What if your childhood memories had a competing narrative, a threat to your convictions? Would you sooner ignore the other memories than than recognize their validity as a alternative to your idyllic memories? In a discussion of her book titled Contested Land, Contested Memory, Jo Roberts addresses the lasting effects of traumatic memory and its effects on a people. Or to be more specific: two peoples—the Israelis and the Palestinians, respectively.
By providing an alternative narrative, which does not focus on the conflict, Roberts instead emphasizes the role of traumatic memory in the manifestation of generations of uncertainty, pain, and misunderstanding. Both lauded and criticized by the full spectrum of political opinion on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Roberts’ book is thought-provoking and refreshing in its renewed focus on the importance of the collective memory of a people; of the problems that emerge when competing collective memories threaten one another, and consequently impede progress.
Though careful not to equate the Holocaust and the Nakba (the catastrophe, the term used by Palestinians for the creation of the State of Israel in 1948), Roberts identifies both events as central to the collective memories of Israelis and Palestinians respectively. She explains that for Israelis, the achievement of statehood, through the creation of a Jewish state is a moment of liberation and assuredness in the future of the Jewish people following the devastation of the Holocaust, while the same event was for the Palestinian people, a moment of dispossession and acknowledgment of an uncertain future. These moments of suffering linger today, and infiltrate the narratives of Israelis and Palestinians, hardening perspectives and limiting understanding. The absence of consideration of one another’s suffering thus perpetuates and hardens feelings between the two peoples.
At the present time, these traumatic memories are not recognized by Israelis and Palestinians, resulting an environment which denies one another’s collective memories—through positive actions and more profoundly, through silence. The unfinished traumas of the Holocaust and the Nakba still live strongly in both Israeli and Palestinian society, wherein the continued threat to Israel’s safety and security serve as a reminder of the vulnerability the Jewish people still face, and the failure to acquire a state of their own reinforces the Palestinian narrative and sentiment of dispossession and abandonment.
Roberts argues that the acknowledgment of one another’s suffering and unfinished trauma is central to validating both peoples, and ensuring that the volatility of this trauma is manipulated for the good, rather than the bad.
Trauma is often times too terrible to forget, but simultaneously too terrible to remember. As such, Roberts recognizes that most often it is the children and grandchildren of those who lived the trauma that are the gatekeepers to their stories and experiences. It is this next generation which has the capacity to use the memory of the trauma to cease the opportunity to recognize the trauma of their “enemy” and utilize it to proceed towards a more cohesive narrative when approaching the conflict itself. These entangled stories of suffering and struggle inform approaches to the Israeli-Palestinian, and in turn determine how it will progress. Should Israel establish a museum in Tel Aviv explaining Palestinian historical memory explaining Palestinian history to the Israeli public? Should the Palestinians create a parallel museum, which teaches Palestinians about the trauma of the Holocaust and its lasting effect? Will this formal recognition and creation of mechanisms of validation facilitate a more peaceful future or will it provoke a greater sense of complacency amongst one another? Will Israelis and Palestinians forever be mutually perceived as “the other”?
Importantly, in her discussion, Roberts referred to an encounter she had with an Israeli woman living in London. This woman, Nira, had a conception of her childhood spent in Tantura, which was filled with beauty, wonder and magic—an idyllic environment. When she moved to London in adulthood, Nira met a Palestinian man named Rafiq, who later became her lover, and confidante. Soon, Nira learned that Rafiq’s family had come from Tantura as well, and was surprised by how drastically his recollections of the city contrasted with hers. Rafiq’s memories of dispossession and hopelessness, forced Nira to re-conceptualize her childhood, and caused her great struggle in reconciling the realities of Rafiq’s narrative with the magic of her childhood memories. Roberts’ description of Nira and Rafiq illustrates the unsettling but truthful reality of a fragmented historical memory, shared by two peoples competing for one space, refusing to recognize the validity of each other's struggles.
Mutual recognition of suffering is central to Roberts' narrative, and is identified as vital to the development of a more understanding generation, one which could one day be capable of achieving a lasting peace. In order to do this, the realities on the ground must first be accepted—primarily, that the Israelis and the Palestinians are not going anywhere, and one way or another, tools must be evoked to ensure that a future mutual acceptance is a possibility. This sentiment is best summarized by Yshay Schecter who is quoted as saying: “I have no place to go, he has no place to go. We have to make good plans for the future together.” This is the reality, and as such, this is what must be addressed, beginning with the mutual recognition of suffering.
