Thursday, November 06, 2008
In The Skin Of A Lion
Michael Ondaatje
1987
This is a poetic, descriptive, novel about life in pre-WW2 Toronto, and the building of massive public works projects.
The book takes opens on a lake right near my cottage. I've never known a book to do that. There isn't all that much right near my cottage. The story then proceeds on to Toronto, Bloor Street, Front, east end, Vic Park, the islands, even Muskoka (not Toronto, but, still Toronto). I've known books to take place in Toronto before, and am always happy when they do. Familiarity, I guess, is there from the start with this book. I think familiarity is a pretty major idea in the book too. He intentionally focuses on things that are ultra-familiar - the Bloor Viaduct, Toronto streets, even tap water, and tries to show how they are only so familiar because of all the forgotten, never-honoured workers and work that made them be. He doesn't realy celebrate these people, romanticises them a bit, but just sort of dosuments them. Documents them more beautifully and fluidly than I suppose people are ever really documented.
Basically, Patrick grows up, moves to Toronto, works as a labourer on major pulic works, falls in love, falls in with leftists, blows up a hotel, serves time, and laters settles down to raise a daughter. The story isn't incredibly complicated. The book is more poetry than narrative. It doesn't seem to really matter what happens. It's going to be described beautifully whatever it is. There are some wonderful images. Images that you can absolutely feel and know just from reading. Ambrose pouring hot oil onto Patrick from the roof of his cottage, or Patrick's father covering himself in oil to slide between logs on the river, Harris standing at the edge of the unfinished bridge, herringbone tile, Temelcoffswinging from the bridge, Patrick falling asleep after work and his clothed beign rock solid stiff in the morning, the poor pack horses condemned to live in the undergroud tunnel haulign dirt and dying before ever seeing sunlight again. Wow. Weird, ridiculous images, that, really, have every bit as much chance of having happened as anything else. Some parts are a bit boring, too picturesque, too slow, really slow. No wonder the English Patient film was so boring. It had to be to be true to Ondaatje. The boring is overcome easily. The book is beautiful.
Michael Ondaatje
1987
This is a poetic, descriptive, novel about life in pre-WW2 Toronto, and the building of massive public works projects.
The book takes opens on a lake right near my cottage. I've never known a book to do that. There isn't all that much right near my cottage. The story then proceeds on to Toronto, Bloor Street, Front, east end, Vic Park, the islands, even Muskoka (not Toronto, but, still Toronto). I've known books to take place in Toronto before, and am always happy when they do. Familiarity, I guess, is there from the start with this book. I think familiarity is a pretty major idea in the book too. He intentionally focuses on things that are ultra-familiar - the Bloor Viaduct, Toronto streets, even tap water, and tries to show how they are only so familiar because of all the forgotten, never-honoured workers and work that made them be. He doesn't realy celebrate these people, romanticises them a bit, but just sort of dosuments them. Documents them more beautifully and fluidly than I suppose people are ever really documented.
Basically, Patrick grows up, moves to Toronto, works as a labourer on major pulic works, falls in love, falls in with leftists, blows up a hotel, serves time, and laters settles down to raise a daughter. The story isn't incredibly complicated. The book is more poetry than narrative. It doesn't seem to really matter what happens. It's going to be described beautifully whatever it is. There are some wonderful images. Images that you can absolutely feel and know just from reading. Ambrose pouring hot oil onto Patrick from the roof of his cottage, or Patrick's father covering himself in oil to slide between logs on the river, Harris standing at the edge of the unfinished bridge, herringbone tile, Temelcoffswinging from the bridge, Patrick falling asleep after work and his clothed beign rock solid stiff in the morning, the poor pack horses condemned to live in the undergroud tunnel haulign dirt and dying before ever seeing sunlight again. Wow. Weird, ridiculous images, that, really, have every bit as much chance of having happened as anything else. Some parts are a bit boring, too picturesque, too slow, really slow. No wonder the English Patient film was so boring. It had to be to be true to Ondaatje. The boring is overcome easily. The book is beautiful.
# posted by mz @ 6:08 PM 
