Literature

What is Anglo-Québécois Literature? (WASM talk)

The Women's Art Society of Montreal , an institution that has been around since 1894, honoured me with an invitation to come and speak to their members and the public at large about a topic very dear to my heart, Anglo-Québécois literature. I had the privilege to outline the topic and discuss its impact on Québécois literature today to a wonderful and welcoming crowd.

Promise held, here are a few links to several publishers, groups, authors, associations, posts, videos and events that I mentioned during my talk.

Sherry Simon and her books Translating Montreal. Episodes in the Life of a Divided City and Cities in Translation: Intersections of Language and Memory

"Pre-Anglo-Québécois" authors mentioned were:

  • A. M. Klein (The Rocking Chair Collection)
  • Mavis Gallant (Montreal Stories)
  • Gwethelyn Graham (Earth and High Heaven)
  • Hugh MacLennan (Two Solitudes)
  • F. R. Scott (and his conversation with Anne Hébert about his translation of her poem Le tombeau des rois)

The Flow of Languages, the Grace of Cultures .. and although this talk was given back in 2010, it is still relevant.

In this article, Neil Smith gives us a humorous look at translation in Quebec : Translating Montreal: Where Blueberries are not Myrtilles

Quebec publishing houses translating Anglo-Québécois works, among other English-language works originating in the rest of Canada.

Alto is a publisher worth looking into as it has published many translated works. Here are just the latest.

And here is the link to Mordecai Richler published by Boréal

Alto and Marchand de feuilles are two French-language Quebec publishers. Many Anglo-Québécois authors have their books published in Toronto as English-language publishers in Quebec are not large outfits. One that was mentioned (in the short video of Guillaume Morissette) is Vehicule Press. It has been around since 1973, and today is run by poet Simon Dardick and Archivist Emerita Nancy Marrelli.

Part of the publishing English-language puzzle is the Association of English-language Publishers of Quebec, an organization that "advances the publication, distribution, and promotion of English-language books from Quebec." They also publish the Montreal Review of Books, "a free, nationally distributed journal of reviews, features, and essays on English-language books by Quebec writers and publishers." English-language publishers in Quebec, a topic that merits further study and discussion.

Another important subject I did not have time to broach is about the translators themselves... do not forget to look at who is translating these Anglo-Québécois authors. Most are Québécois authors in their own right.

The Blue Metropolis Festival will be going on from April 20 to 29 this year. Here is this year's program

The Quebec Writers' Federation is an important institutional organisation that not only helps out English-language authors but also creates and funds a number of community programs, events and workshops involving literature. Their yearly literary awards have been around for decades.

The English Language Arts Network "connects, supports, and creates opportunities for Quebec’s English-speaking artists and arts communities."

The Quebec Drama Federation is Anglophone theatre's version of the QWF.

Don't hesitate to comment if I have forgotten to mention anything. All quoted passages are not my own words and come from the related linked websites.

Enjoy!

 


A New Journal Specialized in Translation and Interpreting!

Transletters. International Journal of Translation and Interpreting is a brand spanking new journal that is looking for submissions for its first issue. Deadline is April 30, 2018. María del Mar Ogea from the Universidad de Córdoba and Christiane Nord from Universität Heidelberg are its chief editors, and its advisory board is full of linguistics and translation studies super stars. Don't miss this opportunity to appear in their first issue.


Re-inventing the Wheel

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From the top of my very short blogging soap box, I tooted my horn yesterday. But what was perhaps less clear was the lack of original thought behind my rant. I am not alone in thinking the agrandisement of CanLit’s purview necessary, nor am I one of the first to think of it.

Thinkers and researchers like Smaro Kamboureli, who have tirelessly pushed this literature beyond its own frontiers, hemispheric researchers like Winfried Siemerling, global connectors of the likes of Michael Cronin, all strive to look outward, rather than inward, to define literature. Those are the footsteps into which I insert my own awkward feet.

The translation studies researcher in me adds a keen sensitivity to language, and its transfer, use, and misuse. A bit like a linguist, I like to follow the path of works, see where their surprising circulation leads. And this leads me to national, linguistic, cultural and sociological barriers and frontiers of literature that erect themselves naturally in front of certain literary scholars who sometimes do not see past them (or see them at all, for that matter). This is conceivably where I differ from several CanLit scholars, I bring the translatory dimension to literary works, in their textual existence, and their circulatory existence, as published works.