Le 23 octobre dernier était un soir de double première. Non seulement c’était la première fois que j’assistais à une conférence dans le cadre du Writers Festival, mais cette présentation à laquelle je me rendais marquait également le début de la collaboration francophone de l’Ambassade de France et de l’Alliance française avec le Festival, et était la première donnée en français.
Son propos ? La vie d’un auteur français parmi les plus importants du siècle dernier et qui aurait, en mai prochain, fêté son centième anniversaire : Romain Gary. Pour en parler devant la dizaine de lecteurs férus du romancier français, réunis dans la faculté de business de l’Université d’Ottawa, David Bellos, biographe et traducteur accompli, enseignant la littérature française et comparée à Princeton, et ayant signé en 2010 l’ouvrage Romain Gary: A Tall Story. Tout comme l’homme du jour, Bellos a gagné, une seule fois cependant, le prix Goncourt de la biographie pour celle qu’il a réalisée de Georges Perec.
Dès le départ, sans formalités, Bellos nous présente Romain Gary, cet homme à la fois juif, polonais et français, qui était non seulement écrivain, mais aussi diplomate, aviateur, journaliste, millionnaire, réalisateur, et, dans l’« arnaque la plus spectaculaire des temps moderne », doublement écrivain, ce qui lui a permis de devenir le seul auteur à gagner une seconde fois le prix Goncourt. Bellos parle de Gary, qu’il a connu en travaillant sur Perec, un peu par hasard, comme s’il le connaissait (ou l’avait rencontré dans un film de Woody Allen).
Tout au long de sa présentation, que pas un bruit n’interrompt, il nous guide à travers sa vie comme à travers un des romans de l’auteur : on suit Gary lorsqu’il arrive à Nice et décide de devenir français; lorsqu’il est décoré grâce au courage dont il a fait preuve et à la chance qu’il a eue dans sa carrière d’aviateur pour l’armée française; et lorsqu’il est devient par hasard, ou encore une fois, par chance, diplomate français à Sofia (Bulgarie), à Berne (Suisse) et aux États-Unis. On le contemple aussi atteindre son apogée artistique et personnelle à Los Angeles, et devenir cet homme cynique que Bellos qualifie de très probablement peu agréable à côtoyer, et qui collectionne les conquêtes amoureuses avant de rencontrer la femme de sa vie, Jean Seberg. Finalement, on l’observe débuter sa chute, et chercher, pour une dernière fois, à se réinventer sous le nom de plume d’Émile Ajar, cet autre écrivain au style totalement distinct qu’il incarnera durant plus de 5 ans, jusqu’à ce qu’il ne mette fin à ses jours.
Si la vie entière de Gary, cet homme « tout sauf ennuyeux », tel que l’avais promis Bellos, tient en haleine l’auditoire, la partie de la présentation touchant à la supercherie Gary-Ajar est visiblement celle que le public attend le plus, moi y comprise. Et je ne suis pas déçue. Le conférencier raconte en détails la façon dont Gary a réussi à faire publier les livres d’Ajar sans que son stratagème ne soit découvert, les aventures ayant eu lieu autour des entrevues faites avec le faux Ajar, les remords passagers de ce dernier, ainsi que le dénouement de l’histoire, dont la clé réside dans le document « Vie et Mort d’Émile Ajar », laissé par Gary à son éditeur, une des seules personnes connaissant la véritable identité d’Ajar, et publié à titre posthume.
L’assistance, dont la grande majorité avait lu Gary, a ensuite posé quelques questions très pertinentes, ayant surtout trait aux habitudes d’écriture de Gary, ainsi qu’à certaines de ses œuvres en particulier. L’expertise évidente de Bellos pour son sujet ainsi que les connaissances du public ont permis de faire passer la suite de la présentation d’un exposé de type universitaire à une discussion enthousiaste, quoique courte, sur cet homme aux multiples facettes qui était avant toute chose un écrivain, « parce qu’il avait besoin d’écrire ».
En apprendre autant sur un auteur de la trempe de Gary, de la bouche d’un homme passionné et passionnant, et dans une ambiance aussi conviviale était exactement ce qu’il fallait pour que je devienne une grande admiratrice du Festival. J’espère qu’un plus grand nombre de présentations francophones d’une telle qualité seront ajoutées aux programmes des prochaines années, et que j’aurai même de la difficulté à me trouver un siège la prochaine fois !
