23 January 2015


It was six years ago yesterday that I began this exploration of the suppressed, ignored and forgotten in Canadian literature. Brian Moore's Sailor's Leave, was the first read. A few hundred books by a few hundred writers followed, but I'll focus on Moore because it all begins and ends with him.

Though he would not acknowledge it as such, Sailor's Leave – a/k/a Wreath for a Redhead – was Moore's debut novel. A paperback written for money, it paid the bills. Without Sailor's Leave, and the six Moore paperback originals that followed, there would've been no Judith Hearne, no The Feast of Lupercal and no The Luck of Ginger Coffey.

Would that today's writers had similar opportunities.

Moore wrote a total of seven paperback originals, the last five under cover of pseudonym. I spent good money on each while he was still alive, but wouldn't read them. It was a misguided decision that had something to do with respect, I suppose. Moore's good friend Bill Weintraub encouraged a change of mind. "The books were immensely readable and his genius for atmosphere, dialogue and plot was everywhere evident," he wrote in his memoir Getting Started.

Bill was right.

I began reading Sailor's Leave on 11 January 2009, the tenth anniversary of Brian Moore's death. This blog's first post came eleven days later. There have been over eight hundred others, but each anniversary has been set aside for the next of Moore's disowned novels.

Yesterday's post on Murder in Majorca was the last, because it was Moore's last; he wrote no more paperbacks. I've now read all his books. It seems the right place to stop.

I've devoted six years to this exploration, and have made some real discoveries, but in all that time the only new books read were by acquaintances and friends.

No more.

It doesn't end here. Not entirely. I'll keep up my Canadian Notes & Queries Dusty Bookcase column. I'll keep reading old Canadian books, too. How could I not? The veins are so rich. There's every chance I'll have something to say about them. I'll return whenever I do.

For now, I've got to catch up on some reading.

22 January 2015

Brian Moore: The Last of a Paperback Writer

Murder in Majorca
Michael Bryan [pseud. Brian Moore]
New York: Dell, 1957

Murder in Majorca features no murder. There is a death, but it's an accident.

Brian Moore's working title was Free Ride Home. The free ride is offered to Isabel Kenner, the estranged wife of aspiring journalist Chuck Kenner. Home is the United States. Isabel and Chuck met two years ago in Paris; she was a student, he was an ex-serviceman with dreams of becoming a foreign correspondent. What little money they had was quickly spent, though there were efforts to economize. The couple relocated to Spain because the living was cheaper, eventually ending up on Majorca (the cheapest of the cheap).

"It had begun gaily, like a ride on a carrousel. But the carrousel slowed down."

It was on Majorca that their relationship came to an end. Chuck made arrangements for Isabel to return home on a free Pan Am flight from Paris to New York. His story was that he knew someone who worked for the airline.

At the aérogare Isabel met a man who handed her a first class ticket, two ten-dollar bills and a small package she was to deliver to someone who would identify himself as "the bridegroom". No mule, she returned, package in hand, to Majorca.

And that's just the backstory.

The action begins with Isabel's return. At the airport she meets Gregory Fall, an American magazine photographer who has arrived in Majorca on assignment. Neither realizes it immediately, but Greg's contact is none other than Isabel's ne'er-do-well husband Chuck.

Murder in Majorca was the seventh of Moore's disowned paperback thrillers. In his true bibliography, it follows The Feast of Lupercal, one the best novels I've ever read. Though Moore wasn't aiming quite so high here, I don't hesitate in saying it's one of the finest thrillers going. He shows his muscle by telling the story from various points of view. Isabel, Chuck and Greg make three, but there are many more. As in the real world, some are more interesting than others. Compare Maggy, who might be dismissed as a bit of a tramp, with former Waffen S.S. officer Helmuth Freitag. The latter is as sinister and complex a character as one could hope to find. Lest things become too dark, kleptomaniac Amée David provides tragic/comic relief.

Moore's next novel,  The Luck of Ginger Coffey earned a first Governor General's Award. Decades passed before he returned to the thriller. There were occasional flirtations with the genre, but these were at the suggestions of others.

Alfred Hitchcock approached Moore with the idea of a cold war thriller after Vladimir Nabokov turned him down. The resulting film, Torn Curtain, led to a falling out that gave birth to fat, flatulent Bernard Boweri in Moore's 1970 novel Fergus.

In 1971, he published The Revolution Script, but blamed that misstep on Jack McClelland.

The first Brian Moore book I bought upon publication was 1985's Black Robe, a historical novel set in seventeenth-century New France. The next, Colour of Blood, was his first thriller in three decades. Lies of Silence and The Statement followed. They're the sort of books Graham Greene, who considered Moore his favourite living author, would have described as "entertainments". Murder in Majorca is very much in their league.

I'm betting Greene wouldn't have written it off, despite the title.

Trivia: In the excellent Brian Moore: The Chameleon Novelist, biographer Denis Sampson suggests that Gregory Fall's occupation was inspired by photographer John Vachon, whom the novelist had befriended in post-war Poland.

Moore contributed the Introduction to Poland 1946: Photographs and Letters of John Vachon, published in 1995 by the Smithsonian Institution.