Two dimensions — the text and what happens to the text once it is published. The connection between these two dimensions is not one made off the cuff. Researchers like John Guillory make that amply clear. Canonization has nothing to do with the intrinsic nature of the text. So what is it about the text that “speaks” to the instances that canonize them, and why do we follow them like sheep? The connection between text, translation and circulation, how is it forged? A triangulation to be investigated within the confines of CanLit. How does one end of the triangle shed light on the other? Is there any rhyme of reason to the connections?

 

 


CanLit.

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Canadian literature is wide, large and extremely beautiful when inclusiveness is the word of order. It is composed of different languages, many of them indigenous. It is open to a wide variety of influences, often contradictory. And it is understudied.

I am not interested in going down that path, the one of why it isn’t taken as seriously as other major literatures, at least not now. Others before me have gone this route, brandishing various very thought provoking reasons, not the least being our lack of a strong (global/national?) identity. It is this ceaseless inward looking eye that bothers me, the need to streamline, categorize, catalogue and label works, so that they fit in a very narrow understanding of what constitutes CanLit. (What a great abbreviation, just think about it: “can” like the verb, a literature that “can.”)

I consider any work that is produced by anyone who has at one point in time identified with, was born, lived, touched or died on Canadian soil, to be a part of CanLit. Indigenous productions, Québécois literature, being contentious members, are for me, works of Canadian literature. They all participate in the complex conversation that is Canada. The idea is not to exclude, but to include more voices, more works, more authors, in order to open this exclusive club. The idea is to trace links between these different works and stand far back enough to see an outline of what CanLit really is.

History has its part to play in this grand piece, but not just Canadian history. What is Canadian history if European and American history (and by extension their literatures with their authors and works) are not included in this structure? Not much. We were not constituted in a vacuum, and we do not operate in one either. No one does. I’m thinking of Jack Kerouac, for example. Why isn’t he considered a part of CanLit? Yann Martel is claimed by CanLit, how is Kerouac any different? Parental filiation in both cases. Martel retains a certain Canadianness, whereas Kerouac had his completely erased.

And translation also has its place. And not just French and English translations. Here, I have in mind Joséphine Bacon’s poetry, in Innu and French, side by side, translated by Phyllis Aranoff, from French into English. And think about works by English-language Quebec authors, translated into French in Quebec. These are all works of CanLit, albeit from minority literatures.

Works to be included in minority (or perhaps minor) literatures, all under the umbrella of CanLit, works that belong to movements, rather than strictly regions. Poets like W. W. E. Ross could finally trully inhabit the Modernist space it deserves. Why couldn’t regional and literary currents intersect, juxtaposed one upon the other, and not be considered contradictory? And what of chronology? Other than being uselful to find out publication and circulation information, it should not constitute a barrier to belonging. Here, Sherry Simon’s three Montreal Modernities comes to mind, parallel currents that did not intersect, but reflected an era much larger than themselves.

And I could go on. And I will go on. I promise.


Leaving the Shore

 

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I was just hit with the news that Mavis Gallant has passed away. She was truly one of the great dames of Canadian short stories, along with Margaret Atwood (duh...) and Alice Munro (super double duh...). At 91, she was one of those always present rocks of CanLit with a Québécois connection.

She embodied, for me, someone who lived the foreign. "Now we're on my home ground, foreign territory," as Atwood wrote in her novel Surfacing. And that's exactly how I envisoned Gallant, just without the ensuing madness. She was like the white or black dot in the yin yang symbol, always emersed in the Other, that is where she felt anchored, where she sought her emancipation. The place from where she wrote. How she managed to keep from getting swallowed into this overwhelming sea is the enigma for me. Her writings constitute the clues she left behind in order to answer this -- which shore was she referring to?

I would love to translate more of her work, into French, French from Quebec, to bring her back onto her native shore.

My translation of "La vie parisienne", one of Gallant's short stories, published in 1981.


R. M. Vaughan's 14 Reasons Not To Eat Potato Chips On Church Street

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For those of you who are wondering about my title, no, it has absolutely nothing to do with the nutritional content of potato chips or any sort of guide to dieting. It is the title of a poem, one written by R. M. Vaughan and originally printed as a chap book back in April 1999 for National Poetry Month by Ottawa-based Above/Ground Press. A few months later that same year, it came out in Vaughan's collection of poems Invisible to Predators, published by ECW Press. But more recently, in 2007, it was published in Barton and Nickerson's anthology Seminal by Arsenal Pulp Press. This is where, with the guidance of a wise professor, I happened upon it. The poem is a riot. It made me giggle all the way to this blog page.

And now that I have read it through a few times, googled some of the more oblique angles in my spotty connaissances, I find it is perhaps less fluffy than I may have judged at first glance.

