Recommended Reading List
Indebtedness (by Jared Bland)
Download list
Please login or register to use this feature.

Indebtedness (by Jared Bland)

By 49thShelf
0 ratings
rated!
rated!
"We all owe debts. Some are to mentors; some are to Visa. Writers, like all artists, are eternally in debt: to the books they borrow from, to the readers who support them, to the colleagues who inspire them, to the centuries of writers who’ve come before. In that spirit, what follows is a reading list of owing and being owed." Jared Bland is the managing editor of House of Anansi Press and sits on the board of directors of PEN Canada. He was formerly the managing editor of The Walrus, and is the editor of Finding the Words: Writers on Inspiration, Desire, War, Celebrity, Exile, and Breaking the Rules, a 2010 anthology published as a fundraiser for PEN Canada.
Bloom

Bloom

edition:Paperback
also available: eBook
tagged : canadian, history
More Info
Why it's on the list ...
Every poem in Michael Lista’s first book is based on another poem, an aggressive intellectual experiment that explores the boundaries of borrowing in an effort to destabilize the reader’s relationship with both the poems in question and the broader Western poetic tradition. It’s an enormous gamble, and one that really shouldn’t work. But in Lista’s gifted hands, it does, and what results is a bracing and challenging collection that is as ambitious as it is beautiful.
close this panel
Endeared by Dark
Why it's on the list ...
George Johnston’s collected poems is perhaps the book to which I’m most indebted. Finding Johnston’s work while I was a graduate student set me on the long and winding course that has brought me where I am. He died before I began reading him, and to this day I feel a sadness over the fact I never had a chance to tell him that his work changed my life.
close this panel
Heaven is Small
Why it's on the list ...
I’m referring here specifically to Ingrid Paulson’s design for the cover of the hardback edition of this novel, which, to me, is a brilliant commentary on the sets of coded images that book jackets use to communicate content. Sepia-toned, gauzy image of a woman? You’ve got yourself some historical fiction. Vaguely Asian looking streetscape? Time for something ‘exotic’! In riffing on a Harlequinesque embrace, Heaven is Small reminds us of the extent to which we can be conditioned, and how important it is to be aware of that.
close this panel
Earworm

Earworm

edition:Paperback
tagged : canadian
More Info
Why it's on the list ...
Nick Thran’s Earworm is a remarkable book, and I could go on and on about its many brilliant borrowings. But for me it all comes down to one moment in the last (and title) poem, in which Thran laments language’s inability to capture the strange and remarkable by listing various experiences and moments for which there are no adequate words. At one point, he turns toward what he has said was a defining moment of his youth. Thran is indebted to the 1993 Toronto Blue Jays, and I’m indebted to him for one of those rare moments when two of one’s disparate passions—baseball and poetry—come together:

…For replaying the video clip
of Joltin’ Joe Carter’s ninth-inning blast
in the ’93 Series. For the sound when the ball
hit the bat, and everyone knew they’d won
before it left the park.
close this panel
A Complicated Kindness
Excerpt

One

I live with my father, Ray Nickel, in that low brick bungalow out on highway number twelve. Blue shutters, brown door, one shattered window. Nothing great. The furniture keeps disappearing, though. That keeps things interesting.

Half of our family, the better-looking half, is missing. Ray and I get up in the morning and move through our various activities until it’s time to go to bed. Every single night around ten o’clock Ray tells me that he’s hitting the hay. Along the way to his bedroom he’ll stop in the front hallway and place notes on top of his shoes to remind him of the things he has to do the next day. We enjoy staring at the Northern Lights together. I told him, verbatim, what Mr. Quiring told us in class. About how those lights work. He thought Mr. Quiring had some interesting points. He’s always been mildly interested in Mr. Quiring’s opinions, probably because he’s also a teacher.

I have assignments to complete. That’s the word, complete. I’ve got a problem with endings. Mr. Quiring has told me that essays and stories generally come, organically, to a preordained ending that is quite out of the writer’s control. He says we will know it when it happens, the ending. I don’t know about that. I feel that there are so many to choose from. I’m already anticipating failure. That much I’ve learned to do. But then what the hell will it matter to me while I’m snapping tiny necks and chucking feathery corpses onto a conveyor belt in a dimly lit cinder-block slaughterhouse on the edge of a town not of this world. Most of the kids from around here will end up working at Happy Family Farms, where local chickens go to meet their maker. I’m sixteen now, young to be on the verge of graduating from high school, and only months away from taking my place on the assembly line of death.

