November 7 marks eight years since the death of this wonderful poet, singer, and ladies’ man. On September 21, I had the lovely opportunity to celebrate Cohen’s ninetieth birthday at a special event held by The Word Bookstore. Guest speaker and biographer Christof Graf gave a talk entitled “Memories of Leonard Cohen,” during which he shared his experiences accompanying Cohen backstage at his concerts. Graf described himself as a fan “addicted to Cohen,” lucky to have the opportunity to interview Cohen throughout his career and eventually write several books about him. During the talk, Graf provided a detailed account of Cohen’s life here, saying that “Cohen is intrinsically connected to Montreal; he is built into the very fabric of the city.” Audience members were also invited to share their memories of the singer. Though my friends and I were too young to contribute, it was extremely eye-opening to hear from people who had seen him in concert as far back as 1966. Some attendees had even been in Montreal long enough to remember when Cohen would walk up St. Laurent for his daily breakfast bagel, waving hello to his neighbours and to those who recognized him on the streets. 

In the weeks since I attended this celebration, I have spent a frankly absurd amount of time listening to Cohen’s music and reflecting on the legacy of love he has left behind in Montreal. It feels like his ghost is following me wherever I go: walking down the Plateau, where he used to live; going to English classes in the Arts building, where he used to study; even writing this article for The McGill Daily, where he used to contribute. It is impossible for me to separate my experiences in this city from his. 

Part of why I am so submerged in Cohen’s legacy at the moment is because I’ve spent half of my semester analyzing his writing for a class on Canadian poetry. I was reintroduced to “Suzanne,” a song I knew and loved long before I knew anything about its singer. As I heard him sing the lyrics softly into my earphones for the hundredth time, I realized that Cohen himself had put into words what I’d been feeling for him: “She shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers / There are heroes in the seaweed, there are children in the morning / They are leaning out for love and they will lean that way forever / While Suzanne holds the mirror.” 

Cohen’s poetry is a way for me to reflect on my relationship with Montreal. The more I read and hear from him, the more I feel my bond with this city strengthening. Though his work is rarely explicitly about Montreal, those who have lived here can easily identify what he’s talking about – “our lady of the harbour” in “Suzanne,” images of downtown streets like St. Catherine sprinkled throughout Parasites of Heaven. It’s no wonder that the city is so proud to be known as Leonard Cohen’s hometown. 

“I feel at home in Montreal in a way that I don’t feel anywhere else,” Cohen shared with an interviewer in 2006. Similar to his nomadic lifestyle, I myself have moved around many cities over the course of 20 years, never quite feeling tied down to one particular place. Living in Montreal, however, I have made this place my home on my own terms. I’m sure most people who have moved here from another city would agree with me when I say that there’s something about Montreal that you can’t find elsewhere – whether it’s the people, the distinct subcultures, or the strong sense of local identity, it’s the kind of place that makes you want to stay forever. Cohen put it best when writing the introduction to The Spice-Box of Earth in 1961: “I have to keep coming back to Montreal to renew my neurotic affiliations.” 

Even as I continue romanticizing the city through the lens of Cohen’s work, however, I am careful not to romanticize the man himself. I know there is a lot we differ on in terms of political ideology, with much of it being a product of his time. His background as an upper-middle-class, Westmount-dwelling Montrealer is ultimately quite alien from my experience as an immigrant in Canada. What is important to me beyond these differences is that I am still able to learn more about myself through his work. Both his poetry and songwriting actively engage the audience, inviting them to question their own ideologies as they confront his. He is not interested in making his reader comfortable or catering to their tastes. He only wants us to face our own truths. To borrow Cohen’s words from his poem “What I’m Doing Here,” he is waiting for each one of us “to confess.” 

I’ll confess first: I love Leonard Cohen because I know we share the same love for a city far bigger than either of us. I can feel that love while listening to a song recorded in the 1960s, and I can feel it if I go for a walk down Rue Crescent  today. I can feel that love in the legacy he has left behind in Montreal every single day. 

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Devil, fiend, being, creature, abomination: out of all the words used in Frankenstein to describe the animated being at the heart of the story, it’s a bit odd that most often he is only called “the monster.” Why do we never use daemon (tastefully spelled as such by Mary Shelley in the original 1818 edition of the novel) or wretch, as the being sometimes calls himself? Even construct, which feels admittedly stiff for a creature of bone and flesh, might suit him better considering that he came to life only after being sewn together at the painstaking hand of his creator.

The being has never been given a name of his own – monster has simply been his moniker ever since he was first introduced to the literary readership of Regency-era England. Confronted with the visage of his rogue creation, Victor Frankenstein reaches for a word to realize what he saw as being formless, abominable, and unnatural. But the monster was not preconceived as an outcast, which he would later become: in fact, he was hardly preconceived of at all. What Frankenstein had animated was the result of an obsessive occupation with the power to endow life. His ambition was not set on shaping an individual awareness, but rather on the lofty ideal of a consciousness from whose existence he could draw the ultimate sense of obligation. This being, whose countenance he fled at the moment of its awakening, developed sensitive agency incidentally; his very existence was a natural consequence of Frankenstein’s unnatural actions. His progeny occurred through accident, and his monstrous condition was therefore manifest.

“The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature.”

To the vague end of his creator’s design, the creature was intended to be comprised of a seemly arrangement of limbs and features, which Frankenstein had curated himself for their characteristic beauty. Perhaps unconsciously he’d expected a natural degree of conformity from something he could consider beautiful. But as soon as the creature stirs, Frankenstein is overcome with repulsion at its animism – its monsterhood, to him, becomes horrifyingly apparent. He watches the monster’s formless ambitions, now inextricable from this sinewed amalgamation, hoist up its outsize mass and take its first ungainly steps.

Something about reading Frankenstein to this point speaks to a familiar narrative of the queer experience. This becomes most obvious in the painful relationship between creature and creator, progeny and progenitor, and is also present in the monster’s baleful abandonment of a human society that will never accept him. At the same time, the thematic exploration of guilt, progeny and responsibility hints at an unmistakably feminine perspective: the one request of the creature to his creator in return for his own removal from the skirts of human society is not for retribution, but a singular understanding. The monster’s only demand is for a reciprocal, female companion.

“If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.”

The archetype of the female abomination began, insofar as concerns the public imagination, with the superfluous influence of Medusa’s image — vicious, terrifying but just as often tempting to her victims — which has only ever grown since her inception in legend. Her narrative, from her assault at the hands of the god Poseidon to her monstrous transformation, has become inextricable from both feminine violence and appeal. In varying ways, the mantle of desire has been donned by every one of her successors.

Even such obliquely irredeemable creatures as the Anglo-Saxon “sea witch” have managed to inspire rather liberal interpretations of their appearances and motivations according to certain artistic visions. A 2007 film adaptation of the epic Beowulf by the same name reimagined her in the form of a nearly nude woman with a golden serpentine tail, entirely subverting her original antagonism with the introduction of a misplaced strain of overtly seductive appeal. In the original epic poem no less, the “sea witch,” mother to the monster Grendel, isn’t even referred to by a single set of consistently gendered pronouns.

The literary intersection between the monstrous and the feminine, already occupied by a fearsome lineage of female characters, would certainly have welcomed another addition. The precipice on which Shelley leaves off the completion of the female creature by Frankenstein – and the brutality with which he dismantles his progress – leaves room to wonder how she would have considered the role of a feminine conscience in keeping with the particular natal violence of Frankenstein’s creature. Perhaps she’d decided that Victor Frankenstein, who spent most of the novel looking forward to a marriage with his first cousin, would simply have drawn a blank.

“I do not destroy the lamb and the kid.”

The creature becomes an outcast twice from the world of his progenitors. He is rejected for his nature, which is of an unknowable misery, but it is for the undoing of his own creation that he finally chooses to distance himself. In an off-beat lockstep echoing their first conversation, he incites Frankenstein to a pursuit toward the edge of the known world – away from the conditions of humanity. The nature that binds them resolves only with the dual demise of anomaly and antagony. There also lies monstrosity: in the preter-natal space between the human, the abominable, and the unconceived. In Frankenstein, it’s between every page.

The post The Queering of a Female Narrative, and the Horror of Habeus Corpus appeared first on The McGill Daily.

On September 29, literature enthusiasts from in and around Montreal gathered at Le Gesù to attend the fourth edition of the Kabir Cultural Centre’s “Garden of Literary Delights.” Established as part of the centre’s NexGen MultiArts Festival, this event aims to highlight South Asian writers in Canada who are emerging onto the literary sphere. Each writer read a selected section from their books, before converging in a panel discussion and taking questions from the audience.

