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Commuter Reads (List by Loren Edizel)
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Commuter Reads (List by Loren Edizel)

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Loren Edizel was born in Izmir, Turkey and has lived in Canada most of her life. One of her novels, The Ghosts of Smyrna, was published in Turkey in 2008 by Senocak Yayinlari (trans. Roza Hakmen) and a short story "The Conch" appeared (November 2009) in Turkish translation as part of an anthology entitledIzmir in Women's Stories. "The Imam’s Daughter" was published in Montreal Serai.She has recently completed a collection of short stories under the title “the confession”. She currently lives in Toronto. **"The theme for my title list may seem pedestrian. It is. I don’t own a car; so I walk, take the bus and the subway to get to work and back, every day. It takes me between twenty and forty minutes each way. And during this commute, I read books. Sometimes the read is so engrossing, that I end up missing my stops or head north instead of south. The books on this list are all guilty of causing me such occasional mishaps. The voices in them are strong and uncompromising and have stayed with me long after the read. I hope you will find inspiration and pleasure in reading them as I have."
Lady Oracle

Lady Oracle

edition:Paperback
also available: Paperback Paperback
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Why it's on the list ...
I read this book a long time ago, when I was still a student, going back and forth to my classes at Concordia University. I remember bursting into laughter in the midst of reading, and not wanting the book to end while not being able to put it down. It was a small used pocket book that I had bought at a second-hand bookstore called Cheap Thrills on Bishop Street. I was seduced by its humour and satire, its imaginative telling of Joan’s adventures and escapist fantasies.
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The Diviners

The Diviners

edition:Paperback
also available: Paperback
tagged : classics, literary
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Excerpt

The river flowed both ways. The current moved from north to south, but the wind usually came from the south, rippling the bronze-green water in the opposite direction. This apparently impossible contradiction, made apparent and possible, still fascinated Morag, even after the years of river-watching.

The dawn mist had lifted, and the morning air was filled with swallows, darting so low over the river that their wings sometimes brushed the water, then spiralling and pirouetting upward again. Morag watched, trying to avoid thought, but this ploy was not successful.

Pique had gone away. She must have left during the night. She had left a note on the kitchen table, which also served as Morag’s desk, and had stuck the sheet of paper into the typewriter, where Morag would be certain to find it.

Now please do not get all uptight, Ma. I can look after myself. Am going west. Alone, at least for now. If Gord phones, tell him I’ve drowned and gone floating down the river, crowned with algae and dead minnows, like Ophelia.

Well, you had to give the girl some marks for style of writing. Slightly derivative, perhaps, but let it pass. Oh jesus, it was not funny. Pique was eighteen. Only. Not dry behind the ears. Yes, she was, though. If only there hadn’t been that other time when Pique took off, that really bad time. That wouldn’t happen again, not like before. Morag was pretty sure it wouldn’t. Not sure enough, probably.

I’ve got too damn much work in hand to fret over Pique. Lucky me. I’ve got my work to take my mind off my life. At forty-seven that’s not such a terrible state of affairs. If I hadn’t been a writer, I might’ve been a first-rate mess at this point. Don’t knock the trade.

Morag read Pique’s letter again, made coffee and sat looking out at the river, which was moving quietly, its surface wrinkled by the breeze, each crease of water outlined by the sun. Naturally, the river wasn’t wrinkled or creased at all — wrong words, implying something unfluid like skin, something unenduring, prey to age. Left to itself, the river would probably go on like this, flowing deep, for another million or so years. That would not be allowed to happen. In bygone days, Morag had once believed that nothing could be worse than killing a person. Now she perceived river-slaying as something worse. No wonder the kids felt themselves to be children of the apocalypse.

No boats today. Yes, one. Royland was out, fishing for muskie. Seventy-four years old this year, Royland. Eyesight terrible, but he was too stubborn to wear glasses. A marvel that he could go on working. Of course, his work did not depend upon eyesight. Some other kind of sight. A water diviner. Morag always felt she was about to learn something of great significance from him, something which would explain everything. But things remained mysterious, his work, her own, the generations, the river.

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Why it's on the list ...
I also read it while still a student and would like to re-read it now. This novel, set in the Prairies, is about the life of Morag Gunn, a writer, who in the process of writing a novel is also reminiscing about her own life. Richly textured narrative, that takes us into the mind and thought process of the writer. Reading it, back then, I remember being struck by two things: a particularly Canadian landscape and experience, and the depiction of a very strong, passionate female character. A woman who lives her life fully.
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Modern Classics Friend of My Youth
Why it's on the list ...
These are stories that will make you weep. Not from sadness, but a sense of gratitude and awe at being offered such beauty in words. How does Munro do it, how does she peel the apparently simple story from the outside in, taking you to the very depths of the human condition? Her style has been likened to Chekhov’s. I agree. Her stories also bring to mind Chardin’s paintings; every day objects, domestic scenes that transcend the two dimensional canvas and offer us profound insight into our humanity. Be prepared to get lost in Munro’s words, and to miss your stops.
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The Unconscious Civilization