I will begin this review with a confession: I can’t say that every event I’ve ever reviewed was one in which I already had a deep interest. Generally, I leave festival events and end up adding yet more books to my never-ending ‘to read’ list. Susan Pinker’s event, however, was one I couldn’t wait to attend, and would have committed to attending even if I wasn’t volunteering as a reviewer. Besides the fact that I read The Sexual Paradox years ago and loved it—a somewhat isolated incident in a time when I didn’t enjoy reading non-fiction—and besides the fact that I am studying psychotherapy, and thus find anything about relationships really fascinating, Pinker’s most recent book is extremely valid to the technological age in which we live. The Village Effect largely focuses on the importance of face-to-face contact, and I was delighted to experience that contact with Susan Pinker herself.
If Pinker’s previous book is any indicator, I imagine that many will enjoy The Village Effect. Pinker opened her talk by pointing to social neuroscience, which is a relatively new field that I’m sure will only gain popularity as the general public realizes its relevance. And so, it is within the sphere of social neuroscience that Pinker writes her book and suggests that our relationships with other humans impact our thinking, and even our length of life.
Pinker spoke in detail about her experience on the island of Sardinia in Italy, where she and her daughter interviewed elderly members of the community (you can listen to the resulting CBC Ideas program, The Longevity Puzzle, here). A meaningful experience in general, I’m sure, but what is particularly interesting is that on the island of Sardinia, there are an astounding number of centenarians—people over the age of 100. And although some would think that the physical island must possess magical qualities, Susan Pinker discovered that the biggest difference between Sardinians and people in North America is that no one in Sardinia is ever left alone. An initially annoying fact, to be sure, but it has great relevance for the often isolated or disconnected lives of North Americans.
Pinker later referred a meta-analysis in which 309,000 participants were studied over more than seven years, and—as it turns out via this study—what reduces your chance of dying the most is strong relationships. Despite the value of being active or quitting smoking, how much you interact with other people ends up being a strong predictor of your mortality. And, interestingly, according to Pinker it doesn’t actually matter what you do, as long as you are spending time with other people.
As my own experience can testify, there is deep value in seeing the same people in your community on a regular basis. There is nothing like the Bridgehead barista noticing when you’ve been away for a week, or getting back from lunch break late because you bumped into too many familiar faces. I have seen the village effect at work in my Ottawa life, and I am delighted to have a copy of Susan Pinker’s most recent book to root my experience in psychological research. Ultimately, Pinker pointed out that The Village Effect is a book about her own ‘village’, and about how each of us can connect with the principles of village living in order to live longer. Considering how many books I have on my reading list thanks to the Writers Festival, I will gladly take any longevity advice I can get!
I always feel a touch worried when I go to a panel discussion. What if one author gets obviously more attention than the others? Has a more popular book? I don’t want to end up feeling bad for someone.
I shouldn’t have worried. Not only were the authors of the Saturday night panel discussion at Knox Presbyterian, indeed, stronger than they may have seemed, they and their works were so completely different that direct comparison was gratifyingly a moot point. The fact that the authors are women, and that their protagonists are women “finding themselves in need of bravery, strength and smarts” to navigate their lives is a common thread. As became apparent, however, each woman has written a fascinating story equally about place as about person—and boy, are they different places! Each author spoke about the world they had created so absorbingly that the evening was a dizzying and delightful swinging back and forth from the 1950s in the northern community of Moose Factory to a gritty Montreal filled with near-feral cats, and to the prayer rugs and gossip klatchs of Muslim society in Ottawa.
Heather O’Neill shot bolts of humour through the discussion, describing growing up in Montreal in a seedy district and the links between her and the main character Nouschka in The Girl Who Was Saturday Night. O’Neill has done stints on the entertaining National Public Radio show, This American Life. You can see she would be a hit after thirty seconds of listening to her deliver simultaneously hilarious and deeply sad stories out of the corner of a wryly-twisted mouth. “Well, you know, my dad was really a man of that neighbourhood. He was sort of a …a gangster king. He saw me writing all the time and told me not to keep a diary—it could be used against me in a court at some point.” She pauses for audience laughter. “I was seven.”
The book loosely follows Quebec’s history, with echoes of the history in the majority of Nouschka’s stories. A strip club scene is followed by a meditation on Les Filles du Roi. When O’Neill quotes herself: “a nation crawled out between their legs,” you can hear a scandalized murmur from the audience. O’Neill reflected on the act of writing about the gritty, ignoble world of Montreal’s St. Laurent Boulevard. “The expectations of me were so dismal,” she mused, “But there were bright, vibrant kids there. I wanted to rewrite my own narrative. To illuminate that world, but also to break out of it.”