The panel was curated by writer and journalist Veena Gokhale, who has written several books herself and takes part in organizing this event each year. For the 2024 iteration of the Garden of Literary Delights, she proudly introduces two new genres: translation and children’s literature. As she introduced the panel, Gokhale emphasized the “pluralism and diversity” of the authors present in the room: Janika Oza, Mariam Pirbhai, Shahroza Nahrin, and Mitali Banerjee Ruths.

Janika Oza kicked off the panel by reading from her recent debut novel, A History of Burning. Oza comes from a long lineage of migrants who left British-ruled India for British-ruled East Africa, where they lived for multiple generations until the 1972 expulsion of Asians from Uganda. As the first person in her family to be born in Canada, she wanted to tell the untold stories that arose from this history of immigration. A History of Burning is a result of this dream. Shortlisted for the 2023 Governor General’s Award for English Fiction and the 2024 Carol Shields Prize for Fiction, her novel is a striking historical epic that charts the genealogy of one family from 1898 onwards. Oza read from a chapter about Rajni, a character who moves from Karachi to Uganda after getting married, giving us insight into the subaltern voices that often go unheard when discussing history from a broader perspective.

It is these unexplored histories that Oza wants to bring our attention to. When asked about her research process for this novel, she explained that she initially tried to consult historical resources, but found that there was a huge lack of written material about Indians in Kenya and Uganda. She turned to asking around her family for information, and filled in the rest of the gaps with fiction. By having these conversations with real people in her life, she says she realized the importance of collective memory and highlighting these stories from within her community.

As Oza shares her experience of visiting Kenya for the first time to promote her book, an audience member stands up to say: “I was born in Nairobi, and the way you described Kenya is so realistic that I can hardly believe you’d never been there.” It felt like a full-circle acknowledgement of the stories she set out to represent while writing A History of Burning.

The problem of representation is one that all the authors on this panel contend with. Mariam Pirbhai is a professor of English literature at Wilfrid Laurier University, who joined us via Zoom all the way from Waterloo to discuss writing her work through a decolonial lens. She presented two of her most recent books: Isolated Incident, a fictional novel about the lives of Muslim Canadians on the heels of a hate crime against a mosque in Toronto; and Garden Inventories, a work of creative nonfiction that reflects on how gardens contain histories of culture. The scene she read from Isolated Incident showed the difference between how two characters confronted an Islamophobic parade in Montreal, an incident based on a real white supremacist demonstration that took place in Quebec City. Pirbhai explained that she tried to cast the lens inward and show the friction that exists within Muslim communities as well, in order to counter how reductively Muslims are represented in the media.

Garden Inventories, which was a finalist for the 2024 Foreword Indies Book Award for Nonfiction/Nature Writing, takes on a similarly introspective tone. It draws inspiration from Pirbhai’s own garden in Waterloo that she spent years cultivating. It was there that she realized that plants were not so different from people, which in turn led her to question our relationship to nature in our everyday lives. Through rich, visually-immersive writing and evocative imagery, Pirbhai draws connections between her human experiences and gardening. She reflects on her position as someone who has moved through multiple continents before settling in Canada, and how this history of immigration affects the way she interacts with the land around her. As a surprise for the audience, Pirbhai even shared a few photos of this titular garden – and it is every bit as stunning as she described it to be!

The next panelist moved us away from landscapes and back to history, as Shahroza Nahrin introduced her translation of works by Bangladeshi author Shahidul Zahir, entitled Life and Political Reality: Two Novellas. A graduate student from McGill, Nahrin has a background in academia and literary translation. She was recently featured on CBC’s “All in a Weekend with Sonali Karnick,” where she spoke about Zahir’s influence on Bengali literature. Before reading from her book, she posed an important question to the audience: “Who makes the decision of which books get translated and which don’t?”

For Nahrin, a translator becomes an activist when they translate a book from a marginalized community and bring these voices to the forefront. She describes Life and Political Reality as a “frictional work,” a “thorny text” that goes against the mainstream grain. The excerpt she read from the book exemplified this perfectly, as it brought attention to the effect of the Bangladeshi genocide on a small locality in Dhaka, highlighting the silenced voices there.

Nahrin is extremely passionate about Zahir’s work, which was evident from the heartfelt way in which she outlined the importance of his legacy on Bangladeshi literature. Similar to the fictionalized accounts of Dublin and Macondo which characterize the works of James Joyce and Gabriel García Márquez, Zahir mythologizes Old Dhaka and creates a unique world through magical realism. Nahrin spoke about the struggles that come with translating the works of such an iconic literary figure, explaining how she and her co-translator tried to keep Zahir’s musical writing style alive throughout their translation. They also made the decision to retain some Bangla dialogues within the text, in order to challenge English hegemony and stay true to the original tone wherever possible.

The importance of bringing South Asian voices into the spotlight, which has been expressed by all the authors so far, is exemplified through the work of children’s author Mitali Banerjee Ruths. A self-proclaimed “Texan-Quebecois” born to Indian Bengali parents, Ruths’ main intention as a children’s author was to write the kind of books she wanted to read as a child. She uses a creative metaphor to describe the lack of South Asian representation within children’s literature: since monsters are often considered non-human because they cannot see their own reflection, Ruths wanted to provide children with their own reflection so that they would not feel less than human. Her latest series, The Party Diaries follows the main character Priya Chakraborty as she plans different parties for the friends and family in her community.

Ruths explained that she wanted children to be able to see different foods and cultures represented in their picture books, both as a valuable source of learning and a way of identifying themselves in what they are reading. She is grateful for the opportunity to shape children through her writing, as she herself harbours a huge appreciation for the books she read as a child. “My kids are always my first critics,” said Ruths, laughing, when a member of the audience asked her about her own children’s response to her books. “If there’s a joke they don’t laugh at, I know I have to go back and rework it!”

From historical fiction to children’s literature, the wide range of authors present in this year’s Garden of Literary Delights leaves me with hope for the future of South Asian representation in Canada’s literary scenes. If you’d like to get more involved, the Kabir Centre’s NexGen MultiArts Festival will continue to highlight emerging Canadian artists across different fields over the next month, including a visual arts exhibition and celebrations of classical music and dance.

The post A Look Into Four Emerging Canadian Authors of South Asian Descent appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I was lucky enough to read Kate Rogers’ The Meaning of Leaving while on a train leaving Toronto, which I think is the most aptly ironic location to experience this bittersweet poetry collection. A Canadian poet who lived in Hong Kong and China for more than two decades, Rogers recently moved back to eastern Ontario in 2019. This is where The Meaning of Leaving takes off, leading the reader on a journey that is constantly on the move from one city to another. Each poem blurs the line between departure and arrival, navigating the intersections of female loneliness, domestic violence, and the search for identity. Published in February 2024 by the Montreal- based publishing house Ace of Swords Publishing, this beautiful collection enters the literary fray right in time for Women’s History Month.

The book opens with the poem “Unreal City,” a sort of anti-ode to Toronto that brings to light all the violence simmering underneath the surface of the city. By mentioning specific locations by name, Rogers makes the setting of this “unreal” poem feel all the more “real” – allowing the words to occupy a tangible space in real life. Even as someone not from Toronto, I was able to relate to the scenes exactly as she laid them out, largely in part due to her straightforwardly familiar tone. “Unreal City” sets the scene for the rest of the poems in this collection, which are divided into five untitled sections that continue moving chronologically through different periods in the poet’s life.

Rogers uses the first section to invite the reader into her childhood home, revealing the abuse she faces at the hands of her father, and establishing a link between this early violence and the violence she goes on to experience in her romantic relationships with men. She wastes no words, shying away from subtlety in favour of boldly laying out the events as they happened.

While I appreciate the lack of restraint and the trust she places in her reader, at times the shrewdness of Rogers’ poetry leaves little room for interpretation. In “Derrick’s Fist,” Rogers’ emphasis on elaborate descriptions of bruises leave a striking first impression on the reader, but her bluntness simultaneously results in an opaqueness that I felt lacked a more personal connection with the speaker. “Albino Sword Swallower at a Carnival, 1970” is an example of another graphic poem I felt was executed better. Here, Rogers is able to show her love for meta-textual references through her masterful association of the violence from her early sexual encounters to the violence experienced by a circus sword-swallower.