The Unconscious Civilization

edition:eBook
also available: Paperback
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Why it's on the list ...
“Whenever governments adopt a moral tone—as opposed to an ethical one—you know something is wrong,” Saul says in this thoughtful collection of essays. He describes “corporatism” as a concept invented in Europe in the 19th century by the new industrial elite, as an alternative to democracy. It is a system that destroys responsible individualism and participatory democracy in the interest of “groups”. There is no role for the citizen in such a system. The corporatist movement in Europe in the 1920s created Fascism. And if we look closely at the programs of most contemporary Western governments, we may recognize that they look a lot like Fascism.
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De Niro's Game ed 1 /tp
Why it's on the list ...
The horror of the Lebanese civil war is imprinted in the feverish, almost hallucinatory narrative. The descriptions are stark and visceral. The lament of ten thousand bombs raining on Beirut keeps returning. “Ten thousand bombs had split the winds, and my mother was still in the kitchen smoking her long, white cigarettes…” Through the lives of two young men, Bassam and George, Hage tells the story of the war that lasted fifteen years, displaying the brutal realities of sectarian fighting, foreign intervention and the gangster politics that kept it going.
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Jewels and Other Stories
Why it's on the list ...
A slim collection of fourteen short stories set in apartheid-era South Africa. The stories are told with elegant, understated simplicity which makes them all the more poignant and luminous. We are offered glimpses into the lives of white middle class households and their black servants who inhabit tin–walled homes in these stories that are like translucent windows upon which segregation, fear and oppression cast a blinding light.
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Echoes from the Other Land
Why it's on the list ...
The seven stories that make up this collection take place in Iran. The prose is purposeful and unfolds through short sentences and crisp dialogue. The young women and girls in these stories all struggle against the suffocating blanket of misogyny and oppression created by the hateful regime, the weakness of men, and society in general, where everyone is bent out of shape. It is the anger of women that keeps them erect with eyes wide open in these stories, and the scarves on their heads are always somehow falling off, or pulling back, or crumpling somewhere to reveal their locks.
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Life of Pi

Life of Pi

edition:Paperback
also available: Paperback
tagged : literary
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Excerpt

Chapter 1

My suffering left me sad and gloomy.

Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly brought me back to life. I have remained a faithful Hindu, Christian and Muslim. I decided to stay in Toronto. After one year of high school, I attended the University of Toronto and took a double-major Bachelor’s degree. My majors were religious studies and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religious studies concerned certain aspects of the cosmogony theory of Isaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My zoology thesis was a functional analysis of the thyroid gland of the three-toed sloth. I chose the sloth because its demeanour — calm, quiet and introspective — did something to soothe my shattered self.

There are two-toed sloths and there are three-toed sloths, the case being determined by the forepaws of the animals, since all sloths have three claws on their hind paws. I had the great luck one summer of studying the three-toed sloth in situ in the equatorial jungles of Brazil. It is a highly intriguing creature. Its only real habit is indolence. It sleeps or rests on average twenty hours a day. Our team tested the sleep habits of five wild three-toed sloths by placing on their heads, in the early evening after they had fallen asleep, bright red plastic dishes filled with water. We found them still in place late the next morning, the water of the dishes swarming with insects. The sloth is at its busiest at sunset, using the word busy here in a most relaxed sense. It moves along the bough of a tree in its characteristic upside-down position at the speed of roughly 400 metres an hour. On the ground, it crawls to its next tree at the rate of 250 metres an hour, when motivated, which is 440 times slower than a motivated cheetah. Unmotivated, it covers four to five metres in an hour.

The three-toed sloth is not well informed about the outside world. On a scale of 2 to 10, where 2 represents unusual dullness and 10 extreme acuity, Beebe (1926) gave the sloth’s senses of taste, touch, sight and hearing a rating of 2, and its sense of smell a rating of 3. If you come upon a sleeping three-toed sloth in the wild, two or three nudges should suffice to awaken it; it will then look sleepily in every direction but yours. Why it should look about is uncertain since the sloth sees everything in a Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the sloth is not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. Beebe reported that firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths elicited little reaction. And the sloth’s slightly better sense of smell should not be overestimated. They are said to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground clinging to decayed branches “often”.

How does it survive, you might ask.

Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm’s way, away from the notice of jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth’s hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree.

The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. “A good-natured smile is forever on its lips,” reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil, looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing.

Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students–muddled agnostics who didn’t know which way was up, in the thrall of reason, that fool’s gold for the bright–reminded me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded me of God.

I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science.

I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael’s College four years in a row. I got every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General’s Academic Medal, the University of Toronto’s highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of unbearable good cheer.

I still smart a little at the slight. When you’ve suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, “You’ve got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don’t believe in death. Move on!” The skull snickers and moves ever closer, but that doesn’t surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn’t biological necessity–it’s envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of a cloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi, Jerusalem and Paris.

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Why it's on the list ...
This is the story of an orphaned boy adrift on a boat in the Indian Ocean with a bunch of wild animals; among them one ferocious tiger… Piscine Molitor Patel (Pi), named after a swimming pool in France, lives in Pondicherry where his father owns a zoo. His family decides to immigrate to Canada, after selling the animals to a zoo in Japan. Some of the animals are also on the boat carrying the Patel family toward a new life in Canada. The ship sinks. Everyone dies except for Pi who ends up on a small life boat with a hyena, a hippopotamus, a zebra, an orang-utan and a Bengal tiger. What a suspenseful, fantastic and boldly imagined novel!
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