but everyone knew it was owned and ruled by Vice-Principal Morris. The principal, whatever his name was, was a figurehead at best. In the silence of Mrs. White’s frosty stare they took deep breaths, smelled the new carpet, tried not to look at each other, listened to the clock’s second hand tick and tick.

The American kid muttered something strange. "Lamb-are-eh."

He was in the middle. They glanced at him, nothing moving but their eyes.

"What?" Pierre whispered.

"Lamb-are-eh," he said. "It's French for...the f-word."

Pierre snickered and Danh cackled, a high-pitch staccato wail.

Mrs. White snapped her head up. "Shhhh!"

They looked down at the grey carpet, inhaled its chemical smell. "You talk French?" Danh whispered.

"Nope."

"Lamb-are-eh." Pierre rolled the syllables over his tongue. His maman was Acadian but he never learned her language. It thrilled him to know she’d hate him saying this particular word.

"Boys!" Vice-Principal Morris barked them out of their solidarity. He was a red-headed giant with a grizzly face and a gap-toothed beaver smile. He jerked his thumb and led them into his personal office with the placard reading 'Morris'. He pointed at two chairs across from his desk. Pierre walked past the chairs and stood with arms folded over his belly.

Danh took the seat closest to Pierre and Gerry took the other.

"Well boys," Mr. Morris began. "Mrs. Charles tells me you all had a little scuffle in the schoolyard."

He picked at his teeth with the nail on his pinkie. When the pinkie was retracted Pierre couldn’t see anything on it or the teeth.

"She tells me there were some expletives put into play, by which I mean some references to adults-only activities were made by you boys, and perhaps some of you described going number two in certain vulgar terms."

He went back to the teeth again.

"Furthermore, as I can see by your clothes, blood was drawn over the matter. It must have been quite serious. Care to tell me about it?"

Silence, other than Mr. Morris' wall clock ticking. It sounded identical to the one in the main office, equally relentless. Pierre didn’t dare turn to see if it was the same. He smelled the fumes of another new carpet. Mr. Morris' eyes were on him now, and only him.

"Pierre?" Mr. Morris said. His eyes were blue under his bright red afro, like some kind of sadistic heathen pirate on the Indian Ocean. "Pierre?"

Labels: 2012, Fiction, love junk, nova scotia

Before Pierre could count two he heard and felt Gerry’s forehead break his nose. Pierre dropped to the ground.

"Fuck you, fatty!" Gerry yelled, kicking Pierre in the gut.

Pierre felt nothing but the crowd around them getting closer, laughing louder. He could smell the mud off the boys’ boots at the periphery of his sight. He knew the girls would be at the back, peering over shoulders pretending to be disgusted. He winced and looked down, noticed Gerry was wearing shiny black rubber boots. What a loser. Pierre caught and yanked Gerry’s foot as he tried to kick him again. He climbed on top and sat on Gerry's chest, pounded his face.

His own pain was sinking in now and he felt blood rolling from his nose over his lips. His head was ringing. That was fine. He had to win the crowd back. That was the main thing.

"Up - yours - with - a - rubber - hose," Pierre grunted, one word for each time he punched. The crowd was laughing with him now. Every punch got harder.

Gerry was kneeing Pierre's back but it didn’t hurt. Pierre wailed on him harder. It was easy to connect; Gerry didn’t protect his face and he kept his eyes closed.

"Say uncle," Pierre said.

Gerry opened his eyes. There was blood all over his face and a drop of it rolled into his eyes. He didn’t blink. "Hockey sucks," he panted.

Sadly, Pierre was going to have to kill this kid. "OK," he said, pulling his fist back.

Labels: 2012, Fiction, love junk, nova scotia

-

"Tell me again about these guys."

Jamaica’s voice was soft, like a small sharp needle pushed ever-so-gently into the neck. He’d explained it before.

Outside he could hear the increasing pitch of a 767 engine as it went airborne. He patted down his cargo shorts until he found the Maalox pills. The crinkle of the plastic wrap was reassuring. He popped one.

"They're my best friends," he said.

"I thought Travis and Pete were your best friends."

He squinted water from his eyes and gagged a little on the Maalox. She was looking at him so he shook his head. "Nope." He burped softly. "Not even close."

"If these guys, neither of whom I have ever met, are your best friends, why you so nervous?"

"Pierre!"

He snapped his head sideways and peered back. It was Gerry. What were the odds of that? His flight must have come in early.

-

Labels: 2012, Fiction, love junk, nova scotia

It's time for my annual "Best Books I Read Last Year" list, this time featuring 13 works of poetry, novels, nonfiction and anthology. As usual, these books didn't necessarily come out in 2010; that's just when I read them. This year, you should too. [Click on the picture to find out more about the book.] Happy reading!

Poetry

Goyette’s imagery is evocative, precise, tangible yet layered with meaning:


I'm beyond biased here because I've got two poems in this anthology of Halifax guerilla poetry, and I like the idea so much I've written a feature about it. But I was genuinely impressed by the quality of work from my town's closet poets:

Nonfiction

Rogers elucidates how the failures of "green" or "natural" capitalism are the failings of capitalism itself:


Paradoxically dense and sprawling, but worth the effort. You know when people say, "This is how the world really works!" Well, this is part of it:


It's actually a novel interspersed among reflections on a campaign to ban uranium mining in Nova Scotia. I never quite figured out how they fit together, but the former is engaging and entertaining and the latter is inspirational and thought-provoking:




Fiction

Rushdie, having accomplished everything a writer could hope for, seems to be just having fun now. And it's a lot of fantastical fun to read too:



This novel was a rollicking fantastic adventure through the idealism of the 60s and the coming of age bestowed by Vietnam. Above all, it had an enormous sense of wonder:


Counter-intuitive to the title, for me these stories resonate with the sad truth of being a grownup:


MacDonald is a natural story teller and he connected all the emotional dots, providing a poignant tale of cultural change, the erosion of old ways and the maturation of young talent and pride:


The lady dialing 911 for love with all the wrong paramedics, the crack-addicted mathematician scoring rock for Robert Oppenheimer, the single condo-dwelling web designer more easily accepting the flaws of his Andalucian woolfhound than those of human companions – all serve Christie well as he masterfully illustrates the interwoven highs and lows of urban isolation:


Takes you right there, with the protagonists, feeling their fears, anxieties, pain and stress:


This is a good old-fashioned slog that probably wouldn't be published in the modern Canlit scene. It's prose is poetry and it's best scenes are heart-wrenching. In its entirety it is an unforgettable, honest portrait of rural life, its hardship and its absolute dependence on community even when community gets nasty:


Once again I'm totally biased because I have a short story in this one. But once again I was genuinely impressed to find myself in such accomplished company:

Labels: 2012, best of