Section Two moves forward into Rogers’ time spent in China and Hong Kong, bringing these settings to life with the same attention to detail as she expressed for Toronto. In “On My Way to Cantonese Class” and “Lamma Island Tofu-fa,” Rogers crafts a loving relationship between herself and the city, pointing out the colourful characters that inhabit its every corner. Something as simple as tofu-fa from a roadside hut is likened to salvation. These images of home reach a turning point in the titular poem “The Meaning of Leaving,” in which she recreates her life story so far by moving from the lakes of Ontario to the Hong Kong coastline. The poem takes its title from a translation of “Requiem” by Bei Dao; each line of Dao’s work sandwiches Rogers’ stanzas, giving the words an entirely new meaning. She succinctly communicates the feeling of being lost in one land, before finding peace in another.

Rogers moves further into the realm of politics with Section Three, drawing the reader’s attention to pro-democracy protesters in Hong Kong. Like in her earlier poems, she conflates real-life conflict and trauma with fantastical images: the authoritarian government becomes a Gate of Hell, the young protesters become the nation’s saviours. Rogers emphasizes how the personal and the political interact with each other in times of crisis, and to me, her poetry seems to suggest that love and resistance are inextricable from one another. In “The Jizo Shrine,” we see the importance of holding on to close female friendships. This love letter to the long- lasting bond between two women stands in as an ode to letting go of grief, whether it be private or collective.

Though The Meaning of Leaving complicates the ideas of home and homeland in a nuanced, self-aware manner, I found myself growing wary of certain poems that seemed cast in an orientalist light. The implications of the line “Yet I long to uncover more layers / of Hong Kong’s midden heap” in “Cantonese Class” make me uncomfortable, especially as I recall the long colonial history of white travelers wishing to “uncover” the secrets of the East. “Sei Gweipo” in Section Four is a candid retelling of Rogers’ experience as a white woman in Hong Kong, highlighting her struggle in reintegrating with Canadian society by comparing herself to a “white ghost.” It’s almost overly self-aware in its execution, leaning towards feelings of white guilt, which makes it all the more difficult to read from a non-white perspective.

The book is ultimately redeemed through its meditations on womanhood and anger, which I found embodied primarily in “The Nose-Ring Girl.” Rogers plays with the idea of female vulnerability as she wonders about this stranger’s backstory, before connecting it back to her own college days. The titular nose-ring girl personifies strength and tenacity, as she continues to stand by her principles even when she does not need to. As we enter the fifth and final section, the reader is introduced to even more figures of feminine resilience. Rogers brings back her love for meta-textual references as she imagines an encounter with a victim of the Spanish Flu, and re-imagines the tale of the Don Jail ghost. In both cases, she reclaims a story told largely by male voices to instead shed light on a female perspective.

Rogers chooses to end this poetry collection by returning to the bird motif sprinkled throughout the book, taking on its themes of flight and motion. “Ode to the Ode to the Yellow Bird” is yet another retelling of a tale from the male poetic tradition. Rogers counteracts the pessimism of Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to the Yellow Bird” by making this poem an affirmation of joy. Her yellow bird is the very ethos of the kind of womanhood she writes about in The Meaning of Leaving: she is the Don Jail ghost, the girl in the pink tutu and Nikes, the lady with a bruised face at the fruit market. She is a symbol of resilience and ambition. And despite everything she has been through, the book grants her one ecstatic cry of hope in its very last sentence: “You live!”

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On the outskirts of the city, at the other end of the spectrum of life, a pack of children have set up camp in the forest of Parc Rouge. Some orphaned, some abandoned, and most of them forgotten, the children scrounge for food and supplies, seek shelter in tattered tents, and keep a careful watch for grown-ups. These may come in the form of drunks who wander into their camp, but the children also look out for blooming chests, deepening voices, and other signs of puberty in their own ranks – no adult is worthy of their trust. The paths of old and young converge in this city “so empty it is full, so broken it blossoms.” It is only at their intersection that the residents of Fort Détroit may begin to imagine a future more full of hope than despair, more full of dreams than nightmares.

***

The Future is Catherine Leroux’s fourth novel. First published as L’avenir in 2020, it was translated into English by Susan Ouriou in 2023. Born in Rosemère, Quebec, and now based in Montreal, Leroux has received numerous awards and accolades, including the Prix France-Québec for her novel Le mur mitoyen (2013) and the Prix Adrienne-Choquette for her short story collection Madame Victoria (2015). The Future was selected for the 2024 edition of Canada Reads, CBC’s annual “battle of the books” competition. It will be championed by fellow Montreal writer and this year’s Mordecai Richler Writer-in-Residence, Heather O’Neill.

I don’t believe O’Neill will have any difficulty defending The Future during this year’s Canada Reads debates, which will take place between March 4 and 7. Leroux’s words, expertly translated by Ouriou, seem to leap off the pages of this book to construct before readers’ very eyes the characters, settings, and mysterious goings-on she describes. I found it impossible to read this book without a pen in hand – there were too many beautiful passages to underline, too many sentences that read more like poetry than prose.

Leroux’s characters are unique in themselves – the children, especially, are endowed with such spirit and individuality as are rarely to be found outside of childhood – but it is when they come together that the magic of this book is most palpable. The bonds of trust forged by Gloria and Eunice, by Fiji and Bleach, in the city of old, and in the forest of youth testify to the possibility of finding, in Rihanna’s words, “love in a hopeless place.”

Earlier this month, following a book talk featuring Leroux and O’Neill, I had a chance to interview Leroux about The Future, her relationship with Montreal, and her approach to writing speculative fiction. I was especially curious about the book’s second chapter, written entirely from the perspectives of the Parc Rouge children. Leroux told me she was forced to throw away a first draft of this chapter because it was “too boring”: she had written this version as a mother, she said, instead of as a child. Once she learned to put aside her instinctual concerns for her characters’ safety and comfort and to make way for the infinitely more important demands of play, stuffed toys, inter-group rivalry, and bathroom humour, she was able to find the voices of Parc Rouge.

We also discussed Leroux’s close-to-home inspiration for Fort Détroit. This version of the city of Detroit was never surrendered to the Americans in the War of 1812, instead becoming a French-Canadian stronghold. At the time The Future takes place, however, Fort Détroit is no longer a stronghold but a wasteland. Leroux was attracted to Detroit because of its similarities to Montreal: both cities experienced a surge in investment and production, either in the 19th century or the 20th, but now find themselves in economic decline. Economic decline, she said, has certainly taken its toll on the cities, but it has also provided ample fodder for artists and innovators with an interest in rebuilding. “People have had to be creative in order to survive,” Leroux explained.

Certainly, Fort Détroit is a dystopia as desolate as the rest of them. It is all the more terrifying, I think, on account of the fact that no evil dictator has taken control of the city or imposed a rule of terror and totalitarianism on its residents. Instead, it is the cruel forces of “pollution, poverty, and the legacy of racism” that threaten the survival of Fort Détroit – or what’s left of it, rather. Leroux’s future is as factual as it is fictional, and the strength, creativity, and humour with which her characters weather each storm that comes their way are truly inspiring.

The post Writing The Future appeared first on The McGill Daily.

As a history student who has only briefly learned about the horrific legacy of the Vietnam War – confined within the realm of academia – I’ve always remained curious about the lived experiences of survivors. So, at the start of this year, I decided to pick up a book that explores the embodied realities of the Vietnam War in various contexts through historical fiction. McGill alumnus Caroline Vu’s latest novel, Catinat Boulevard (2023), offers a compelling insight into the complex experiences of survivors through the lenses of cultural and racial identity. The McGill Daily had the pleasure of reconnecting with Vu almost a decade after our previous interview on her novel Palawan Story (2014), to discuss her newly released work. 

Caroline Vu was born in Vietnam in 1959, only four years after the start of the war. Due to the increasing danger, Vu was forced to flee to New England, and eventually settled in Montreal. After living in various parts of the world – Latin America, Switzerland, and Ottawa – the author now resides in Montreal where she works as a family physician when she isn’t writing. Vu published two award-winning novels, Palawan Story and That Summer in Provincetown (2015), before releasing Catinat Boulevard in October 2023 to much critical acclaim  – it was even a finalist for the 2023 Hugh McLennan Prize for Fiction. The novel dives into the turbulent lives of best friends Mai and Mai Ly in the city of Saigon during the Vietnam War. Mai flirts with American GIs in bars along Catinat Boulevard, eventually becoming pregnant by Michael, an African-American soldier. The turbulence of the war leaves their son Nat tragically abandoned in a Saigon orphanage. Meanwhile, Mai Ly rises in the ranks of the communist resistance and becomes a prominent figure who writes propaganda and rallies others to join the socialist struggle. The novel travels across decades and continents, eventually ending in present-day New York.  