First, a bit about the poet. R. M. Vaughan, or Richard Murray for those who, like me, are curious about the meaning of initials in place of actual names. Of course, this curiostity only amounts to silly sleuthing and is usually quickly solved with the first lines of a Wikipedia entry, but in this case, and in the name of serious academia, I relied on the University of Toronto's Canadian Poetry Online website to provide me with an encyclopedic quantity of information on Vaughan. Needless to say, I will not repeat what can easily be found on the above mentioned site, which is chalked full of information.

Broadly writing, this poet, novelist, playwright, video artist and journalist seems to live up to his "writing philosophy" of Genius is Volume. The sheer quantity of material he has written, produced, published, brought to the stage is a bit overwhelming. Until I read the poem I will discuss, I had never heard of this New Brunswick-born, Toronto-residing artist. One piece of biographical information that I find relevant to mention is his passage in the mid-1990s, as the playwright-in-residence, in Toronto's Buddies in Bad Times professional theatre, a not-for-profit company "dedicated to the promotion of Queer Canadian culture." The reason I find this relevant is that it clearly places Vaughan's writing in the Gay literature genre. Gay experience is at the heart of what he writes, and his collection of poetry Invisible to Predators clearly demonstrates this.

A reviewer in Quill & Quire called the collection "A candid celebration of homosexual love" where Vaughan's poems navigate from the deeply emotional connection of love, to a considerably abstract reply to a French revolutionary's last words to his wife before being sent to the guillotine. In all of this rather profound and touching poetry, we find a piece about potato chips held together with strange words of wisdom based on Torontonian geography. And what immediately comes to my mind is that there has to be more to it than that.

 A quick first reading of the poem made me snicker. Who hasn't been plagued with the little (and sometimes not-so-little) insecurities of weight gain and the social pressure to "keep thin?" By giving heed to the 14 reasons, the poet essentially wants to remain/become attractive (reasons 1, 5, 10 and 12), watch his nutrition in public (reason 7), steer clear of social shame associated with the consumption of junk food (reasons 3, 4, 11 and 13), watch his personal hygene in much the same way a mother would warn her son (reasons 2 and 9); let's not forget the financial predicament of an artist which stipulates that he or she be poor and therefore starving (reason 6 pushes in this direction) and what of the concept of luck, where only bad things will happen to you, much like crossing the path of a black cat. Although, I would like to find out more about the adversity of wearing a white shirt on Saturday night.

I have purposely left out the last reason, number 14. Prior to Vaughan terminating it on the satiric and resolutely fatalistic "But now it's too late," the preceeding four lines contemplate a different place: "a kinder neighbourhood, someplace more real, a family place", where he might meet someone who would be able to love him for what he is, potato chip-eating and all.  By leaving (specifically the Church and Wellesley Village, Toronto's largest LGBT neighbourhood), he might have a chance at some kind of peace. The safety zone of the gay community seems to be suffocating our poet. Gay turf, historically cloistered and turned onto itself, has become a space of repression where stereotypical political and social righteousness rule. You have to walk the walk, or else. And sadly, for this poet, and in his own words, "it's too late."

 


Figuring out Gail Scott('s writing)

So, as was made abundantly clear in my last post, Gail Scott's writing is not for the faint of reading…and I am not of the faint of reading. So I went hunting around to figure out what I was not getting. What "secret club" did I have to join so that I may start to grasp what was going on.

The Obituary was my first Scott book. And my reading approach was just plain lazy. I expected the story line, the narrative, to grab me by the hand and walk me through the park of her novel. Ha! Was I ever wrong. Furthermore, instead of trying to step back and take a different approach, I spent most the reading trying desperately to find this cohesive narrative. So imagine just how stupid I felt nearing three quarts of the book and still not getting what was going on… As of today, the novel is stunted by a post-it bookmark at the three quarter point, waiting for me to smarten up. Which, I think has finally happened(!)

I landed on a fantastic conference presented by Gail Scott and entitled: "Le Sujet suturé: langues d'écritures, langues cachées, langues entendues". It was part of a larger umbrella event called LES LOYAUTÉS CONFLICTUELLES DE LA LITTÉRATURE QUÉBÉCOISE organized by the département de littérature comparée from the Université de Montréal, in collaboration with the CRILCQ, the département d'études anglaises and the département des littératures de langue française both also from the Université de Montréal.

Yes, the video is long at a little over 1 hour. But it is thoroughly worth watching completely. I did and now feel much less lost and contemplating restarting The Obituary to look for tid bits I know I overlooked the first time around.