Turning from O’Neill’s self-deprecating irony to Monia Mazigh’s earnestness is like turning on a warm light. Mazigh’s head scarf emphasizes the roundness of her face and her expression is so guileless that adjectives like saintly spring to mind. Mazigh has already written the celebrated Hope and Despair, a memoir about her year-long struggle to free her Canadian husband Maher Arar from a Syrian jail. Mirrors and Mirages has less torture but certain similarity in its stories of continuous struggle. It links an ensemble of Muslim women– some from Tunisia, Dubai, United Arab Emirates, and Pakistan, and one rebellious young woman who converts to Islam despite her Catholic’s family’s disapproval. Mazigh wanted the characters to be obviously different. Although all the stories are set in Ottawa and the characters do eventually meet, they are set in environments that vary from public housing to wealthy suburban enclaves. “When I get together with other Muslim women, I find we are all so angry about how we are represented. We need to open this box that we put immigrants in. We are so different!” The women are linked only by the constant failure of expectation. One character longs for Dubai but finds that Dubai is a desert – an “opulent one, but a desert nonetheless.” Another thought she would find freedom from stifling social structures in Ottawa, but finds herself just as suffocated. “It is always better somewhere else,” Mazigh noted gently. “Until it’s not.”
The Umbrella Mender, although not a lived experience for Christine Fischer Guy, is very personal – she was inspired to write it through finding her great-uncle’s memoirs of treating tuberculosis in Moose Factory. “What a gift!” she exclaims. She travelled to Moose Factory, an incredibly lengthy journey that she details amusingly on her blog, and immersed herself in the land. She reflects that it was much lusher than expected, and much more welcoming. When she told a community leader that she was writing a novel and he replied smoothly, “oh yes, like Joseph Boyden.” Boyden’s Three Day Road is set in the same region, the oldest English language trading post in Canada. Boyden, she notes, eventually became a friend and colleague as he helped with Cree translations. Fischer Guy’s narrator, Hazel, travels north as a single woman in the 1950s, questions the supremacy of western medicine, challenges the medical hierarchy of doctor and nurse in her draw to traditional healing methods and eventually has an affair with a visitor to town, the titular umbrella maker and ultimate departure from social constraints. Hazel, Fischer Guy, muses, is a “particular kind of woman. The kind of woman that would do that [leave her community to work in a northern town].”
Mazigh commented that her book was intended to go beyond statistics to create characters that would genuinely challenge stereotypes. I felt a bit ashamed for having assumed, partially because it was a panel of women, that the event would have lent itself to quick categorizing – best and worst, attractive and ugly, foreign and familiar. Once you’ve really met someone, particularly in vivid prose, it’s very difficult to use those boxes again. The host for the evening, Carleton University’s Susan Birkwood, closed with a quotation: “Literature is doing the work of politics in this country.”
“Cowardice and courage,” in Sarah Waters’ own words, is what interested her when writing her latest novel, The Paying Guests. Set in 1920s London, England, the novel follows the fortunes of the widowed Mrs. Wray and her daughter Frances, whose comfortable lives have been shaken by the aftermath of the Great War. Their reduced circumstances oblige them to take in lodgers (the titular “paying guests,” a contradiction in terms which, as the author quipped, is an example of a great British euphemism) to maintain the home that is both Frances’ birthright and burden.
Speaking to a sizable gathering at Knox Presbyterian Church on Sunday night, the award-winning author was reunited with CBC’s Sandra Abma who previously interviewed Waters five years ago after the release of the best-selling The Little Stranger. Clearly a fan of Waters’ back catalogue, Abma’s easy rapport with the author and audience made for a warm, welcoming atmosphere while her attempts to quash spoilers were met with rippling laughter from the crowd. This proved difficult at times for a book that Abma described as “maybe not a thriller, but thrilling” from an author known for “gripping tales, page turners” that are meticulously researched. Following this glowing introduction, Waters shared with the audience an early passage from her novel which not only provided a glimpse of Frances’ character but hinted at some of the broader themes of the text. A fluid, engaging reader, Waters brought to life the imagery present on the page, making listeners eager for the next chapter and the next.
Afterward, in conversation with Abma, Waters discussed her interest in the 1920s, a time period of which she previously had had only superficial knowledge (that of flappers, jazz, and the like) and which was bookended by her understanding of the Victorian era and the 1940s, time periods visited in her earlier novels. She discovered a world very much in flux, one still reeling from the end of the First World War, visible in the former soldiers begging on the streets and a broader absence of men, killed at the Front. It was, as Waters described it, a “world newly unsafe” and drew parallels with the anxieties present in contemporary life. Yet, as “unhappy” or “tired” of a time it was, the 1920s also brought with it a new informality, evident foremost in clothing and changes to hemlines, as well as a new modernity, from the widespread electrification of households to the rapid adoption of the automobile. Against such a backdrop, too, was a renegotiation of gender roles as men and women adjusted to some of the freedoms gained by women during the war. All of this proved compelling for Waters.