Catinat Boulevard’s narration left a stark mark on me as a reader. Vu presents her story in the third-person through the eyes of Mai and Michael’s child, Nat. Whilst I initially felt slightly confused by this literary choice, I was able to fully digest its intent the more I read: the narration style became a powerful tool for accentuating Nat’s abandonment and isolation. One event in the novel especially stood out to me because of this choice. Upon hearing that she is pregnant, Mai’s father hits her and kicks her down the stairs. Vu writes this scene through the eyes of Nat: “It was my first exposure to physical violence. Surprisingly I didn’t feel any pain. I only felt a loss of grip as my world tumbled downstairs. I wished my mother had held out her hands to protect me. Instead, she used her own fists to repeatedly hit herself. Then she howled.” 

This is just one powerful instance of many granted by Vu’s unique style of writing that left me curious about her reasons behind narrating in this way. In an interview with the Daily, she replied: “Nat is a kid abandoned by his parents. In the orphanage, he is bullied because of his dark skin. The voice of a kid is more touching. It moves us more because we can identify with it. We understand that voice because we’ve all been kids ourselves.” 

In a time when historically-marginalized readers are increasingly conscious and critical of how literature can evoke wounds caused by physical, emotional, and intergenerational abuse and oppression, writers have to be careful not to produce “trauma porn.” Frankly, although Catinat Boulevard does contain depictions of trauma, it does so in a sentimental way that is necessary to portray the devastating disorder that came with the war. The exploration of trauma in this narrative depicts the calamitous circumstances and consequences of the war and the global 1960s more generally, in a sobering way that should not be dismissed. It is the  characters’ beautiful complexity and their very different experiences of trauma that elucidate this reality. From racism to abandonment to sexual abuse, Catinat Boulevard covers it all. But Vu makes it clear that the trauma she expresses can also be processed in complex ways, and can even be intricately embedded with humour. Having experienced much of this trauma herself in her own life, it was important for Vu to explore these wounds creatively in her writing, whilst being cognizant of their effects on marginalized communities.  

Vu told the Daily: “Yes there is a lot of trauma in the novel. From war to racism to abandonment etc… To lighten up the story, I added humour. I made each chapter short. There are no drawn-out sobbing scenes. No trauma porn! You know, I’ve experienced the same trauma Nat did: the war, the abandonment, the racism… Adding humour and laughing at certain situations in the book is perhaps a defence mechanism for me.”  

The process of writing is central to this narrative. Not in a self-explanatory way, but in a way that is visible and thematic to the reader. Letters appear recurrently throughout the book, which function to connect together the different characters who find themselves spread across Vietnam and the United States. Vu’s frequent adoption of the epistolary form serves to help us as readers get to know each of the characters in a deeper way. But for Vu, writing emerges as a theme not only to foster more complex characterization, but also to reflect her own love of the craft. 

Vu explained: “Catinat Boulevard is an ode to the written word. There are letters written by Michael to Mai. Letters written by Nat to Mother Superior. There are imaginary stories that Nat writes about his mother Mai. There are stories Mai presents to her writing group. There are entries Mai keeps in her diary. There are real-life stories Amanda writes for her newspapers. There is the email Mai Ly sent to Nat. There is the manuscript Nat tries to get published. There are the letters of rejection. 

For Nat and Mai, writing is therapeutic. It gives meaning to their loveless lives. Although they’d never met in person, they’d conversed through their writing. This is the power of the written word. It can transcend time and space. It can bring people together. Even dead ones!”

Mai and Nat’s love of writing is intimately interwoven in the ending of the novel. Whilst Mai discovers her love for writing as a Vietnamese immigrant in search of community in California, Nat uses writing to escape the horrors of living as an abandoned Black child in an orphanage in Saigon. Their writing transcends time and space to reveal parallels despite their isolated lives. Mai writes “problems started long before the kid walked this earth,” reflecting Nat’s words which read “trouble started years before my birth.” Catinat Boulevard ultimately reminds us that though physically far apart, Nat and Mai remain close, their lives forever interconnected despite all their troubles and despairs. 

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You may be asking yourself, what is so objectionable about Sarah J. Maas releasing a new book? The issue lies not with the book itself, but with  how her publishing company, Bloomsbury Publishing, is handling its  release. Instead of publishing one edition of the book, Bloomsbury will be releasing five different editions on January 30. Each edition will be unique to a specific retailer – Barnes & Noble, Books-a-Million, Target, Walmart, and select indie bookstores will each receive a different edition of the book each featuring unique bonus chapters. Basically, every edition has a unique chapter related to a handful of characters in the book. If you want to experience the book in its entirety, you will have to buy it five times. 

If readers want to experience the whole gamut of the Crescent City universe, why are they being forced to jump through hoops to do so? These bonus chapters  easily could have been compiled  into a novella that would have retailed at a much lower cost than a main entry in the series. Instead, Bloomsbury has decided to set the retail price of House of Flame and Shadow at a whopping 42$ CAD. If you want to read all of the bonus chapters, you will have to fork over 200$. 

The frustrating reality of  this stunt by Bloomsbury is that they are clearly aiming to capitalize   on the loyalty of Sarah J Maas’ literary fanbase. The publishing house is aware that her loyal readers are passionate and   willing to go above and beyond to support their favourite author. Publishers used to release signed editions of books in limited quantities to appeal to loyal readers. But it seems that they have now found a new way to exploit consumers. 

The success of  Bloomsbury’s stunt ultimately lies in the hands of book buyers. If their response to these exclusive editions is muted, it could leave some stores with dead stock, and discourage other companies from following this model. However,  if it turns out to be wildly successful, this marketing ploy might set a dangerous precedent for the publishing industry.  It could even attract scalpers who will buy the book en masse and sell it at inflated prices – a process covered in the Daily article “It’s Not You, It’s Capitalism.” Regardless, it is guaranteed to anger fans, some of whom might opt out of buying the book altogether. 

It remains to be seen whether or not these additional chapters will have any bearing on the release of the fourth book in the series. Nevertheless, the release of all of these special editions is worrisome. Has this practice set an industry standard where  selling multiple exclusive editions of one book is the norm? Will people be required to buy the same book multiple times to be able to enjoy the full story? If you want to incentivize people to buy print books to compensate for the general decline in book sales in recent years, this is the wrong way of going about it. 

Bloomsbury’s actions might lead you to believe  that they are experiencing financial troubles,  but this is far from the truth.  The first half of the 2023 fiscal year was actually the most successful in the company’s history. In fact,  Bloomsbury’s  revenue increased by 17% in 2023, with  a 79% increase in sales of Sarah J Maas’ books being cited as one of the driving forces behind the company’s success. This marketing stunt has nothing to do with helping Bloomsbury stay afloat; it is just another example of unbridled capitalism. 

No matter how much profit a company makes they always seem to find a way to cut corners to increase earnings. In the headlong pursuit of perpetually increasing profits, companies are willing to cast aside their standards and morals – just as Bloomsbury has done here. The average Maas reader just wants to read the full book without all these shenanigans. In a day and age where  people consistently bemoan that  young people  don’t read as much as past generations, why is a  major publishing house setting up obstacles to prevent readers from fully enjoying such a popular series?  Instead of price gouging their readers, Bloomsbury should be prioritizing efforts to widen access to books for the average person.  A well-read population should never depend on how many editions of a book they can afford to buy.

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Although the blurb for You Exist Too Much tells of our main character’s eventual “love addiction,” I did not expect love to feature so prominently. But don’t be mistaken, this book is a love story: a story of self-love, growth, learning how to love others, and flourishing in the face of familial and cultural pressures. 

Throughout the entire book, Arafat takes the main character on a journey of intense self-discovery. It’s as if she’s unpacking her trauma in real time and we’re all being made to watch. It’s brutal, but the honesty is refreshing. For example, while the protagonist is in therapy for her “love addiction” she has this thought: “I stared at the clock as the minute hand eclipsed the hour hand for the third time and decided that only a white man would feel comfortable taking up so much space.” The book covers extremely sensitive topics (be sure to consult content warnings before reading), yet Arafat treats these issues with poise and delicacy, using them to further the story rather than just letting them settle within the plot. Every decision within the book feels intentional, meaningful, and necessary to further the protagonist’s characterization and storyline. At one point, the protagonist aims to explain the cultural implications of being a queer woman in Palestine: “To be a woman who desired other women seemed even worse, especially shameful and shocking in its lack of reverence for the male-centric culture. Why would you want to exclude men, the stronger, better gender, from the equation?”

