skirting the periphery

[Suzannah Showler, from 'Walrus Blogs', November 5th 2009]:

When February came out, one critic accused it of being too Canadian. We’re at a point where “Canadian” is sometimes used as shorthand for literature that is too aesthetic or intellectual. What are your thoughts on where such “Canadian-ness” fits into our national literature?

I’m from Newfoundland, and that probably comes before being Canadian, or at least gets mixed up in it: they’re two separate identities mixing together. Since becoming a writer, I’ve travelled through Canada a lot to do readings, and that has really informed my idea of what it means to be Canadian — just travelling in the landscape and seeing how different it is and meeting the people. I really don’t believe there is such a thing as a Canadian kind of writing. I think that Canadian literature is as diverse as the country is big, and it gets more and more diverse every day. I read last night with three other writers, and each of the books that we read from was completely different. Of the three books written by Canadians, one is set in Beirut, one is love poetry, and mine is about the sinking of the Ocean Ranger. That’s a literary experience in Canada: if you go to a reading, you hear all of that.

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[Linda Matchan, boston.com, November 8th 2009]:

When you put your mind to it, there are plenty of ways to use a bunker on your property.

Extra storage. Wine cellars. Recording studios. These are some of the creative solutions devised by the resilient residents of Guernsey, a small, scenic island in the far reaches of the English Channel that found itself in Hitler’s crosshairs in World War II. Guernsey was occupied by some 15,000 German troops between 1940 and 1945, and fortified so ferociously it was virtually impregnable. “You can’t go more than 3 miles without seeing a bunker,’’ said John O’Neill, a Guernsey photojournalist.

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[Yoani Sanchez, from the blog 'Generation Y', October 30th 2009]:

A young writer asked to speak and lamented that so many had been prevented from entering; then someone came and mentioned terms such as “enemy,” “dangerous,” and “defend ourselves.” When finally I was called, I took the opportunity to ask what relationship there is between the limitations in bandwidth and the many websites censored for the Cuban public. There was applause when I finished. I swear I didn’t collude with any of them. Afterward, a university professor came up and questioned why I had received the Ortega y Gasset journalism prize. I still haven’t managed to find the relationship between my question and her analysis, but the paths of defamation are so twisted. At the end, several came up to me to give me hugs, one woman gave me just a touch of her hand and said “congratulations.” The crisp October night waited for me outside.

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