As Waters immersed herself in the research, it became evident that she had no wish to write about high society. Rather it was the suburbs that interested her, as well as issues of class, freedom, and people who on the surface seemed ordinary but would be “capable of great passion.” While drawing on newspapers, novels, maps, and material history still present on walks around London, Waters’ found her greatest inspiration in collections of British criminal trials, specifically the 1922 Edith Thompson murder trial, in which Mrs. Thompson conspired with her lover to murder her husband. The trial at the time attracted significant public interest, in large part, Waters theorized, because it highlighted anxieties around the shifting role of women at the time. Describing this and other trials as reading “like crime fiction,” Waters revealed that not only did such documents help shape her novel’s plot, they also proved an incredibly valuable resource for domestic details and the anecdote she shared about a pair of false teeth was met with resounding laughter from the crowd.
As most of Waters’ novels, with the exception of The Little Stranger, feature lesbian characters, the author also talked at length about writing historical fiction that sheds a light on the gay experience. She wondered aloud whether she is “recovering lost histories” or, as one of her more memorable reviewers wrote, providing a “queer retrofitting of a classic car,” which provoked more laughter from the audience. She noted that in her work she has never been particularly interested in writing about homophobia but rather how people lived with their sexuality and sexual desires. Later, when addressing her reputation for including rather salacious scenes in her novels, she laughingly deflected the charge but conceded that “desire is a wonderful narrative engine.”
Widely known for her historical fiction, much of the conversation during Q&A focused on Waters’ research and writing process. The Paying Guests, she shared, was a challenging book to write, especially compared to The Little Stranger which she found to be mostly straightforward once she had the ending clear in her mind. Her newest novel in comparison required endless rewriting, the results of which she actually stacked up and measured – an eye-watering 34 inches of discarded drafts. The difficulty, she revealed, was getting the tone just right. When asked if she might write a novel in the contemporary world, she said that as she evolves as a writer and becomes more interested in the craft of writing, she is becoming more open to the idea of setting a novel in the present and seeing what might emerge. Based on the audience reception, no doubt her next novel will also be snapped up, regardless of the time period in which it is set.
The title for this event, 'Before the Truth', was very well chosen. As was the Churchill quote that seemed like an epigraph to the three readings: "A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on." The program introduction gave us an idea where the conversation with the authors might be headed: "…the lies we tell ourselves and others: Lies of omission and convenience, of deception and self-preservation, and the lies required to tell the truth in fiction."
Host Lucy van Oldenbarneveld, the always delightful and engaging CBC Ottawa TV host, opened the discussion by thanking the Writers festival for holding the fall session as planned despite the dramatic events of the week. She thanked Artistic Director Sean Wilson, for his statement on CBC Radio earlier in the week where he expressed his belief that in a week like this it is especially important for our community to come together and jointly move forward with positive energy and thinking. The audience in the packed hall at Knox Church reacted with heartfelt applause. Lucy then addressed all three authors by asking them to briefly reflect on their personal reactions to the week's events. They each expressed that the days of the attacks had not only shocked, they also had demonstrated the very best of Canada. As more details of the events were becoming clearer, there was some concern of a possible overreaction by in the aftermath.
The evening opened with Sean Wilson's brief introduction to each writer: Eliza Robertson read from her short story collection Wallflowers, Joan Thomas from her Governor General's Award nominated novel The Opening Sky, and Elizabeth Renzetti from Based On A True Story. Each of the authors, after first setting the stage, provided us with a good first impression into their stories. Their lively reading style added much to the enjoyment of those listening. Despite the very different topics and genres of the three books the common theme as outlined above led to an interesting discussion.
Lucy asked each of the three authors to share with us how they saw themselves in their books. How close does the story reflect "truth," and, echoing Pilate, what is truth? What is the most authentic part? Joan disclosed that, in contrast to her previous, historical novel, Curiosity, for the new novel she has drawn on her own life. The Opening Sky is a story of a couple and their daughter. But, of course, the portrait is nothing like her family. It is more like taking bits of their and other people's lives and experiences and creating a separate reality. She did switch some character traits from her female to the male protagonist and vice versa so that she could explore such traits in a new way. The writing has taken her more than four years.
