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Governor General's Award Winners for 2018!

By kileyturner
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These are the English-language winners for this prestigious prize – congrats to all the 2018 winners!
The Red Word

The Red Word

A Novel
edition:eBook
also available: Paperback
tagged : literary

Winner of the 2018 Governor General's Literary Award for Fiction

The battle of the sexes goes to college in this nervy debut adult novel by a powerful new voice

A smart, dark, and take-no-prisoners look at rape culture and the extremes to which ideology can go The Red Word is a campus novel like no other. As her sophomore year begins, Karen enters into the back-to-school revelry — particularly at Gamma Beta Chi. When she wakes up one morning on the lawn of Raghurst, a house of radical feminists, …

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Excerpt

BOOK ONE: Strophe / (Circling)

 

1. invocatio / (calling on the muse)

 

Sing, O Goddess, of the fury of Dyann Brooks-Morriss, teller of unbearable truths. O sing of the rage that kindled one young woman’s heart and the next until it drove us together from our homes, battlethirsty, into the secret places of the enemy. Sing how the young men scattered and fled as before the thunderbolt that lashes the sky. The storm is not appeased until the green leaves are torn from the trees, until even the great pines are uprooted from the mountainsides and lie down for the shipwright’s axe. It does not stop until bodies are rent and scattered as easymeat for curs and crows.

I receive two bits of news less than thirty minutes apart:

It is eleven-thirty in the morning, September 20, 2010. Here on the eighteenth story the sun trampolines off Lake Ontario and strikes both the floor and ceiling. I’ve just made my breakfast, squinting against the glare on the kettle, and I am back at my desk in the bedroom with the blackout drapes pulled tight. I am pretending to work, but the image I’ve got open in Photoshop on my monitor screens is not for work. It’s an arrangement of hydrangea and coneflower in a tarnished silver vase. They are two images, in fact, shot at two slightly different exposures. I am toggling back and forth, fiddling with saturation levels, when the first news arrives. It’s an email message from Annabeth Lise with the subject line Karen I am so so sorry. Her nanny’s mother has died in the Philippines.

I scroll through three quarters of Annabeth’s frantic, rambling message before I grasp her point. Her point is the International Conference on Lifestyle Photography, three days away: She is so, so sorry but there is just no way she can swing it; I will have to give our “Domestic Dreams” presentation on my own; she could send me what she’s written so far but it’s so rough at this stage; I’m so good on my feet that she knows it’ll go great; the photos are the best part of these things anyway, right? Annabeth really is so sorry.

She owes me big-time, she says.

I delete the message and stumble out of the bedroom. Sun-blinded, heart racing, I pace a few lengths of the kitchen and living/dining room. I have never been to a conference before. I’m fairly sure I made that clear to Annabeth when she asked me to go with her. I am no writer, certainly not a public speaker. All I was supposed to do was cue the slideshow.

If all this blood is your blood you’ll be dead soon. If not not. This is what runs through my mind when Jen Swinburn calls me — twenty-four minutes later — to give me the second piece of news: that Stephanie McNamara has passed away. As I sit there on the phone at my desk in my office in my apartment in Toronto, with my feet in slippers and with the taste of cheddar-on-toast on my tongue, I do not think of poor Steph at all but of myself. If all this blood — it’s a memory.

I look up and, on the heels of the memory, I spot the detail I’ve been searching for in the twin images on my screens. An overripe melon lies next to the tarnished vase, its seeds sliding onto the tabletop. The tabletop itself is scarred like a butcher’s block, and there is a divot at the spot where the seeds are oozing against the wood. The light meets the slime and slows down, bends, pools. A tiny wrinkle in the visual plane.

On the phone Jen says she had access to my phone number because she’s on the Alumni Relations Board. We small-talk a bit: I say I enjoyed that piece she wrote a few years ago for the alumni magazine about journalism after 9/11. She says she saw my byline in Covet My Home while on a cruise with her in-laws and couldn’t help googling, and “who would have thought a militant anarcha-feminist like yourself would end up employed in the Martha Stewart sector, ha ha.”

And then she tells me about Steph. She received the notice at the alumni office. “I remembered you two were close, but I didn’t know if you’d still be in touch,” she says. “It’s just not the kind of thing you’d want to read in the back of an alumni bulletin.”

“Are you calling anyone else?” I ask. It isn’t quite the right question. It sounds like I think Jen has been nosy or presumptuous. I try to fix it: “I mean, in case you need updated contact info for anyone.” Not that I would have updated contact information for anyone. I was one of the first to leave — back home to Canada even before my student visa expired — and fifteen years later everyone else is more or less scattered across the United States.

“Just a small list,” she says. “It’s not normally our role.”

