Some books that have kept me occupied this past month…
HEY NOSTRADAMUS! by Douglas Coupland — A book based in part on the events of a Columbine-style disaster at a BC high school…and the reprocussions ten years later. Not as funny and twisted as his masterpiece All Families Are Psychotic, but a poignant, often brutally honest book about guilt and the inability to communicate. It’s not an easy book to read, but it repays you for the effort. Strangely enough, it has the feel of being the literary equivalent of Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine — no easy task. Only this time…the dead DO speak. It’s an interesting twist to open the novel in such a fashion, but I’m not sure the rest of it lives up to the opening — which, considering the general perceptiveness of his writing, is hard to understand. That said, there is no perfect beauty…and this novel is definitely a beauty.
HOW INSENSITIVE by Russell Smith — A twisted, satirical (actually, only JUST satricial) tale about a young man trying to make his way in the club-drenched, money-laced, culture-industry-obsessed world of mid 1990s Toronto. It is hideously funny at times, but it also hit home on a number of occasions. I’m part of this youth group, and even at the periphery, many of the situations and characters rang true in a way that sails very close to home. I certainly have more than a touch of the cultural wanderlust of the main character, Ted Owen, and sharing his journey proved interesting and wistful. Definitely worth picking up…and for a taste of Smith’s writing, read his culture columns in The Globe and Mail.
TWENTY-SIX by Leo McKay Jr. — What is it about New Brunswick and Nova Scotia writers that make them to tell tales of gut-wrenching, alcohol-smeared pain and sorrow…and make them tell it so well? I thought David Adams Richards had the (slightly depressive) market cornered, by McKay Jr’s take on a Westray-like mine disaster explores the same vein…and does it in an interesting flashback structure that sets it apart from Richards’ works. I was certainly not expecting the side trips to Japan (and if anyone says THEY were, then THEY are lying), and yet they add something beautiful and terrifying to the book, which is the purpose of counterpoint, I suppose. Again, not a happy book, yet strangely enough, far easier a read than Douglas Coupland’s novel.
I highly recommend all three books. They’re further examples of the extraordinary depth in literary talent that this country possesses. They should be treasured.
