Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
My son came up to me and said: “Hey Dad, listen to my new ring tone.” He opened his phone, pushed a button, and held it up for me to listen. I was expecting another piece of music, maybe something loud, or something with a pulsing rhythm. I waited. But there was nothing.
Reviewing a collection of poems and short prose by Roo Borson is like reviewing a book of scripture. There is something in her voice that is spiritual, something that speaks, perhaps, beyond ordinary experience. And so a simple review is pointless, impossible even.
In 1975, feminist theologian Sheila Collins noted that it was only five years earlier that women “began to take their own experience seriously as the basis for doing theology.” By her reckoning, half the human species has had roughly thirty–six years to play catch–up with the other half in this business of theological reflection – or at least the sort of reflection that emerges without compunction to adhere to male forms.
Although the title of Edward Shorter’s book suggests a discussion of erotic desire, in fact, Shorter offers a book about erotic desire of a particular sort – the desire to eroticize every last inch of our bodies. His project is to trace what he believes is the inexorable trajectory of human sexuality to embrace “total body sex,” to engage all our senses in a fuller exploration of opportunities for pleasure.
On September 26, 1995, Zdravko Pukec gained the distinction of being the first person on Canadian soil to be asphyxiated by pepper spray. The debate continues regarding the effectiveness of pepper spray as an alternative restraining measure, and periodically the fatalities are paraded in the media.
Earlier in the summer I signed up with blogcritics.org, which provides an excellent mechanism to generate decent online content with the incidental benefit of increasing traffic to a contributor’s blog—a win-win situation. Here’s how it works
An intelligent writer chooses her form wisely, then leverages it to yield meanings that would be impossible if she relied solely on words. Form is a container, like a bucket or a vase. Even before we inspect the contents, the container gives us clues, or at least raises expectations.
F.X. Toole is best known as author of the short story which inspired the Oscar winning movie, Million Dollar Baby. He did not live to see the publication of his first novel, Pound For Pound, nor even to complete a polished draft. But given the subject matter – small-time boxers trying to make it to the pros – there would be something wrong with the novel if it didn’t read a little rough around the edges.
As mentioned in my August 9th entry, I took the service at West Hill United Church on Sunday. Before the service began, something interesting happened. I had selected music that spoke to themes of beauty and prayer. The choir director approached me and said that we had to change one of the hymns.
In her third volume of poetry, The Wanton Sublime, Anna Rabinowitz creates an extended meditation upon the Annunciation—the moment that starts everything in traditional Christian believing—the moment the angel Gabriel appears to a young Mary and tells her she’s going to be the mother of God.
Does bad religion produce bad writing? If we use Jill, by G.R. Spiecker, as a gauge, then the answer is yes. Jill is a tract of dubious Catholicism masquerading as dubious fiction. One can forgive an author his religion since, however it comes to him—whether by upbringing, cultish coercion, or even by grace—it lies beyond his control (at least in theory). But the sin of bad writing is unpardonable.
Since there is a war on terrorism, has anyone bothered to ask how we will know when we’ve won? What will winning look like? Will it be an interminable peace where people sit around gazing at their navels, sometimes getting up to wander through beds of roses?
With her third novel, Mean Boy, Lynn Coady takes several risks which leave the reader wondering: is this just another solidly crafted book? or might it qualify as something more substantial?
A friend of ours, David Hynes, was showing his mixed media works (i.e. collages) in this year’s iteration of the Toronto Outdoor Art Exhibition down at Nathan Phillips Square. The show itself was a mixed bag, trying (a little bit unsuccessfully) to walk that narrow path between popular appeal and artistic integrity.
Conventional wisdom—at least in North America—holds that persistence is a virtue: “if at first you don’t succeed” and all that. We marvel at those who single-mindedly pursue their dreams and, after overcoming countless obstacles, finally get to roll in their success like pigs in mud. But recent thinking from the nascent field of evolutionary medicine turns conventional wisdom on its head.