“Thank you for calling, Jen. I appreciate it.”

A quick search reveals there is to be a campus memorial service for Dr. Stephanie McNamara this coming Friday. It’s the day after the panel presentation, in the very same US city as the photography conference. I know that Steph teaches — that Steph taught — in the Women’s Studies Department in that city, but I haven’t thought of her through my travel preparations. I haven’t thought of Stephanie McNamara, period, in years. The coincidence seems important in a spooky, literary way, like tragic destiny. Her college isn’t far at all from the Ivy League school where, in 1995–96, my sophomore year, Steph and I and three other girls were housemates.

If all this blood is your blood you’ll be dead soon. If not not. Everyone knows the trouble with myth. The trouble with myth is the way it shirks blame. It makes violent death as unavoidable as weather. All that tragic destiny lets everyone off the hook. Some bored god comes kicking up gravel and, just like that, a noble house explodes into carnage.

But then, I photograph interiors for a living. Myth is what I do. I mythologize.

O soulwithered Stephanie, keeper of all our sorrows. You tried again to open your eyes to the dark and this time it must have worked.

 

2. exordium / (urging forward, introduction)

 

I squinted up at a shadow blocking out the sun. A man was standing over me. He wore faded jeans and a huge oval belt buckle etched with a triple X. I lifted my elbow to my brow and the man became a woman, a girl my age. If I’d learned anything last year at college, I’d learned that just because someone was wearing a military crew cut and a white T-shirt tight across her flat chest and had a pack of cigarettes folded into the sleeve of the T-shirt like James Dean, it didn’t mean you went and assumed she was male. Some of my education seemed to have worn off over the summer.

“Are you okay?” the girl asked.

I turned my cheek to the grass in an effort to mute the stereophonic whine of cicadas and grasshoppers. I was lying in somebody’s backyard. Gray fencing teetered overhead, but the only shade on me fell from the massive, hairy leaves of some kind of vine I was curled beside. Slug trails dazzled the undersides. “What is this plant?” I asked.

“Um, pumpkin,” the girl said. “Last year, after Samhain, we couldn’t fit all our jack-o’-lanterns into the composter, so we dug a big hole back here and buried them.”

“Samhain?” My voice cactused my throat.

“Halloween. Look, are you okay? What happened to you?” she asked.

“I had sex with somebody,” I said. The uprush of memory, and the shock that I’d spoken it aloud, made me retch a little. I rolled over and sat up in the grass.

“You had sex with somebody,” she echoed. “On purpose?”

I waggled my head side to side, testing my headache. The yard kept swinging when I stopped moving. “There was a frat party,” I explained.

It came back to me now with another lurch why I’d walked all the way from the fraternity house to this particular spot, early this morning before I’d passed out. “Oh,” I said. “Oh, damn. Is this 61 Fulton Ave?”

“Yes. Well, at the moment we’re standing in 63,” she said. “Our backyards are connected.”

I looked around. There was a line where the neat lawn became a jungle, and this was the jungle side. “I came about your ad for a roommate,” I said.

The girl crouched beside me, barefoot in the grass. She held a mug of coffee and a lit cigarette. She offered them both, reaching out one hand at a time and pulling it back to indicate she’d make either substance disappear if it proved offensive to my hangover.

“Thanks.” I took a sip of the coffee, heavily sugared, and then a drag from her cigarette. I brushed at the ants crawling over my bare legs.

The girl was a few years older than me, I guessed, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four. “You’re a little early for the room thing,” she said. “Some of us have class this morning. Didn’t whoever you spoke to tell you that on the phone?”

I held out my hands to show the girl my dirt-ringed fingernails. “Well, I wanted to make a good first impression, you know?” I laughed, but misery poked its black fingers all through the laughter. I was making it worse. I was making her feel sorry for me. “Look, let’s just pretend I was never here.” I heaved myself to my feet — if I didn’t notice then maybe she wouldn’t either, how my knees and shins were smeared with green, how I must have been crawling on all fours that morning by the time I reached the back fence.

This would have been a good place to live, too. The roommate-wanted ad had stood out from the others at the Student Housing Office, where I’d been browsing yesterday for an alternative to my on-campus housing placement. The ad was much wordier, for one thing. Committed feminists only, it read. Vegetarian/vegan/macrobiotic meal-sharing, and Queer-friendliness a must. That last phrase had stuck in my head because I wasn’t sure exactly what it was supposed to mean. “Queer” was a slur against gays, I’d always thought. An insult, not something friendly. It was something the rednecks in northern Ontario were fond of shouting at tree planters on our days off, when we dressed up in thrift-store tuxes and dresses to go dancing at the Valhalla Hotel bar. Buncha queers.