The highlight of Arafat’s novel is that it provides a safe space for cultural learning without any stigma. Though it’s important not to treat this novel like a history textbook, Arafat doesn’t shy away from mentioning historical and cultural elements relevant to Palestine and the main character’s life. The reader is able to indulge in the main character’s perspective of Palestine and Jordan through the eyes of a child. To do this, Arafat traces the main character’s growth through a series of flashbacks within each chapter. She crafts such vivid depictions of the main character’s hometowns, Aman and Nablus, and paints a picture of deep familial bonds that serve to demarcate the main character’s summers in Palestine from the rest of her time in the United States. 

Additionally, Arafat manages to articulately convey the significance of race, nationality, and sexuality, and how they affect the main character in her journey towards self-discovery. The protagonist’s experiences as a queer, Palestinian woman are full and complete –– Arafat doesn’t aim to separate her love story from her intersectionality. Throughout the book, Arafat adeptly weaves in references to the main character’s Palestinian heritage and not only displays it in a brilliant light, but also shows how it influences her daily life. At one point, the main character compares her parents’ relationship to the conflict in Israel and Palestine. This comparison serves to illustrate her mother’s frustration “at being stifled” and her father’s refusal “to meet her most basic needs”. By no means does this book aim to explain or justify the political conflicts that have occurred and are occurring currently in Palestine; instead, it shows how these events have molded the identities of the main character and the people in her family. 

Although Arafat’s protagonist is never named, the reader is able to form a deep bond with her from the very first page. It is difficult to create an informed opinion on the main character in the  beginning of the book, as her life experiences, reasonings for her actions, and thought processes are only explained through successive flashbacks in each chapter. As the reader becomes more informed of her past and more invested in her future, we watch a hopeless, scared young girl transform into a resilient, witty young woman. This book is remarkable in the sense that the reader is able to go on a journey of growth and discovery along with the protagonist. 

Arafat doesn’t shy away from expressing the more difficult aspects of her journey. Often, Arafat uses such vivid, poetic language to convey the simplest emotions – especially when it comes to descriptions of self-love. One passage begins: “We stepped outside the café, and I felt overwhelmed as we walked off in different directions. I wanted her, I wanted her life, I wanted to live inside her life while still living inside my own. I wanted, above all, for her to like me.” In another scene Arafat explores another side of the protagonist’s desperation for love: “Besides, I didn’t need a partner to feel loved: I was a DJ! I was loved from a distance, the safest way to be loved.” These passages transport the reader into the emotional state of the main character, fostering empathy for and understanding of the protagonist’s complex character.  

Each chapter follows a clear formula that provides the reader with both a sense of familiarity, and a beautiful rhythm to fall into. Arafat will begin with a canonical, almost anecdotal, situation which furthers the ‘present’ narrative of the story. This anecdote then opens up a window into the main character’s past, which Arafat uses to expand upon one of the main character’s past loves and relationships. The joys, but most often the follies within the relationship create a passageway through which Arafat inserts a story about the main character’s childhood, relationship with her mother, or something related to her Palestinian heritage. Finally, Arafat circles back to the initial anecdote that opened up the chapter to close out the mini narrative that she created. As such, each chapter constructs a holistic view of the main character by unifying her past, present, and cultural background. This unique format provides a kind of unified and informed characterization that is rarely seen in many coming-of-age stories. This method prevents the reader from jumping to hasty conclusions about the protagonist, as they are forced to see the full picture of who she is.   

In an interview with Electric Literature, Zaina Arafat gave her final thoughts on the main character: “She may never fully overcome her traumas and her demons, but she can identify that by choosing healthy love, she is also choosing to love herself.” This perfectly sums up the feeling the reader is left with upon finishing the book. Even though the ending leaves the reader slightly in the dark about the future of the protagonist, there is no doubt that the protagonist grew throughout the narrative. This book is such a must-read because it displays the beauty and pain of a life well lived: one filled with love, mistakes, and growth. What else could you ask for? 

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Hopkinson has been a long-time author of speculative and science fiction, writing steadily since the 1980s. Her first few novels centred on nuanced Black and queer characters, in contrast to the white male saviour protagonists which then dominated the emerging sci-fi scene. Her novel Brown Girl in the Ring (1998) revolutionized the genre with its captivating construction, oriented around Black female heroine Ti-Jeanne and featuring powerful Obeah – African seer – characters. 

Hopkinson built a considerable body of work over the decades, attracting publishers and critics with her bold literary voice and unapologetic authenticity. In 2021, she became the youngest person to receive the Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master Award from the Science Fiction Writers of America. Earlier in 2019, she was entrusted with the task of writing a comic for DC’s Sandman series — based on Neil Gaiman’s graphic novel series of the same name — by none other than Gaiman himself. “I wanted Nalo to do it”, said Gaiman to Entertainment Weekly, “because there isn’t anybody better.”

Hopkinson carved a characterful presence on the Tanna Schulich stage with her sparkling blouse and wire-frame glasses. She began with a simple request for the audience: to listen to a simple line of prose and pay attention to the physiological responses it produced. This approach to diction brings narratives to life by applying the sensations evoked by her words straight “to the nerve endings.” Readers are meant to be able to experience them with the same immersion as they would the real world.

To Hopkinson, an empathetic experience of any narrative must also be possible as a “bodily” sensation. A single word, for her, can change the energy of an entire phrase. She examined the immediate effect evoked by the sentence “the horse cantered down the street” compared to if it had “walked”; then “cantered”, compared to “galloped”, brought yet another layer of vivid feeling to the description. 

Early critics of Hopkinson’s work were eager to dismiss her surreal inspirations as “escapism.” Along with other writers from queer and ethnically diverse backgrounds at the end of the last century, Hopkinson’s fiction ran into a literary community which saw her work as inherently superficial. The label of “escapist” literature, however, did little to diminish the value of her writing to those who connected with her stories. Certain people understood her speculative fiction as a channel of relief from an inflexible world that many would “want to escape.”

One of the enduring social factors in Hopkinson’s writing is her deep commitment to understanding the historical wounds carved by colonialism on the Canadian West Coast, affecting First Nations, South American and African people alike. Drawing from her Jamaican background and experiences, she persistently connects threads from the present to the looming past, exploring parallels through the worlds she writes into being. For her, storytelling is instrumental to preserving cultural vitality – as long as its stories are being circulated, a culture will maintain its “refusal to disappear.”

Having cultivated an interest in sci-fi before her academic career, it was no wonder that Hopkinson found herself drawn to speculative fiction later on. The genre’s allure of bending the rules of our universe and creating “experimental worlds” appealed to her with its limitless possibilities. She saw the opportunity to write what she hoped would be “fiction that had it all.”

A recent upwelling of support for speculative and genre fiction in academic literary circles, due to the undeniable influence of authors like Octavia Butler, Samuel Delaney, and now Nalo Hopkinson, has led to an uptick in the number of university courses and resources dedicated to these genres. In her speculative fiction classes at UBC, Hopkinson has found that her students are also showing an increasing propensity toward incorporating queer themes and characters in their writing. She takes heart in their interpretations of representation that promise to be true to life for queer people in the real world, and makes the heartening prediction that the emerging generation of speculative fiction writers will finally have what it takes to “completely change publishing” in the genre. 

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Introduced by writer Veena Gokhale, the panel – made up of Farzana Doctor, Zahida Rahemtulla, Shailee Rajak, and Angela Misri – took their spots on one side of the Atwater Library’s auditorium. They were joined by an additional, empty chair; a silent acknowledgement of writers around the world facing imprisonment and suppression.

Ghokale’s introduction was followed by a wry apology for the lack of male writers featured at the event, sending a ripple of laughter around the room. Between the four women on the panel, almost every literary genre was more than amply represented – Farzana Doctor has published a series of short novels garnering critical acclaim; Zahida Rahemtulla writes plays exploring themes from the comical to the profoundly human; literary scholar Shailee Rajak made her creative writing debut with a graphic novel addressing ancient mythology to young students; and novelist Angela Misri has written works of fiction spanning countless micro-genres. Yet despite the wide variety of backgrounds and approaches present, subtle commonalities were quick to emerge from the successive presentations.