One of my recurring memories of my mother, Trudie Nickel, has to do with the killing of fowl. She and I were standing in this farmyard watching Carson and his dad chop heads off chickens. You’d know Carson if you saw him. Carson Enns. Arm-farter in the back row. President of the Pervert Club. Says he’s got a kid in Pansy, a small town south of here. Troubled boy, but that’s no wonder considering he used to be The Snowmobile Suit Killer. I was eight and Trudie was about thirty-five. She was wearing a red wool coat and moon boots. The ends of her hair were frozen because she hadn’t been able to find the blow-dryer that morning. Look, she’d said. She grabbed a strand of hair and bent it like a straw. She’d given me her paisley scarf to tie around my ears. I don’t know exactly what we were doing at Carson’s place in the midst of all that carnage, it hadn’t started out that way I’m pretty sure, but I guess carnage has a way of creeping up on you. Carson was my age and every time he swung the axe he’d yell things at the chicken. He wanted it to escape. Run, you stupid chicken! Carson, his dad would say. Just his name and a slight anal shake of the head. He was doing his best to nurture the killer in his son. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon on a winter day and the light was fading into blue and it was snowing horizontally and we were all standing under a huge yellow yard light. Well, some of us were dying. And Carson was doing this awful botch job on a chicken, hacking away at its neck, not doing it right at all, whispering instructions on how to escape. Fly away, idiot. Don’t make me do this. Poor kid. By this time he’d unzipped the top half of his snowmobile suit so it kind of flapped around his waist like a skirt, slowing him down, and his dad saw him and came over and grabbed the semi-mutilated chicken out of Carson’s little mittened hand and slapped it onto this wooden altar thing he used to do the killing and brought his axe down with incredible speed and accuracy and in less than a second had created a splattery painting in the snow and I was blown away by how the blood could land so fast and without a single sound and my mom gasped and said look, Nomi, it’s a Jackson Pollock. Oh, it’s beautiful. Oh, she said, cloths of heaven. That was something she said a lot. And Carson and I stood there staring at the blood on the snow and my mom said: Just like that. Who knew it could be so easy.

I don’t know if she meant it’s so easy to make art or it’s so easy to kill a chicken or it’s so easy to die. Every single one of those things strikes me as being difficult to do. I imagine that if she were here right now and I was asking her what she meant, she’d say what are you talking about and I’d say nothing and that would be the end of it.

It’s only because she’s gone that all those trivial little things from the past echo on and on and on. At dinner that night, after the slaughter at Carson’s place, she asked us how we would feel if for some reason we were all in comas and had slept right through the summer months and had woken up around the middle of November, would we be angry that we had missed the warmth and beauty of the summer or happy that we had survived. Ray, who hates choosing, had asked her if we couldn’t be both and she’d said no, she didn’t think so.

Trudie doesn’t live here any more. She left shortly after Tash, my older sister, left. Ray and I don’t know where either one of them is. We do know that Tash left with Ian, who is Mr. Quiring’s nephew. He’s double-jointed and has a red Ford Econoline van. Trudie seems to have left alone.

Now my dad, you know what he says in the middle of those long evenings sitting in our house on the highway? He says: Say, Nomi, how about spinning a platter. Yeah, he uses those exact butt-clenching words. Which means he wants to listen to Anne Murray singing “Snowbird,” again. Or my old Terry Jacks forty-five of “Seasons in the Sun.” I used to play that song over and over in the dark when I was nine, the year I really became aware of my existence. What a riot. We have a ball. Recently, Ray’s been using the word stomach as a verb a lot. And also the word rally. We rally and we stomach. Ray denied it when I pointed it out to him. He says we’re having a good time and getting by. Why shouldn’t he amend? He tells me that life is filled with promise but I think he means the promise of an ending because so far I haven’t been able to put my finger on any other. If we could get out of this town things might be better but we can’t because we’re waiting for Trudie and Tash to come back. It’s been three years so far. My period started the day after Trudie left which means I’ve bled thirty-six times since they’ve been gone.

close this panel
Why it's on the list ...
As a novelist (and, presumably, as a person), Miriam Toews is incredibly indebted to her Mennonite background, and nowhere is that relationship more successfully explored than in this heart-stopping book. I’m indebted to my girlfriend, Danielle, who put this in my hands many years ago and told me to read it immediately. (A further debt: the idea for this reading list was hers, too.) Once, in China, I tried to buy a used mass-market paperback copy of this book from a café owner. She refused to sell it to me, insisting that she would only trade, and would require three of my books for this one of hers. A debt averted.
close this panel
Better Living Through Plastic Explosives
Why it's on the list ...
Is there another Canadian writer who’s more of an influence on young writers in this country? Through her teaching at UBC, her editing at the Vancouver Review, and her own profoundly original stories, Zsuzsi Gartner has helped shape a generation of talent—Sarah Selecky’s This Cake is for the Party is dedicated to her, and countless others (Lee Henderson, Matthew J. Trafford, and Jessica Westhead among them) are in her debt.
close this panel
comments powered by Disqus

There are two ways to make a reading list

This way:

  1. Click the "Create a New List" button just above this panel.
  2. Add as many books as you wish using the built-in search on the list edit page.

Or that way:

  1. Go to any book page.
  2. In the right-hand column, click on "Add to List." A drop-down menu will appear.
  3. From the drop-down menu, either add your book to a list you have already created or create a new list.
  4. View and edit your lists anytime on your profile page.
X
Contacting facebook
Please wait...