The contact name on the ad had stood out for me too: Dyann Brooks-Morriss. Dyann had been one of the only sophomores in my freshman Great Writers class last year. I was impressed by her vocabulary and the boldness with which she would interrupt the professor with questions about things like “patriarchal assumptions” and “ideological blind spots.” I came home once after hearing Dyann speak up in class and looked up “hegemony” in my dictionary. Dyann sat in the front, and I was in the back, so I’d never really had a look at her up close.

I wobbled across the lawn behind the girl. “Hey. Give my apologies to your next-door neighbors too, okay?” I said.

Her smoke huffed out in a laugh. “If they noticed, which I’m sure they did not, I don’t think they’d mind. Look, why don’t you come in for a coffee.”

“That’s okay.”

“Please, come on in for a minute. I’m Steph, by the way.” She steered me to the deck on the tidier side of the yard, where the patio doors stood open. “This is Marie-Jeanne” — she pointed at a blond girl peeling an egg at the table, and the girl gave me a quizzical wave — “and over there is Dyann.”

The living room was shadowy after the bright backyard. Dyann was a silhouette on the couch. “I’m Karen,” I said. “Would you mind if I just used your washroom a sec?”

Steph pulled the string on a bulb over the basement stairs. “It’s down to the left,” she said. “Charla’s room and mine are down there. The other three bedrooms are up on the second floor.”

I had been looking forward to meeting Dyann Brooks-Morriss face-to-face. And I’d been planning to dress a bit like this girl Steph — in jeans and maybe my army-surplus boots. I’d definitely have worn my plaid shirt, the men’s worsted-wool Pendleton I’d found at a logging camp during the spring planting contract, the shirt I’d fallen in love with because it reminded me of the one Sal goes back for, in Kerouac’s On the Road. I had a feeling Dyann would approve of that shirt. I’d planned to impress her with exaggerated tales of environmental destruction and workplace discrimination in the Canadian tree-planting industry.

Instead I was wearing a pair of men’s boxer shorts, one turquoise jelly sandal, a pink T-shirt with a sparkly palm tree on the front, and no bra. My hair in the bathroom mirror was dew-frizzed and studded with bits of dead grass. An inchworm made its way across my breast, down a frond of the sparkly palm tree. I stank of booze and, probably, sex.

When I came back upstairs Steph said, “Do you take milk and sugar?”

“I should go,” I said. “You’ve been really nice.”

“We figured we may as well not make you come back again this afternoon,” she said. “Why don’t we all just talk for a minute now instead.” She hovered the milk carton over the mug until I nodded, then she poured and stirred. Steph’s face was kind: a full-lipped smile, freckles, light brown eyes with dark lashes. It wasn’t a soldier’s haircut after all — more like a little boy’s, with soft brown bangs cut straight across but ruffled out of place.

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Mamaskatch

Mamaskatch

A Cree Coming of Age
edition:Hardcover

Growing up in the tiny village of Smith, Alberta, Darrel J. McLeod was surrounded by his Cree family’s history. In shifting and unpredictable stories, his mother, Bertha, shared narratives of their culture, their family and the cruelty that she and her sisters endured in residential school. McLeod was comforted by her presence and that of his many siblings and cousins, the smells of moose stew and wild peppermint tea, and his deep love of the landscape. Bertha taught him to be fiercely proud o …

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Wayside Sang

Wayside Sang

edition:Paperback
tagged : canadian

Wayside Sang concerns entwined migrations of Black-other diaspora coming to terms with fossil-fuel psyches in times of trauma and movement. This is a poetic account of economy travel on North American roadways, across Peace and Ambassador bridges and through the Fleetway tunnel, above and beneath Great Lake rivers between nation states. Nicholson reimagines the trajectories of her birth father and his labour as it criss-crossed these borders in a study that engages the automobile object, it’s …

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Sweep: The Story of a Girl and Her Monster

Sweep: The Story of a Girl and Her Monster

edition:Hardcover

A brand-new novel by one of today's most powerful storytellers, Sweep is a heart-rending adventure about the everlasting gifts of friendship and hope.