Many writers in today’s world, particularly those from diasporic cultural backgrounds, find an increasing need to reconcile with a collective, and sometimes evasive, past. In an emotive reading from one of her best-known mimetic novels, Seven, Farzana Doctor illustrated the fragility of this pursuit as a chase after “memories of memories.” This particular yearning for definition around one’s history strikes a familiar chord with many readers from fractured cultural backgrounds whose collective familial memories draw a similar blank. The particular effectiveness of Doctor’s prose demonstrates a subtle and piercing understanding of the interplay between culture and individual mentality that informs how many of us engage with these unremembered pasts.

Doctor, who has a developed career as a private psychotherapist in addition to her published writing, spoke to finding harmony between her pursuits. Although her psychotherapy practice doesn’t contribute directly to her writing, she finds certain parallels between the two processes that enhance her understanding of the way characters – and real people – work. In doing both, she finds herself asking the same question: “How will [my work] be understood?”

Understanding the audiences who engage with their narratives is often instrumental for writers to develop their storytelling technique. Zahida Rahemtulla, who is seeing her newest play go into production (imminently), has been conscious of a gradual shift in demographic among the people taking interest in her work. “Audiences are changing,” she said, referring to the growing number of people discovering her plays who don’t necessarily share her South Asian background. As her work gained more attention with the diversification of attendance, Rahemtulla adapted accordingly — for example, by introducing hints to clue in new audience members on the specific cultural references that occur in her writing. Facilitating understanding between one side of the stage and the other is of considerable importance in cultivating authentic appreciation.

Rahemtulla’s new play, Frontliners, explores the social and cultural dynamics revealed by interactions between social workers, new refugees, and Samaritan volunteers on the Canadian west coast. She animates arrestingly accurate characterizations of young workers at a non-profit organization who stretch their resources and personal faculties to aid a number of Syrian refugee families. Based in part on her own experiences as a social worker in British Columbia, Rahemtulla also drew on insight she gained from working alongside Syrian colleagues over the years to weave together the play’s spirited discourse and unmistakable humanity into a nuanced depiction of personal and cultural interchange.

The celebration of parallels and differences between disparate cultures, it seems, refuses to be limited to a single medium. Graphic novels have surged in popularity among young readers attracted to the irresistible combination of narrative prose with the equally powerful potency of imagery and design. CBC Radio recently hosted an interview with McGill alumnus Shailee Rajak on Helen and Sita, her graphic novel for young people, which she created in collaboration with illustrator Priyadarshini Banerjee. Written in a clear and poignant tone, the book assumes the points of view of two of the most famous women in world mythology — Helen of Troy and Sita from the Indian epic Ramayana — and thoroughly humanizes them by narrating their thoughts and feelings around the fateful marital arrangements made for them by their families. In a fluid visual language that allows text and imagery to flow synchronously from one page to the next, the book places the women’s stories side by side and allows the reader to realize the universality of the longing to control their own destinies.

As for the two myths from which she drew her material, Rajak sought to highlight numerous parallels between the Ancient Greek and Indian moral institutions that led Helen and Sita down their twin paths. These similarities point to the deep connections — “cultural, linguistic, and pedagogical” — between branches of the ancient Indo-European continuity she examines as a literary scholar.

The cultural sense of identity has long been tangled with the idea of a certain level of ownership over the stories and traditions that make up each person’s individual awareness. While it is easier to become attached to narratives that bear a certain amount of resemblance to what is familiar to one’s own background or experiences, the incidental worlds and stories encountered by an impressionable young mind can make for lasting and surprising inspiration. Angela Misri was raised by Indian parents in London, where she was introduced at an early age to works by the likes of Arthur Conan Doyle. Her career as a writer since has been marked with a willingness to engage with the impossible, as well as a distinctly dry tone of humour. Her newest novel, The Detective and the Spy, follows a young woman living alone who discovers her familial connection to the life of Sherlock Holmes and relocates to London, creating a “fish-out-of-water” scenario reminiscent of the way Misri describes her own childhood.

For Misri, some of the most important creative and professional relationships in her career were developed with her editors — the people she credits with holding her to the task of organizing her own ideas. Often, it is during the editing process that she realizes some explanation is missing between the stages of one of her fast-paced stories. Understanding a narrative on the reader’s part begins with an author’s invitation. Telling any story, after all, does entail owing a little explanation — if only sometimes to oneself.

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This very dilemma was raised at the AI and the Future of Writing event, a panel discussion put on by the Quebec Writers’ Federation (QWF) on September 21 at the Atwater Library. A packed house listened with rapt attention as moderator Julian Sher led QWF vice-president Crystal Chan, author Sean Michaels, and McGill professor Andrew Piper in a lively reflection on the uses of artificial intelligence in creative writing.

Michaels broke the ice by reminding everyone that there is nothing new about systems like ChatGPT.  “Think of auto-complete on your phone, or spell check in Microsoft Word,” he told the crowd. The Montreal-based writer went on to tell the story of his introduction to the chatbot in 2019, on a website called Talk to Transformer, and how it led him to write his most recent book, Do You Remember Being Born?, a novel about the intersection of AI and poetry.

“I just stumbled onto this space and I started writing some things, and I found myself deeply disquieted, unsettled, and at times a little bit delighted by what it was feeding back to me,” he recalls. Once Michaels presented his fiction to the AI, he received new writing in a voice eerily similar to his own. “It had kind of an unsettlingly good – not great – but an unsettlingly good grasp of aspects of my writing style,” he shared. The experiment led him to write Do You Remember Being Born?, a novel about a 75-year-old poet who moves to California to write a poem with the Silicon Valley Company’s new poetry AI. The book, which was published a few weeks ago through Random House Canada, was written by Micheals with the help of an AI program of his design, making it a great example of how artificial intelligence can be used to supplement creativity. 

For Crystal Chan, QWF’s vice-president, ChatGPT is not cheeky nor is it creative. “It doesn’t just create something out of thin air, it’s predicting based on existing content,” she explains. She finds that in terms of mysticism and magic, artists and writers are doing unpredictable things with AI, not the other way around. She points to Micheals’ achievement and reminds everyone that the idea for the novel came from him: “It is interesting to play around with artificial intelligence to see what it is good at, what it is bad at, but you must factor in some lore of your own, too.”  

Andrew Piper, who teaches in the Department of Languages, Literatures, and Cultures at McGill University, supported Chan’s argument. “It’s forcing us to rethink how we write, or how we assign writing,” he says of the chatbot. Professor Piper expressed his concern that tools like ChatGPT could eventually replace skills like writing, but thinks the software could potentially be beneficial in the long run. “We know some kids really succeed at writing. Some kids really fail at it. But imagine if this thing could be some kind of writing assistant, a sort of personalized interactive bot that could help you be a little more creative, help you figure out how to express your thoughts through writing. That could be very exciting,” he shares. 

In the end, all three panelists agreed that using AI to complement your creative process is not without risks. Although the outcome can be fascinating when put into the hands of highly discerning creative professionals, they believe writers must have already honed their hard skills in order to use a chatbot effectively. In other words, ChatGPT cannot turn you into a writer. At least not for now. “Could this tool somehow augment and facilitate learning? We just don’t know yet,” concluded Professor Piper. 

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Here, I have assembled a list of some of the books required for my degree that I genuinely believe everyone would benefit from reading. These books are powerful, thought-provoking, well-written, and more accessible to the general public than the academic “classics” might be.

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

This book was on the reading list for an introductory class to prose literature. Adichie is a Nigerian feminist writer also known for her activism. Americanah narrates the challenges Ifemelu, a Nigerian woman, faces living in North America, from places to get her hair done to (in)visibility in a predominantly white society and culture. The characters are complex and deep; their internal emotional conflicts lift off the page to haunt the reader.

I Place You into the Fire by Rebecca Thomas

I read this poetry collection for a spectacular seminar called Local Literature and Diversity. Immediately after finishing it, I rushed to post this review on my Instagram story: “Go read this book right now!!! I Place You into the Fire is an amazing poetry collection by Mi’kmaq poet Rebecca Thomas about love, hurt, and accountability. A call to action for settlers!” I could reread this collection for years and get something new out of it every time. It draws attention to the inner workings and issues of colonialism, capitalism, and environmental and social justice through its powerful words.

L’avenir (The Future) by Catherine Leroux

This novel, available in French and English, combines the story of a woman trying to uncover the truth about the tragedy that separated her family and the life of a community of children living in the forest. I loved this novel so much that I wrote this informal review on my Instagram story: “I just finished reading L’avenir by Catherine Leroux for one of my French classes. The story is WONDERFUL and the characters are strange and there are so many allusions and the writing is beautiful! My head is exploding because this book exists *heart eye emoji* *crying emoji* Actually crying. READ READ READ!!!” A much more controlled review might say that this is a wonderful and complicated story about unique and intertwined characters. Leroux includes perfectly subtle allusions, and her writing is absolutely beautiful.

Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice

This book was an important part of the class Introduction to Canadian Literature, in which the words “Canadian” and “literature” were both challenged by the reading list. Rice, an Anishinaabe author from Wasauksing First Nation, tells the story of an Indigenous community that becomes completely cut off from the rest of the (colonized) world when the power goes out and never comes back on. It is full of Indigenous wisdom and an overwhelming sense of community during a crisis. This novel is a comment on capitalism, but, more importantly, it is about the value of family and community.

The Overstory by Richard Powers

I read this novel for the most amazing seminar called Ecofiction of the Forest. Here is my review on The StoryGraph: “I don’t even know how to review this book. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully process it. Just—the incredible world of trees. Activism. The complex and intertwining stories of eight people. Just read it.” I learned so much about trees and forests scientifically as well as symbolically over the course of this class, and The Overstory summarizes much of that knowledge. Fantastically well-written, this story will give you access to the magical world of trees.

Funny Boy by Shyam Selvadurai

This book was one of many that I read for the course Queer Literature in Canada. It is about a Sri Lankan boy coming to terms with his sexuality while experiencing the traumatic and unpredictable events during and leading up to the 1983 Colombo riots. Although Selvadurai is queer and Sri Lankan like his main character, the story is not autobiographical. Besides teaching non-Sri Lankan readers about a life and culture very different from their own, this story is full of emotion, earnestness, and truth that is relatable to a wide range of people. In my opinion, this book’s heart is what earns it its timelessness.

The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin

I read this novel for the coolest Utopian Literature seminar. Le Guin does incredible world-building for this utopia-in-progress. There is plenty of insight concerning philosophy, physics, and politics, as well as really interesting revolutionary ideas and perspectives on capitalism and anarchism. We focused a lot on anti-capitalism, decolonization, and the process of creating a utopia in this class, so Le Guin’s book was a perfect fit. As a science-fiction novel, this story allows us to view our world from an outsider’s perspective and learn about the revolution needed to make change.

Honorable Mention: “Gentle Now, Don’t Add to Heartache” by Juliana Spahr

Although not a book, I had to share this poem that I read for two different classes: Literature from the 1800s to Present and Romantic Ecology. This is most definitely one of my favourite poems of all time. There is a natural arc to its story, and the rhythm flows in harmony with the river it describes. Spahr’s narration of our beginning, our connection with the land, and how some of us have ruptured that connection through capitalism and individualism is absolutely beautiful. You’ll also learn some cool names for flora and fauna!

The post Books Required for My Literature Degree That You Should Actually Read appeared first on The McGill Daily.

As part of this year’s lineup of events during McGill’s annual back-to-back Indigenous Awareness Weeks (September 18-30), the talk was given in the SSMU building ballroom and attended en masse by students, academic professionals, and members of the university community. Seats quickly filled up; I drew up a folding chair in the back row and found myself between two other students waiting with their notebooks open. 

Together with Dr. Pamela Palmater – a longtime friend and collaborator from the Mi’kmaw Nation who penned the foreword to his book – Dr. Alfred addressed the continued effects of Canadian state-led colonization on First Nations communities and individuals. His book lends a unique perspective to this conversation by exploring how policies on land acquisition set the course for many Indigenous communities today.

Published through the University of Toronto Press earlier this year amid considerable excitement for its release, It’s All About the Land is a compendium of collaborative insight and lucid commentary on the interplay of sovereign policy, social attitude, and Native identity cultivated through a series of bold conversations and complex reflections. Alfred’s writing is richly informed by his educational background in political philosophy as well as his personal journey to becoming a force of action for the Kahnawà:ke people. Both academic and personal perspectives are woven into a fluid conversational flow directed at deconstructing the negative impact made by systems of the Canadian government on First Nations sovereignty, security, and cultural identity. 

A short introduction by Professor Veldon Coburn, Associate Professor of Indigenous Studies at the University of Ottawa, underlined the significance of Alfred’s contribution to the socio-political discourse on contemporary conflicts faced by Indigenous people: his four previous books on the subject set such a considerable precedent for his work that some among the ballroom audience had waited more than a decade for the release of his most recent publication. 

With most of his work concerning processes of decolonization and cultural recovery through the legal and political empowerment of Indigenous people, Dr. Alfred’s primary driving force is his innate desire to find “the truth” about his people. A major consequence of the colonization endured by the Kahnawà:ke and other First Nations communities was the loss of large-scale social integrity due to the effective dispersal of their hereditary collectives. The truth must be reconstructed by picking up the pieces. He draws an analogy, referencing the great historical leader for whom he was named: “The figure of Taiaiake in 1701…stood on a rock as big as Mont Royal. I am barely standing on a rock that’s big enough.”

Alfred cites his parents’ generation of community leaders as an early source of inspiration; the earnest dedicatees of the book are his aunt and uncle, from whose influence he adopted his “militant” attitude towards justice for his community. Addressed to the people who shaped such an important aspect of his identity, his intention was to explain, through the book’s exhaustive dialogues and painstaking commentary, his own “Mohawk worldview.” The title, in addition, came from a succinct reminder he heard constantly from peers and elders in Indigenous activist spaces during his youth: “Remember – it’s all about the land.”

For many First Nations across the continent, the inability to live on their own territories or to hand down the land within the community constitutes a fundamental, original loss with no recourse. Divided land, as divided truth, denies the possibility of a complete identity. Alfred enumerates the experiences that separate him from the other Taiaiake: “I didn’t know our language…I went to Catholic school and I lost the [Kahnawà:ke] spirituality.” But despite knowing these differences, he still grapples with the question: “What’s this Tai’s reality?” 

Today, Alfred’s work occupies its own league in the Indigenous literary space. His particular impact, remarked by Professor Coburn, is owed in part to the firm, prosaic style that translates his personal magnanimity into a compelling literary voice that draws readers from all backgrounds together. Unfailingly sensitive towards nuances in the subject matter, his writing preserves a clarity of articulation which renders even his most theoretical arguments plainly accessible. From a stylistic approach, Alfred added that It’s All About the Land was, perhaps more so than any of his other works, very much “like an oratory.” Like the course of one of his unscripted speeches, the free prose aligns with the gravity of his concerns in stark authenticity to follow a winding path — though by no means complete — of one man’s journey after the truth.

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Bunny by Mona Awad

Bizarre, beautifully evocative, and darkly humorous, Mona Awad’s Bunny tells the story of New England MFA student Samantha Mackay as she uncovers the supernatural underbelly of her English major classmates. Surrounded by “the fake poor and fashionably deranged” of an art school student body, Samantha’s classmates appear at first glance to be caricatures of privilege and hollow femininity. However, when the workshop’s central group — four close female friends with a penchant for calling each other “Bunny” — invite Samantha to their personal writing getaway, she is suddenly faced with their strange, grotesque reality. In part satirical, the novel reflects Awad’s own experience in her BFA program, as she criticizes the hypocrisy entrenched in modern literary institutions. Bunny covers a range of themes from girlhood to cults to the destructive power of love, imbued with stylish elements of cult classic horror. 

— Michele Fu, Culture Editor

Glory by Noviolet Bulawayo

Bulawayo’s second novel is a unique take on the 2017 Zimbabwean military overthrow of then Prime Minister Robert Mugabe. She draws inspiration from George Orwell’s Animal Farm, setting the story in the fictional African nation of Jidada, whose residents are all animals. The word ‘people’ never appears in this novel, and gender is not defined by men and women, but by ‘mals’ and ‘femals.’ This post-colonial masterpiece tackles the long-standing effects of European colonization on Zimbabwe’s political systems, ultimately culminating in the 2017 coup. This brilliant work of political satire uses familiar allegories in a groundbreakingly new way. 

— Eliana Freelund, Culture Editor

Severance by Ling Ma

In her debut novel Severance, Ling Ma tells the story of apocalyptic dystopia, alienation and cruelty under global capitalism, and the moving struggle of reconnecting with a mother’s heritage. Our protagonist Candace Chen embodies the millennial condition — she is a first-generation American and corporate office drone, grasping for comfort in routine following the passing of her Chinese immigrant parents. Although published in 2018, Ma’s novel centers around an eerily familiar pandemic in NYC, as we witness the self-destructive nature of loneliness and grief. A post-capitalist satire under the guise of one Asian-American woman’s journey into adulthood, Severance is a delightful treatise on the human condition.

