Some Raven Tales: A Bird's Eye View of Short Fictions from B.C.

What's True, Darling by M.A.C. Farrant. Vancouver, B.C.: Polestar Books, 1997. 181 pp., $16.95.

Other Art by John Harris. Vancouver, B.C.: New Star Books, 1997. 214 pp., $16.00.

Monet's Garden by John Lent. Saskatoon, S.K: Thistledown Press, 1996. 117 pp., [np].

West By Northwest: British Columbia Short Stories edited by David Stouck & Myler Wilkinson. Vancouver, B.C.: Polestar Books, 1998. 286 pp., $18.95.

It's appropriate from a literary critical as well as a mythic cosmological point of view that the first tale in West by Northwest is "The Raven and the First Men," a legendary account of the tricksy shapechanger and his amusement "with his new playthings." All art is play, of course, as well as being damned hard work, and the fictions I'll be looking at here partake fluidly of both. Too fluidly for any attempted comprehensive definition of "short fictions from B.C." to hold for anything more than a mocking moment. (Maybe that's why Raven is amused?)

I'm not the only one who has been puzzled. In his Comment to The West Coast Renaissance 11 (The Malahat Review, Number 50, April 1979), the late Robin Skelton attempted to classify and define B.C. fiction, and failed.

Oh, he didn't admit outright to failing; but, honest as ever, didn't claim a success either. Instead he provided a brief, practical introduction to the magazine issue, which contains nineteen stories, remarked on its "characteristic internationalism," and went on to suggest that B.C.'s "regionalism and internationalism are two sides of the one coin." ("But did he toss the coin?" Raven wonders.) Skelton concludes merely that "the 'West Coast Spirit,'as regards the arts, should be described as Individualist."

I don't know about "Individualist," but the short story writers in the province certainly appear as a large and constantly changing set of individuals. As well as its nineteen stories, the West Coast Renaissance issue contains a carefully chosen annotated list of "Fifty Works of British Columbia Fiction 1908-1969," prepared by Malahat's co-editor Charles Lillard. Five years later, the West Coast Review/PuIp Press issued a shorter collection as NEW.- West Coast Fiction (West Coast Review, Vol. 18/3) with thirteen authors, only one of whom, Leon Rooke, had been represented in Malahat. Harvey De Roo and Maureen Nicholson, the editors of NEW, also stress the "individual perspective" of the writers they chose, and go on to offer an engaging bit of wise foolery ("So much more interesting than foolish wisdom," Raven observes) as an undefinition of West Coast and of Fiction: "The West is merely what lies to the left of your nose when you're facing north; the Coast is the shore you set sail from, or to, when somewhere else is where you want to be. Fiction is what you make of the voyage."

Another, more generously proportioned collection (of twenty-seven items) appeared in issue number 71 (1990) of Canadian Fiction Magazine, with the general title New Fiction from B.C. The guest editor Gary Whitehead "speculated that something identifiable as 'British Columbian' would emerge, a theme, subject matter, voice or setting that could only rise from the far west," but discovered that the work he had chosen "had more to do with differences than similarities." Again, only one author here, Derk Wynand, was represented in the Malahat group; two others, Caroline Adderson and Caroline Woodward, appear in West by Northwest. The same ear as the Canadian Fiction Magazine issue saw an interesting specialized anthology, Many-Mouthed Birds: Contemporary Writing by Chinese Canadians,' edited by Bennett Lee and James Wong-Chu (Douglas & McIntyre), which usefully reflects the historically strong influence of Chinese culture, often marginalized but always potent, upon the West Coast. Paul Yee has a story in each of NEW and Many-Mouthed Birds; Evelyn Lau's work appears here and in West by Northwest. The editors are concerned as much with "the body of the Canadian literary tradition" as with their own ethnicity, and make the commonsensical observation that "if the writing is true, it strikes a common chord'n all of us." (I think Raven would concur; I do, anyway.) B.C. authors are also well represented in two major national collections, with nine out of forty-seven selections in the New Oxford Book of Canadian Short Stories (1995), about one fifth of the whole; and even four out of twenty-six in the specialized Concrete Forest: The New Fiction of Urban Canada, edited by Hal Niedzvlecki (McClelland & Stewart, 1998). These last include a sample from Grant Buday's Monday Night Man - which I'll touch upon briefly again - and the title story from M.A.C. Farrant's third book, Altered Statements (Arsenal Pulp, 1995).

