Tag Archives: postings

Signs of Life

January comes to an end. It makes me think of crooked teeth, this difficult month. Winter in rack and ruin. Our skating canal lopped off at the knees by freezing rain. Snow thawed and refrozen a dozen times. Walking a … Continue reading

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Canadian

I find it extraordinarily sad, the sale of my proud and struggling Canadian publisher, McClelland & Stewart, to Random House, the German-owned conglomerate. Even though I can guess at the realities and appreciate the relief my friends at M&S tell … Continue reading

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Apricots

It’s tough to be sleepless at this time of year since we turn down the heat before going to bed. At two a.m. it’s on with my bathrobe, on with my llama wool socks and downstairs to hot milk, a … Continue reading

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Delacroix Never Won a Prize

I keep eight or so quotations on a corner of my desk, written on slips of paper and held together by a paper clip, reaching for them when I’m low or lost or ashamed of myself. Here’s one. Jean Renoir … Continue reading

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Phil Hall’s ‘Killdeer’

Tomorrow my mother turns 92. Yesterday she was so agitated and confused. “The day has been sloppish, sloppish!” she said. “Just sloppish.” My lovely little crooked bird of a mother. I persuaded her to let me wash her hair in … Continue reading

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In Celebration of Bookstores

Two weeks ago I drove to a small miracle of a bookstore in the Ottawa Valley, the Arnprior Book Shop forty-five minutes northwest of Ottawa. Then last week I dropped into the London Review Bookstore near the British Museum. In … Continue reading

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On the road

What I take with me when I travel. Ear plugs. Sleeping pills (each divided in four). Books. This time American Pastoral by Philip Roth, and Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad. Tylenol. Umbrella, since I’ll be in Vancouver … Continue reading

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Six Books I’m Rereading

First posted on Canadian Bookshelf canadianbookshelf.com/ The Man from the Creeks, Robert Kroetsch, 1998, New Canadian Library Kroetsch’s sudden death in June made me pick up his last novel once again. I came to it for the first time a … Continue reading

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September

On September 6, I wheeled my bicycle past the bed of zinnias at the front of the house and rode downtown to the National Art Gallery. On the second floor I went looking for Van Gogh. There are two small … Continue reading

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Jack

The day he died, an eloquent friend wrote to say her sadness was shocking, indeed seismic; she hid herself from her less demonstrative family by descending to the basement and drowning out her weeping with the vacuum cleaner. The same … Continue reading

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