— Michele Fu, Culture Editor

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson

Jackson’s final work is widely considered to be her best. We Have Always Lived in the Castle is a gothic mystery novel that follows the lives of sisters Mary Katherine ‘Merricat’ and Constance Blackwood. This novel takes the idea of the ‘home’ and its association with traditional femininity, and flips it on its head. In the Blackwood home, food always has a chance of being poisoned, eerie wards surround the house to “keep it safe,” and family members can be mysteriously killed off at any time. Although Jackson’s novel can be quite jarring and unsettling at times, the story ultimately hinges on close female relationships; in this case, the unwavering love the two sisters have for one another. In a world where everyone else — the townsfolk, their childhood friends, and even their own family — has turned against them, Merricat and Constance find their strength in each other. 

— Eliana Freelund, Culture Editor

Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Braiding Sweetgrass is a nonfiction book about the traditional Indigenous uses of plants in medicine and science. Robin Wall Kimmerer, a Potawatomi professor of Environmental and Forest Biology at the State University of New York College of Environmental Science and Forestry (SUNY-ESF), organizes her book as a series of essays divided into five sections. “Planting Sweetgrass,” “Tending,” “Picking,” “Braiding,” and “Burning Sweetgrass” each give wonderful insight into the world of traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) and ethnobotany. A must read for everybody!

— Frida Sofía Morales Mora, Social Media Editor

Why Women Have Better Sex Under Socialism by Kristen R. Ghodsee

Kristen R. Ghodsee, professor of Russian and East European studies at the University of Pennsylvania, offers an engaging and deeply researched analysis of the lives of women under state socialism in Eastern Europe. She examines the lives and legacies of prominent female activists and politicians in state socialist countries, as well as how policies shaped the daily lives of women and in many cases, afforded them more independence and opportunities than before. She argues that socialism done right leads to increased economic independence, better work-life balance, and more political participation for women.

— Emma Bainbridge, News Editor

The post Women’s History Month Book Recommendations appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Yehia for The McGill Daily (MD): How did you become the owner of Maktaba? What did your path look like? 

Sundus Abdul Hadi (SAH): Well, I am an artist and a writer. I put out two books during the pandemic. I entered the world of books as a writer and as a person who is connected to a really beautiful community of writers, readers, and artists. With Maktaba, the idea started with the question: what does it mean to create a space for us? A space for not just me, Sundus, the artist and the writer, but my greater community. Whether it’s the community of people in Montreal who have been seeking a space where they feel represented, whether as Arabs or as deeply rooted people who want to have a cultural experience rather than just a commercial one. I always say that even though Maktaba is a business, it is first and foremost an art project and a space – a cultural space.

MD: Can you tell me a little bit about the boutique in general and about this new merch drop? 

SAH: The boutique is my husband’s brainchild. Yassin has been making merch for 15 years. Each T-shirt he makes is a conversation-starter. So we wanted to approach the Maktaba boutique the same way. We wanted to make wearable messages. And with the General Federation of International Women, I felt like we were at a time when we just wanted to be able to show as much solidarity as possible with what’s happening, especially in Iran, but also across cultures where there’s this beautiful show of strength and solidarity for women. That was the approach. The original image behind the drop is from a vinyl record that was gifted to us by the General Federation of Iraqi Women. And we always saw it as a T-shirt. We knew we wanted to do something with it in this way. 

We’ve been doing drop chapters. So when we first opened, it was chapter one: Medium of the Message. And the second chapter was Love Language. And the third chapter is the General Federation of International Women. They provide different ways for us to express ourselves and express what Maktaba stands for. 

MD: I wanted to ask you about the book selections. There are specific categories and specific books. Are you the one who picks the books that get showcased? 

SAH: Yeah, it was kind of like me channelling my creativity. My creativity came out in how to curate the book selection or how to select it and put it together and how to create a journey for people browsing. So the categories are nontraditional. And so the titles themselves are like food for thought.

I like people to start from right to left. Everything is Political, and that moves us into Black Power, Theory and Thoughts, Palestine, and then Edward Said. The second layer is books about Self Care, Community Care, Self Knowledge, Creative Self, Ancestral Knowledge, and Perspective Shift. So I think the top layer is a lot more political and a lot more theoretical, like the brain. And then the second one is very much about the self, your roots, your ancestry, your body. And then the third one goes into our planet: Indigenous Futures, Magical Realism, Deeply Rooted Fiction, and Octavia’s World. 

Our Planet and Indigenous Futures are a continuation of the Perspective Shift and Community Care. And then we get into the Deeply Rooted fiction and the books that I’m also very passionate about, which are books that really expand your imagination, that are written by people from what I call deeply rooted communities. So everything from SWANA (Southwest Asian/North African), Indigenous, and Black communities as far and wide as you can imagine that have ancient cultures. And then the last row covers femme and queer writers. On our table, we have featured books. We have some art and design books and poetry, and we also have books about music and vinyl.

MD: You have a section in the bookstore devoted to Edward Said. What does he mean to you and to the Maktaba? 

SAH: If not for Edward Said, Maktaba wouldn’t exist. He’s an OG. He paved the path. He inspired our generation. He inspired me and Yassin. His work impacted our work, the way we see the world, the kind of lens through which we view representation, and the significance of that word.

Because I’m a media studies graduate, and so is Yassin, we’ve always approached the consumption and the proliferation of information and media from an observer’s place. So instead of just taking and consuming the information, cultural theorists like Edward Said basically allow you to take an observer’s position and think about things in a much more complex way. By doing that, it actually simplifies things so much more because you start to see the bigger picture. 

MD: We are now sitting in the majlis. Why do you have this space? Why is Maktaba Bookshop not just a bookstore? 

SAH:  I guess the majlis for me was a really important space to have for many reasons. First of all, it feels like an extension of home for me. It’s something that makes you immediately want to just get cozy, take off your shoes, and sit down. When your seat is very low and close to the ground, I feel like it opens you up in a different way. It just relaxes you. It encourages conversations that are very down-to-earth. There’s no pretence about it. That’s number one. Number two: this space is amazing because it can get activated in so many different ways. We have a space to project on the wall for screenings. We’ve had poetry readings here. We’ve had different kinds of gatherings of minds and people. We’re planning a program for the fall and the winter that’s going to just activate the space even more on a regular basis. We have different kinds of workshops planned here. All kinds of different reasons to get people into the space, to connect on different levels. 

On a good day, when it’s quiet in the shop, it’s the best place to disconnect from the hustle and the bustle in the city and the routine of your day and just come in here with some reading material.
 It’s really calming.

For me, it’s an offering. It’s an offering in the same way that opening a bookstore is an offering. Bookselling is a very humble business. I think that’s part of why I’m so attracted to it. It’s an offering for your community and an offering to create spaces that are comfortable and that encourage community and bring people together, engage them, ignite ideas and creativity and imagination and knowledge of self. That, to me, is the ultimate goal and the best intention to set
 with Maktaba.

MD: You mentioned earlier that you thought there was a need for this space. Can you elaborate on that?

SAH: I can only speak for myself. As a lover of books and reading, I always struggle to find spaces for books other than, of course, the amazing independent bookshops in Montreal, which for me are the best. And there isn’t a lot here, by the way. We have very few independent bookshops. So when we opened, we received really warm support from other independent bookshops in Montreal, which for me was the best feeling. And it reiterated how humble bookselling is as a business. But, yeah, what were my choices? Either ordering off Amazon, which I had almost completely stopped doing more than two or three years ago, or going to places like Indigo. Indigo’s founder is also the founder of a charity organisation called Loan Soldiers, where they donate a portion of their proceeds every year to buying books for IDF soldiers. Yeah, I don’t want to donate to
 that cause. 

So you’re kind of  stuck in a situation where you want to find your materials and your books and your resources, but you’re limited when it comes to where to get them from. When I decided to open Maktaba, I spent my book royalty money on buying books for the bookshop. I won’t take funding from just anybody. 

MD: Personally, I didn’t know I needed a place like Maktaba until it existed.

SAH: Yassin and I always say that, actually, if we had had a place like Maktaba when we were in university, we would have had such a completely different experience. We spent our whole time at university on the sidelines, on the margins, creating our own spaces or having these very insular experiences. So if we had had a place like Maktaba, I wonder what a different experience that would have been. It’s a real privilege for me to be able to offer that to a new generation of young Arabs in Montreal, whether they are at university or not. It’s just been so beautiful seeing people come in here and say exactly what you just said. I didn’t know I needed a place like this.

The post Maktaba Bookshop: “An Extension of Home”  appeared first on The McGill Daily.