Eliza, the youngest of the three authors, won the 2013 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. She is studying in England, working on her Ph.D. in Creative Writing. Her take on the truth/authenticity question was based on her personal experience in a way, but she also felt the fictional reality is stitched together from bit of real life. She learned in her course that at least one character in a story needs to be misbehaving. "Some things are too scary to write about them." In a way it is more a question of "augmenting truth" to get to the truth.
Elizabeth Renzetti's novel, Based On A True Story, is full of fun and irony as she explores the lives of two women journalists and their environments. Elizabeth, a well known journalist herself, currently with The Globe and Mail, is of course very familiar with the media business. Elizabeth's two central characters are in some ways failures. She likes to explore how they cope with that and how to get on with their lives. Also while in her professional life she hears and knows things she cannot share or say. She enjoyed to do so in the form of a comic novel. Moving the story to the UK may suggest some distance but doesn't take away from the fun.
The audience raised a range of questions. Among them was the always interesting one: How do you know when to end your writing, editing your work? Joan felt that she gets to a point at which she has a sense of completion. Elizabeth added that you have to walk away at some point not to get crazy. You can lose control if writing the novel goes on too long. How important is 'genre', chick lit? Elizabeth showed the pink cover of her new books. Does it mean it is chicklit? Of course not. It is a comedy written by an woman. The consensus was that it not very important to categorize fiction in this way. After all, it is well known that, whatever the genre, seventy percent of fiction readers are women.
It was an afternoon filled with literary enlightenment, as Joseph Kertes, Lee Henderson, and Eric McCormack took to centre stage at the writers’ festival. Host Neil Wilson, described the event as, “A master class on the novel,” and the audience sat in anxious anticipation of the literary adventures that were just ahead.
“The authors will be happy to sign your books,” Wilson said to the eager crowded house at the beginning of the event at Knox Church. The audience erupts with boisterous laughter.
Joseph Kertes, brings us into his novel, The Afterlife of Stars, by first sharing with us, memories of his personal family experiences of travelling from Hungary to Austria. On writing his novel, Kertes says, “I always start my writing in a real place, the characters take on their own trajectory. I planned out the chapters and the boys commandeered the plot away from me.” While his book could have been written as a memoir, Kertes says, “Sometimes the truth of the matter is not liberating. It doesn’t give you the whole picture.” In the excerpt he reads from his novel, we get a glimpse of what life was like for two young brothers. Kertes’s literature has well developed characters and the diction and syntax in his novel is engrossing.
At this, his third presentation at the Festival, Lee Henderson, an award winning author and a teacher at the University of Victoria for Creative Writing, begins his presentation at the podium, by telling the audience that he wanted to take photos of them for his Instagram. In turn, they took pictures of him taking pictures.
Henderson gives a detailed account of his novel. As he reads from his richly narrated book, The Road Narrows As You Go, you can hear the uniqueness of the characters’ voices. There is passion in his tone and he has the audience in stitches practically the whole way through reading his excerpt. Henderson, who took six years to write the book, insists the comedic portions of his novel just found their way in. “With prose, if the language started to go that way, I just let it,” he confesses.
Author Eric McCormack, a former finalist for the Commonwealth Writers Prize and the Governor General’s Award, had the audience feeding off his words of his latest work, Cloud. His prose entranced the audience and his presentation at the festival was compelling. On the writing process of his latest work, McCormack says, “What I thought was the best part is now published in Japan as a separate piece of work.”
All three authors put on a stellar performance.
Music can move us to tears. A beautiful view can take our breath away. A chase scene in a film can make us sweat. The amount of things we humans find compelling (from religions to cartoons) is almost innumerable, but cognitive scientist Jim Davies tells us that they all share similar qualities, which he outlines as a unified ‘theory of compellingness’ in his new book, Riveted: The Science of Why Jokes Make Us Laugh, Movies Make Us Cry, and Religion Makes Us Feel One with the Universe.
It is noon on a Saturday but Jim Davies has drawn a healthy crowd made up of fans of popular science and Jim’s own students, who come outfitted in black shirts emblazoned with “Carleton Cognitive Science” on the back. It is clear that they already find their professor to be compelling, and they have formed something of a cheering squad for him.
Davies is introduced by poet Stephen Brockwell, who details his somewhat unique academic background: a B.A. in philosophy, an M.A. in psychology and a Ph.D. in computer science. All of his academic work has led him to become an associate professor of Cognitive Science at Carleton University and the director of the Science of Imagination Laboratory here in Ottawa. He is a thin, tall man who is deeply aware of his thinness and height, as evidenced by several jokes at his own expense.