 


Summer Reading

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I have spent the greater part of my summer reading. A luxury I haven't had in a very long time. Now of course, by the very nature of what I do, reading is a daily task (and sometimes quite the chore...like what I'm reading now: Lawrence Grossberg's philosophical analysis of communications and cultural studies -- which I am stubbornly going to get through before the end of August... grrr). The difference is that I wanted to read these novels strictly for the pleasure, no note taking, no fancy literary analysis. Just me and the printed word, and the potential it has to tickle my fancy. Here are the titles I have read so far:

Iced Under; Nadine Doolittle

Behind the Face of Winter; H. Nigel Thomas

Out of my Skin; Tessa McWatt

The Enemy Within; Nalini Warriar

Cockroach; Rawi Hage

The Obituary; Gail Scott

If I had to group them, Hage's Cockroach would be in the same category as McWatt's Out of my Skin and Thomas' Behind the Face of Winter would more easily be associated with Warriar's The Enemy Within and Doolittle's Iced Under. Scott's The Obituary stands alone for a few reasons, but mostly because of its incredibly experimental nature which renders the exercise of my somewhat detached summer reading into a more laborious effort. But before I go any further, a bit of background.

I can't claim to be the composer of this reading list. With the exception of Doolittle's Iced Under, the list was put together by my supervisor Lianne Moyes, and will constitute, along with other titles, the core of a class she will be teaching this fall on Anglo-Québécois literature. The course will (very-short-and-curt-description-that-does-not-do-it-justice coming up here) look at how these authors express cultural mixité in their writing.

I, however, will simply comment on my impression of these novels, a lighter sort of reviewing... the kind you can read with a morning coffee in hand and not sweat over during an evening graduate-level course.

For the most part, the voices of these novels are represented by immigrants (most living in the city of Montreal).The main character in Out of my Skin, Daphne Baird/Muriel Eyre, has recently escaped Toronto, where she was raised by her adoptive family, to come to Montreal;  but her background situates her somewhere in the Caribbean, just like the character Perdro Moore in Behind the Face of Winter. Sita, the main character of The Enemy Within, arrived in Quebec City as a young bride from the city of Aluvha, in Kerala, on the south-west coast of India. The main character in Cockroach -- who considers himself a cockroach in the true sense of the term, not the figurative one -- hails from the Middle East and his name is nowhere to be found. In the case of Iced Under, the main character is from Toronto and has moved to a small Quebec border town to escape a messy divorce. In The Obituary, the main character observes many different immigrants (and non-immigrants) in the neighbourhood of Mile End, but I am unsure how to classify her. 

The vast differences of origins and identity, as well as the actual stories themselves, make this round-up of novels look like more of a big hodge pogde of (almost) "migrant literature". But strangely, the writing in all these books give off a certain cohesiveness, one to which I alluded a couple paragraphs ago with different groupings based in part on the "voice" of the novel.

Group 1. This first grouping includes the novels with a surreal, mentally unstable quality in their characters. Reality is skewed by their vision of themselves and the outside world, like a filter through which experiences, social and individual, pass in order to be understood or perhaps simply just to be stacked away for later observation.

In the case of Daphne (Out of my Skin), she seems to make a breakthrough at the end of the novel, past this fabricated inner world where she explores her family past through her mentally unstable natural grandfather's diaries. But all through the novel, she comes off more like a teenager or a young adult than a thirty-something woman.

In Cockroach, the main character has a habit of entering other people's  apartments to look at and steal objects (of no monetary value). It's the way he enters that is interesting: he turns into a cockroach and climbs into drain pipes and through cracks to enter the premises. The story ends by his disappearing down a drain, just like a cockroach… I won't say anything more here, don't want to mess with the ending. 

Throughout both novels in this group, the concept of integration into normal life is challenged regularly, in part due to this "foreign" identity. But somehow, I do not get the impression that the goal for either of the characters was ultimately integration by seeking the approval of society (at large). It's all about an inner journey. The outside world, and gaining a footing in it, is not the point, ultimately.

Group 2. The next grouping is based in part on the length of time depicted in the stories and the narration of continuous hardships in the task of breaking through and succeeding in life, i.e. integration into society, malgré the (migratory) provenance.

In Behind the Face of WInter, Pedro literally fights his way into a place of acceptance with all required compromising, but not quite the way his mother (or grandmother) had traced out for him. The nostalgic ending makes one give off a sigh and set eyes on the horizon… the kind of ending that did not, in my mind, do any justice to the preceding chapters of the book. But if I think about it, I'm not quite sure how else one could have ended the novel.