Even Raven would be puzzled, I suspect, by trying to fashion a sufficient definition for the subtle and supple world of M[arion] A[lice] C[obum] Farrant. Her prodigious output (this is her fifth book-length collection since 1991) involves a variety of satiric vignettes, snapshots, postcard parodies - or whatever other term might almost, but not quite, cover them. Though the author's personality is as elusive as her initials, it is felt through these pieces in an instantly recognizable manner. The closest general analogue is probably to Franz Kafka's parables - yes, she's that good - in a contemporary setting.

She is concerned with the distinctions and confusions of perception and appearance. These ambiguities are nicely developed in "Starring Lotta Hichmanova," the account of a quietly competent team of con artists. The fraudulent Lotta effectively tweaks a number of small town expectations of VIP behaviour (no matter how small or large the town may be), as she confesses that "[anylthing can be carried off if you now how .... It's all in the way you get in or out of a car and walk through a crowd. The way you smile (not too warmly) at the People, how you stop for a ten-second chat with the wheelchair bound or the visibly ill."

Forms of acting, imitations of one kind or another, are frequent in What's True, Darling, from a tone-perfect replication of voice in "Dorothy Parker's Dog" to a playboy-in-decay figure in "Built for Pleasure," convincingly portrayed through a male persona. Another male archetype, the perpetual little boy, is presented in the final selection "Family Baggage" as the female narrator affectionately describes how:

 After dinner you darken the room, put
 these lights on your head and pretend
 you're a race car, making race-car sounds
 with your voice: Vroom Vroom....
 Around curves, bending your body
 right or left, accelerating, slowing
 down, spluttering then revving up, a
 kind of music, a free-form jazz.

Though M.A.C. Farrant's thought is too complex and her art too delicate to be captured in any simple thematic statement, even one of her own, the cunning simplicity of herwork to date is, well, almost summarized in an ironic quotation from her solemnly nutty, pseudo-oriental sage: "Ho Min says: 'Avoid pathways because they have a right side and a left side, a beginning and an ending. You must always be in the middle of nowhere. ("The Delightful Sayings of Ho Min").

The middle of nowhere can sometimes have a name and even something of a hi story. The nine stories of Other Art continue and develop the autobiographical stance that characterized John Harris's earlier collection Small Rain (New Star, 1989). All his work to date is as unmistakably regional as Robin Skelton could have asked for. Harris lives in Prince George, a one-industry, midsize city in the northern part of the province, and though his characters may sometimes rage against its confines, they are always and intimately aware of where as well as how they continue to live.

The principal characters in these stories include an "I" or "John" who sounds and looks distinctly like Mr. Harris; a "Barry" who closely resembles the writer and editor Barry McKinnon; and many others, some of whom I know, most of whom. I've heard of, and all of whom are in some way associated with the College of New Caledonia where "Harris" teaches. Should the tales be called creative-non? or fiction? or does it really matter? (Raven grins.) No, it doesn't. What does, however, is that they are both graceful and funny; consistently clear, though not always simple; and while they may sometimes be somewhat libellous, they are also always lively.

"John" and his fellow artistically-oriented academics are seen in quietly hilarious guise in such subversive locations as the "Sears cafeteria, situated deep in the basement of Spruce Centre Mall," where they plot and plan the creative work they will accomplish on sabbatical: "We will refine leave into a vehicle for art" ("Leave"). "John" sees himself alone with equal clarity in "Kissing my Money Goodbye," where he recounts:

 One of my nicer dreams is where I,
 a grey but active old man in
 retirement, wearing heavy bifocals
 and smoking a pipe, drive my beat-up
 Mazda into [my daughter's] yard,
 picking my way through a litter of
 toys, wagons, and tricycles to be
 surrounded by some joyous grandchildren
 who want to go to McDonalds.

He can also move away from such self-reflective imaginings and into straight-forward story telling, using an effective narrative hook: "My cousin Elgin's ashes are in a standard-issue cardboard box in his parents' basement on the table with his train set" ("Elgin"), or a detailed exploration of bureaucratic strategies and follies in "The Biorne-Again University."