For nearly a century, Victorian London relied on "climbing boys"--orphans owned by chimney sweeps--to clean flues and protect homes from fire. The work was hard, thankless and brutally dangerous. Eleven-year-old Nan Sparrow is quite possibly the best climber who ever lived--and a girl. With her wits and will, she's managed to beat the deadly odds …

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Excerpt

"Nan, tell us about the Sweep.”
It was dark in the coal bin, but Nan could tell it was Newt who was asking. Newt was newest to Crudd’s crew. He was barely six years old; he didn’t know all the rules. The first rule was you never asked another climber about his life Before.
There were five climbing boys in the coal bin: Newt, Whittles, Shilling-Tom, Roger, and Nan. Nan wasn’t a boy, but you’d never know that to look at her. She was as grimy as the rest of them. “Who told you about the Sweep?” Nan said. “Was it Roger?”
“Keep me out of it, Cinderella,” Roger muttered. He called Nan “Cinderella” because he thought it annoyed her. He was right.
“No one told me,” Newt said. “I dreamed about him. Last night I slept in your corner. I dreamed him and the girl were both singing to all the people. Only I woke up before I could hear the words.”
This was a thing that happened: the dreaming. Every so often one of the boys would say that he had dreamed about the Sweep. Nan couldn’t explain it. It seemed to happen whenever one of them fell asleep close to her. All she knew was that she didn’t like it. The Sweep was hers.
“It was about you, wasn’t it?” Newt whispered. “You’re the girl from my dream.”
“No,” Nan said. “I’m the girl who wants to go to sleep.” She’d spent fourteen hours climbing chimneys and knew there were more waiting for her tomorrow.
“You’re splashing in the wrong puddle, Newt,” said a raspy voice by the slat window. It was Whittles. He was only eight, but his voice sounded like an old man’s on account of breathing too much chimney soot. “Me and Shilling-Tom been dreaming about the girl and her Sweep for years. Not once have we gotten Nan to fess up that it’s her.”
“Aye,” said Shilling-Tom. He was Whittles’s best mate. “You might as well try to get a second helping from Trundle’s pot.” Trundle was the woman who cared for them. If you could call it that. “I won’t fess up because it’s nonsense,” Nan said. And it was nonsense. How could two people have the same dream?
“Is the Sweep a real person?” Newt asked. “He sounds lovely. Much nicer than Master Crudd.” He whispered this last bit. Just in case Crudd could hear him upstairs.
“Sweeps aren’t supposed to be lovely,” Nan said. “They’re grimy and tough as stone. Just like chimneys.” Maybe lovely was a fine thing to call a person in Newt’s old life, but he was a climber now. He wouldn’t last long if he kept using words like that.
She heard the boy move closer. “Please, Nan?” Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and she could see the outline of his head. With his curls shaved of, he really did look like a newt. They had named him well. “Just tell me if he’s real. I promise I won’t tell the others.”
“Don’t beg. A climber never begs.” That was another rule.
“Maybe I can sleep here next to you?” He clasped her arm. “Then I’ll dream about him all on my own?”
Nan knew what the boy was saying. He thought that some-how the dreams were coming from her, which was impossible. She pulled away. “Find your own corner.”
“Aw, go easy on the kid.” It was Whittles. “It’s only been a week since he . . . you know . . .” He didn’t say the rest. None of them knew what had happened to Newt’s family to have him end up here, but it had to have been bad. It was always bad.
“I’m not begging,” Newt said. “But it’s a true fact: I can’t sleep without a bedtime story. My mummy always says . . .” He corrected himself. “. . . always said . . .” His voice faltered. “It’s just I thought hearing a story about the Sweep might help me fall asleep.”
Nan remembered when she had felt the same way. That was a long time ago. That was Before.

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They Say Blue

They Say Blue

edition:Hardcover
also available: eBook

Winner of the Governor General’s Literary Award, Young People’s Literature – Illustrated Books
Caldecott and Printz Honor-winning illustrator Jillian Tamaki brings us a poetic exploration of colour and nature from a young child’s point of view. They Say Blue follows a young girl as she contemplates colours in the known and the unknown, in the immediate world and the world beyond what she can see. The sea looks blue, yet water cupped in her hands is as clear as glass. Is a blue whale bl …

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Botticelli in the Fire & Sunday in Sodom

Botticelli in the Fire & Sunday in Sodom

edition:Paperback
also available: eBook

Winner of the Toronto Theatre Critics Award for Best New Canadian Play of 2016

Botticelli in the Fire & Sunday in Sodom presents wildly apocryphal retellings of two events—one historic, one mythic—that reconsider the official record through decidedly queer and feminist lenses.

Painter Sandro Botticelli is an irrepressible libertine, renowned for his weekend-long orgies as much as he is for his great masterpieces of the early Renaissance. But things get complicated when Lorenzo de’ Medici com …

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Descent into Night

Descent into Night

edition:Paperback
tagged : literary

WINNER - Governor General's Literary Award for Translation

Translated from French by Phyllis Aronoff and Howard Scott.

From Goncourt Prize finalist a beautiful and brilliant new novel.

With a nod to Samuel Beckett and Bohumil Hrabal, a young dramatist from a West African nation describes a student protest against a brutal oligarchy and its crushing aftermath. While distributing leaflets with provocative quotations from Beckett, Ito Baraka is taken to a camp where torture, starvation, beatings, and …

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