His idea that the things we find compelling share common qualities has roots in evolutionary biology and psychology, and he uses gossip as an example. Gossip, Davies explains, is universal and it is almost always correct. Psychologists call gossip ‘strategic knowledge,’ because we humans live in social environments and gossip helps us to form bonds with other humans. Gossip knits us together, and it is undeniably compelling. Another example Davies explained to the crowd had to do with Finding Nemo, a children’s film that made him cry. It is a movie about an animated fish, and we are moved to tears by Nemo’s struggle. Why? Davies tells us it is a bit like an optical illusion. Cognitive science explains that when we see films, we forget that what we are seeing isn’t real, and our emotional reaction becomes real. Our minds don’t know the difference between fiction and reality.
It is the same reason that a vast majority of paintings feature people. And why religions are largely based on anthropomorphized beings who seem to know everything a veteran gossip would know. Religions, books, music, car crashes, celebrity gossip, myths, and alien abductions are all compelling to us because they deal with human drama.
Davies stops short of telling us what exactly makes something compelling (no matter how compelling you are, if you give away too much, no one will want to read the book), inviting us to read Riveted for a full outline of his theory, but he does an excellent job of igniting curiosity and conversation. He merely hints at his idea of a “psychological immune system,” which, he hopes, the average person would develop to combat against compellingness. A sort of litmus test to be employed when watching the news or reading an article (“I believe this, but why do I believe it”).
While we may have to read more to gain a deeper understanding of Davies’ theory, judging by his rapt audience, and perhaps against his own wishes, he is compelling.
The screen above the stage showed the audience a picture of a little eleven-year old boy dressed modestly, crying tears of exhaustion, hopelessness and fear. Sitting in a comfortable chair on the stage in a suit and tie was Tenzin, a student of translation and political studies at the University of Westminster in London, England remembering the moment depicted in the photograph when his and his older brother Pasang’s quest for freedom had run into a cruel impasse. “Look at Tenzin, [only] 11 on the screen and he is now [here with us]; he’s wonderful,” said Nick Gray, an award-winning documentary-maker and now first-time author of A True Story: Escape from Tibet, encouraging a warm round of applause echoing through Knox Presbyterian Church on a soggy Saturday afternoon.
Prompted by the host, his sister Charlotte Gray , Nick read a short passage from the book which he wrote several years after the documentary had been made as it is “the only book of its kind,” taking the reader on a long tiring journey through the most daunting escape route in the world, the Himalayas. The passage Nick shared described an encounter of Tenzin and Pasang with the Chinese guards. Soaked, beaten, distressed, hungry and frightened, Tenzin was losing every hope of ever achieving freedom. At that moment he wished to go back to their village to live with their mother and work in the fields but Pasang offered an alternative: they were going to persist and pursue studies in a monastery in Lhasa. Thus, the treacherous journey continued.
Nick met them on the top of a mountain pass after the boys had already spent over three months climbing through an extremely difficult terrain struggling to reach safety and freedom. Sadly, this was nothing unusual; in fact, one third of Tibetan escapees are children who set out on a hike across the mountains wearing pathetic shoes, suffering from snow blindness, and often perishing during their brave flight from Chinese oppression. Having listened to the story from both Nick and Tenzin’s perspectives, it became hard to believe that the well-educated multilingual young man sitting before us had endured so much in his childhood. It took Tenzin and Pasang months to get to India only to find out Tenzin was going to have to return and face all the embarrassment and abuse on Chinese hands again due to inadequate paperwork. Finally, an audience with Dalai Lama allowed both brothers to stay in India as refugees. Tenzin wiped the tears of despair for “the sun came out, our mood suddenly lifted and we saw a new frontier.”
The production of this documentary was unlike any other. In order to be able to show people’s faces without shading them and exposing them to the possibility and danger of execution, abuse or exile, the filming took place outside of Tibet. Tenzin and Pasang, while sensing the involvement of some Westerners in their journey, were not aware of being showcased in a documentary. As a matter of fact, when they first came across Nick, they didn’t recognize the video camera; they did, however, notice a ‘weapon’ on a tripod. It wasn’t until a copy of the video was sent to the monastery through Pasang’s friend in 1996 that Tenzin watched himself on TV for the very first time. The powerful message of the film was spreading through the UK as well as the United States; the documentary was shown repeatedly, including at the State Department and the White House where Hillary Clinton had watched it before her visit to Nepal. Suddenly, the boys began receiving letters, money and even chocolates. Eventually, they were sponsored to come live in England and arrived to London on one cold November afternoon.