Harris's casual play between fact and fancy stops short of M.A.C. Farrant's radical parables, but is equally distinctive. His approach to a situation where only the familiar seems strange is quieter, somewhat more placid, with much use of physical description and plot lines driven mostly by dialogue. ("It all reminds me," asserts Raven, "of that old Ghostbusters film, the one where Ray the nerd says, 'I liked the university: they gave us money and facilities, and we didn't have to produce anything."') Raven's right. The closest analogue to the world of Other Art and Small Rain is that of a carefully made, creative documentary, with its intercut scenes, reappearing characters, and precise but not overly emphatic visual effects. A somewhat understated humaneness, in spite of the satiric jabs, makes it a very Canadian production.

John Lent combines regional with some international elements. The twelve stories in Monet's Garden trace the joumeyings of a Lent-like character, in both third and first person formats, from a childhood in Edmonton ("As Far as He Could See") and an adulthood in Vancouver ("Roofs in the Morning") and the Okanagan region of southern B.C. ("Room"), and on through England, Switzerland, Germany, and finally France, to Monet's garden at Giverny, the symbolic focus of this collection. There is an interesting parallel here, both of intention and general effect, to his poetry collection Wood Lake Music (Harbour, 1982), with its 20 linked sections that detail the "sad pilgrimage" of an On-the-road-again experience set in the B.C. interior and involving brief references to "the recreation of Europe."

There is some sadness in the new book also with its tactful yet poignant descriptions of the ravages of alcoholism and the uncertain emotional relationships of an over-extended family. But there are moments of a secure joy as well: moments, rather, that isolate, emphasize, and partly recreate a repeated joyfulness, often caught up in the perception of things.

In "Roofs," the Lent-like third person character Rick discovers that "His eyes were the eyes of his body." The narrator of "Roofs in the Rain" recalls a vision from his youth and then sees it again more perfectly in the night sky above him:

 I looked up to see the Hunter and his
 belt. His sword. Orion hanging above
 the shining red roof of the house
 across from us.  It's shining because
 it's metal, and it's metal because of
 the snow.

(A similar image, "The stars of Orion hang, angled in the sharp January sky," ends Sean Virgo's "Les Rites" in the West By Northwest collection.) Lent's title story, aptly enough, provides the apotheosis of these various visionings in/as an extended meditation upon the painter and that species of extension which typified his art as "an ever-receding depth of vision [that] only ended because of the limitations of the eye, not of the field itself." Both in this summary and in other, briefer sights and insights in Monet's Garden, John Lent has probably come closest of all these authors to what Charles Lillard in the West Coast Renaissance issue called "a coming-to-terms with the landscape" - of B.C., or anywhere else.

I've referred to Stouck and Wilkinson's anthology several times already in this review, but without offering any general statement about it. Typical of the wide distribution of writings I've commented on above, none of the twenty-seven pieces in West by Northwest are by Farrant, Harris, or Lent. The selecting is basically conservative (though not all the selections are), with a number of familiar, expected names - Pauline Johnson, Malcolm Lowry, Howard O'Hagan, George Bowering, Audrey Thomas and the by now obligatory representation of work by immigrant (the IndoTrinidadian Shani Mootoo) and native (Eden Robinson of the Hai sla Nation Kitamat reserve) authors. The editors claim more variety for their project - "to bring together the many voices... of this province" - than I feel is actually present. The book is useful, but it needs to be supplemented, as I have attempted to do here. (But don't forget the jokes, Raven cackles in my ear, like Keath Fraser's bit of whimsey: "she said leaving the West Coast in June was like eating curry for Christmas, 'You know, Sad City'." ("There Are More Dark Women in the World Than Light") or the fine bit of eye-rolling dialogue presented by Shani Mootoo in herdialect-based "Out on Main Street": "Are you Sikh?" / "No, I think I am fine, thank you.")