The actual title of this next book, The Enemy Within, rested ominously in the back of my mind throughout the whole reading; and its ominous premonition, lying in wait for the right moment, never seemed to materialize until… sorry, this is where I stop. Go read it to find out. The character's depiction of her life as a housewife, mother of two children studying her way into a meaningful career is set-off by the horrible marriage she maintains, sort of like way of clinging to her roots, guilt-suffering her way through life.

The novel Iced Under definitely has its place in this group, even though its "immigrant status" hails from the province next door and not the other side of the planet. Here we are confronted with a distraught Toronto divorcée who seeks refuge from a nasty divorce. Along with her two daughters, she moves to a dilapidated cabin she inherited on the shores of a lake near a small town in Quebec. There is a child disappearance, a murder, hence, the makings of a mystery novel. But the whole notion of "it's better after the struggle", or in other words, the quintessential happy ending where everyone gets along (i.e. integration), permeate the story near the end. Of course, it's all in the crime-solving.

Now, here is where I seem to need the most help -- The Obituary. This is one book that requires some hand-holding and probably belongs in a group of its own. I want very badly to "get it", but time and time again, I find that I cannot stitch the whole thing together. I get bits and pieces of it, and when I do, it's brilliant. But most of the time, I read words that I am unable to connect to the whole story line, which seems to be a stream of consciousness recording of the life of Rosine. Some events in her life are connected to other events and I cannot make out how, or why. It's like the best inside joke ever and I am totally incapable of grasping what it's about, never mind what happens to be funny about it; I kind of feel like a third-grader reading Joyce's Ulysses; I know it's amazing, but I just can't figure out how. Help.

But this is not all I have been reading this summer. Although I forgot it in Montreal, Peter Dubé's The City Gates is so a propos with all the student strikes that I absolutely have to finish it illico presto when I get back. Anne Chudobiak even mentioned it in the Gazette this summer: Peter Dubé's protest fiction is well timed

And also, Mordecai Richler. I love Mordecai Richler. I read Barney's Version as well as Foran's MordecaiThe Life and Times back to back. And it turned out to be a neat little experiment in distinguishing between fiction and non-fiction.


Here, finally...

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My M.A. is finally finished! Took two years, as planned. Now it's off to a PhD. If someone had told me five years ago, as I was starting that infamous summer ESL teaching diploma, that I would be undertaking a PhD in the near future, I most likely would not have believed them. The sheer amount of work I will have to accomplish represents my own personal Everst. Looking very forward to it. And needless to say, I am also on the lookout for good Sherpas...

The plan is as follows: first, define the outlines and confines of Anglo-Québécois literature; which in itself is a great research project, frought with political ambiguity so dear to my neck of the woods. I am aware of this and looking forward to seeing who says what about whom. No silly, not in a nosy neighbour kind of way, that is of no use to me and completely irrelevant to my research. What I need to understand is the overall dynamics of this new categorizing scheme in the literary landscape of Quebec, Canada and even on a world wide scale. To do this, I need to envisage several things. One not so small feat, albeit a very cool one, is reading novels like a mad woman, novels written in English by Quebeckers (Ah, the ever so delicate "naming" of Anglophones that reside in la Belle province. I find the cognomen "Quebecker" works well for me. À voir, avec le temps, si cela tient la route).

The aspect I find most interesting in novels in general is the concept of hybridity. How's that for my 50-cent trendy word-of-the-day! All kidding aside, this one is another humdinger to be defined in my research. What's marvelous about this one though is that I can tailor it to my needs; that's how "flou" the notion is at the moment. Ok, perhaps that's taking it a bit far, but the research in this domain is wide and varied, from Bakhtine to ... Hmm. I won't get into it here, otherwise the entire post will be monopolized. Needless to say, a ginormous amount of reading will have to be done here also.

And then there's the cherry on top of my sundae: I want to find the quintessential Anglo-Québécois hybrid novel.

So yea, I have my next 5 years cut out for me, and the best part is I get to do it while playing around in my own literary backyard.


Gallant's Parisian Life

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I was turned onto Mavis Gallant very late in life by a professor of mine. The first thing I read was her collection of short stories Going Ashore published in 2009. It just felt right. She is one of these authors whose work I can read forever. The finer subtleties of her writing keep me keenly awake and looking in the nooks and crannies of her words. I especially love her more recent work, the short stories written in the 80s. She's been at it for so long, it is fascinating to see how time has affected her story writing and her vision of the world.

This is one Montreal dame that definitely has something to say to the francophone readership of la Belle Province. Let's present her as the Québécois Anglophone she started out as (and still is) and yank her translations back over the Atlantic to her hometown of Montreal.

I decided to translate one of them into French. Its title is "Parisian Life" and it was written in 1981.

Please read on for the translation itself...

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