The brothers still live there, Pasang working and Tenzin studying, and have visited their mother in Tibet many times since their escape. “She is an amazing, remarkably resilient woman,” says Nick who fondly recalls their first encounter. He smuggled a photograph of him and the Dalai Lama into Tibet. When she saw the picture, she grabbed it and “put it on her head as a blessing.”
What impressed me the most about Tenzin is how sincere, humble and grateful he is – for the crowded subway he has to take to school every day, for the enriching experience the University of Westminster has provided him with, for the opportunities that have been presented to him. While it is important his communication with Tibetan support groups remains limited, I am so glad that he and Nick came to speak to us openly about the difficult destiny of the Tibetan refugees and let us be part of this incredibly touching story of courage, resilience, hope, and friendship.
According to Lynn Coady, writers have two choices when it comes to storytelling: they can gloss over the real, unvarnished ugliness of reality, or they can write honest, uncomfortable stories about real people. Though it hasn’t always won her universal acclaim, Coady is dedicated to the truth.
The crowd in the Kailish Mital Theatre ranges from young to old, but there is an undeniable youthful energy in the air. Carleton’s creative writing undergrads have come out in droves to hear the 2013 Giller prizewinner deliver the annual Munro Beattie Lecture. In doing so, Coady joins a prestigious list of Canadian creative writers and literary critics who have graced the stage since the creation of the lecture in 1985, including Northrop Frye, Jeanette Armstrong, Carol Shields, Mark Kingwell, and Adam Gopnik.
Lynn Coady is an accomplished novelist and short story writer who grew up in Port Hawkesbury, Nova Scotia, and now calls Edmonton home. Hellgoing, her latest short story collection, won the 2013 Scotiabank Giller Prize . It was only the fourth time in the award’s history that a short story collection took home the award.
Her lecture begins with a moment of silence to honour Cpl. Nathan Cirillo and Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent. The crowd falls into a stark and respectful silence for a moment, broken only when Coady remarks that violence in Ottawa (and Canada) is so rare that in some ways she is grateful to not be numb or desensitized to it. It is fitting for an author praised for her unflinching delivery of the honest truth to acknowledge the horrific events that shook Canada this past week. Even in the warm comfort of the theatre, we readers and listeners are reminded of the realities of the world.
She introduces her lecture: “On Storytelling and Discomfort,” joking that those are the only two subjects she can speak about with any real authority. The audience is hers at once, at ease with Coady’s amiable cadence and sense of humour. Her talent for storytelling is evident immediately. In his review of Hellgoing, Steven W. Beattie praised Coady’s “sharp sense of humour,” which “serves to humanize even the most vicious or clueless figures in the book.”
This talent has sometimes been to her detriment. Her 2006 novel Mean Boy, a story about a small town Atlantic Canadian boy obsessed with his poetry professor, was inspired partly by her own interest in deceased Canadian poet John Thompson. The events in her book are fictional; the ties to the real-life Thompson are tenuous at best. During her promotion of Mean Boy, an incident occurred in Sackville, New Brunswick, home of Mount Allison University, where John Thompson had taught. People who had known Thompson had connected the dots in Mean Boy and accused Coady of rifling through the poet’s life and stealing from it. They accused her of behaving immorally. Their complaints were twofold: Jim Arsenault (her main character based loosely on Thompson) was too much like Thompson and also so much unlike the Thompson they knew.
Coady explains that there wasn’t much she could do to convince her critics that she had never intended for ties to John Thompson to be made. In their eyes, she was a thief and a liar. But her painful experience in Sackville led to the creation of her 2011 novel, The Antagonist, in which her main character Rank recognizes himself in the writings of an old friend and sets out to correct his false depiction. In some ways, this novel was Coady’s response to a specific critic in Sackville, and Rank’s journey of discovery is one she hoped said critic would embark on. Rank comes to realize that everyone recalls his or her own version of events and that storytelling, by its nature, is difficult.
Coady believes that our hunger for stories has nothing to do with comfort, though it may feel that way. What we are searching for is the truth. As a reader, she tells us, she responds best to troubling novels. In her question and answer period someone asks her to expand on the idea that she wanted her Sackville critic to understand the challenges of writing. Coady explains that writing a novel is a psychological ordeal. Writers, more than anyone else, need to discover sympathy for unsympathetic characters. They need to spend exorbitant amounts of time on people most of us wouldn’t want to spend any time on. Morality, she says, lies in how an author wields their power. To tell a story is to entertain, but fiction is the one place where we can be honest, whether that honesty is well received is up to the reader. In Coady’s eyes, by being honest, the writer’s job is done.