The most memorable stories in the anthology examine society from geographical and historical perspectives. Vi Plotnikoff's "Head Cook at Weddings and Funerals," part of a short story collection published in 1994, is perhaps the most self-conscious of these, a detailed study of the Canadian Doukhobor community in the Kootenay mountains of southeastern B.C. Jack Hodgins's "Earthquake," a recollection of the quake of 1946 which had its epicentre in the Strait of Georgia, about half way up Vancouver Island (and also rattled the windows of my grandmother's kitchen in Victoria, as I recall), deftly combines a realistic description of the event with suggestions as to how it will be recounted. The narrator's Uncle Toby "continued to tell his story to anyone who would listen, adding every time a few more details that would make it just a little more exciting and improbable than it had been before." The narrator himself then continues in a more serious vein to acknowledge that "we will soon be facing the real thing all over again, with its aftermath of legend." Caroline Adderson supplies a more complex fiction in this general mode with "Gold Mountain," first published in Bad Imaginings (1993), which won the Ethel Wilson Fiction prize. It is a carefully designed, ironically self-reflexive narrative that exposes some distinctly unsavoury elements of the province's imperialist past. Emily Carr's well known character sketch "Sophie" (originally published in her 1941 classic, Klee Wyck) and Ethel Wilson's more sophisticated reminiscence "Down at English Bay" (The Innocent Traveller, 1949) also approach colonial and racist issues. Similar concerns have appeared in the work of writers not included here, such as Steve Guppy - see his Another Sad Day at the Edge of the Empire (Oolichan, 1985) - and some of Anne Cameron's short stories, such as the Bright's Crossing collection (Harbour, 1990).

Here are some other publications that may be of interest. Douglas & McIntyre (Vancouver) issued two diverse collections of stories in 1994: Gail Anderson-Dargatz, The Miss Hereford Stories, and Gayla Reid, To Be There with You. The pair come close to representing Skelton's distinction of international and regional story tellers. Reid's work moves across three continents: her native Australia, Southeast Asia, and now Canada and the United States. Anderson-Dargatz's simpler, anecdotal set stays as near to home as makes any difference (the rural community of Likely, Alberta) with an exploration of adolescent self-awareness in the familiar manner of W.O. Mitchell.

Aleaner, more thoughtful naturalism appears in the stories of Grant Buday, Monday Night Man (Anvil, 1996). Anvil also publishes the tautly intellectual deconstructions of Catherine Bennet, Sub-Rosa & Other Fiction (1997), as well as the documentary-style work of Dennis Bolen, whose fourth book, Gas Tank & Other Stories, appeared in the spring of 1998. About the same time, Christopher McPherson's short novel Dragons (Ekstasis Editions) provided a well balanced, semi-allegorical blend of dry humour and social commentary, rather in the style of John Harris.

Books take a while to publish, of course (even by the prolific M.A.C. Farrant), but there's a good representation of fiction and related critical prose available in the B.C. litmags. Here's a viable sampling: Event (Douglas College, New Westminster) usually sticks to fairly conservative work; The Capilano Review (Capilano College, North Vancouver) and West Coast Line (Simon Fraser University, Burnaby) both represent post-modem edginess; PRISM international (Creative Writing Department, University of British Columbia), as its name suggests, spreads a wide net, as does The Malahat Review (University of Victoria), though Malahat gives more emphasis to Canadian writing. These five all have some connection with the major colleges and universities. An interesting and doggedly active, independent magazine is sub-TERRAIN (published by Anvil Press in Vancouver), now in its tenth year, and well known for strongly committed work along "life as a battleground" lines. A few smaller, more personalized serials include Minus Tides!, published by a green anarchist bookstore on Denman Island; Powell River's Rim Magazine, directed toward the southern coast; and Vanilla Crow, issuing irregularly from Pentiction, in the interior of the province.

Some of B.C.'s small presses also produce interesting forms of fiction. I'm thinking particularly here of Outlaw Editions (Victoria) which put out Marlene Cookshaw's set of postcard fictions, Coupling, in 1994, and two years later the intriguing Twig, a thirty-page parodic murder mystery / Bildungsroman by Michael Kenyon who describes it merely as "a very short novel."

Short or long, personal or social, lyrical, satirical, regionalist or internationalist- these or any other alternations are aptly presided overby the trickster Raven, shapechanger, the guiding spirit and Genius of our Western shore.

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