Weirdness: Four years after Moore's Murder in Majorca, Consul Books published a paperback with the very same title and a remarkably similar cover.

I wonder whether it features a murder. If so, does it take place in Majorca?

Object: A squat 158-page paperback with one further page devoted to other Dell First Editions, including Jack Finney's The House of Numbers. It's attractive enough, but I much prefer Eyre & Spottiswoode's hardcover British first:

Access: Library and Archives Canada, the Toronto Public Library and eight of our academic libraries have copies of the Dell edition, but they're all non-circulating. That said, cheap copies are plentiful. As usual, the online deals are found with booksellers who aren't aware that Michael Bryan was Brian Moore. The cheapest offered – "Very close to very good condition" –  can be had for eight American dollars. The most expensive copies are being flogged by two American booksellers, each asking the  absurd price of US$150. Their descriptions are identical. Pay no more than US$25.

The cover illustration by Barye Phillips depicts a scene that doesn't appear in the novel.

The Eyre & Spottiswoode edition is quite rare; the sky's the limit on this one, I'm afraid. Take heart – and advantage – of the fact that Moore is under appreciated and undervalued.

Flamenco pour un requiem, a French translation, was published in the late 'fifties as part of Presses de la Cité's Collection un Mystère series. Frank Jansen did the words. I have no idea who tweaked the cover.

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19 January 2015

Max Braithwaite's True First

We Live in Ontario
Max Braithwaite and R.S. Lambert
[Agincourt, ON]: Book Society of Canada, 1957

Yes, we do! In fact, we arrived seven years ago this week.

Max Braithwaite lived in Ontario, too. He's usually thought of as a Saskatchewan writer, but this province was his home for more than five decades. "I felt like I was born in the wrong place," Braithwaite once said. "Finally I got the hell out of Saskatchewan." The man best remembered for Why Shoot the Teacher? put it this way: "I was a writer, not a teacher, and I figured life's too short to do something you don't like in a place you don't want to be."

Any agent would cringe.

We Live in Ontario was rescued from the books left behind at the end of our public library's most recent book sale. It was an unexpected find. The title doesn't appear in any Braithwaite bibliography. It predates Voices in the Wild, the book regarded as his first, by five years.

We Live in Ontario was not co-author R.S. Lambert's first. A seasoned pro with over forty books to his name, Lambert is one of those worthy writers who have been snubbed by The Canadian Encyclopedia, The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature and W.H. New's Encyclopedia of Literature in Canada. And so, I direct you to Wikipedia – yes, Wikipedia – which has a not so bad article on the man. A fascinating figure, you'll be intrigued. Guarenteed.

I've been meaning to read these Lambert books for years:
  • The Prince of Pickpockets: A Study of George Barrington, Who Left His Country for His Country’s Good (London: Faber & Faber, 1930)
  • When Justice Faltered: A Study of Nine Peculiar Murder Trials (London: Methuen, 1935)
  • The Haunting of Cashen's Gap: A Modern "Miracle" Investigated (London: Methuen, 1935)
  • Propaganda (London: Nelson, 1938)
  • For the Time is at Hand: An Account of the Prophesies of Henry Wentworth Monk of Ottawa, Friend of the Jews, and Pioneer of World Peace (London: Melrose, 1947)
Instead, I read We Live in Ontario.

Because it was there.

An elementary school textbook, We Live in Ontario explores the province through the eyes of Newfoundland's Baxter family as they settle into a new home "not far from Hamilton." Mr Baxter works for the Greenway Machine Company. Mrs Baxter sets the table. Jenny skips rope. Billy asks questions.

There's no real protagonist, but the Baxter boy does guide the plot. Bill's Ontario is a land of wonder. After breaking a lightbulb, he spends a full afternoon trying to wrap his head around the fact that its replacement will cost just twenty cents. How can that be?

Ask your father.

Mr Baxter is as good as his word. Bill not only visits an electric light bulb factory, but a farm, a bank, an airport and Niagara Falls. The family descend to the depths of a Sudbury nickel mine and help catch fish on a boat out of Port Dover. It's all quite educational.

I learned a lot. Did you know that lightbulbs were once made in Ontario? Electric irons, too. And clothing, refrigerators and farm machinery. Imagine!

The province I know is a very different place.

Object: A 226-page textbook with two-colour illustrations by Robert Kunz.

His works swings so wildly between the competent and incompetent that I can't help but wonder whether he didn't farm some of them out.

Access: Non-circulating copies are held by nine of our libraries (five of which are in Ontario).

Anyone looking to buy a copy – there is no reason why you should – will find three listed online. All in crummy shape, they range in price from US$10 to US$55.84. Had I not grabbed my free copy it would've been pulped.

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16 January 2015

Harlequin's Filthiest Title

The Feathered Shaft
Jane Arbor
Toronto: Harlequin, 1970
"For various reasons, Nicola was having to masquerade as the sister of Kurt Thesige. It was a worrying situation, as, quite apart from the ever-present danger that her deception would be discovered, she soon realized that her feelings for him were far from sisterly!"

Other Harlequins by Jane Arbor: Strange Loyalties, Dear Intruder, The Velvet Spur and The Growing Moon.

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12 January 2015

The Heiress, the Hooker and the Mystery Woman

Daughters of Desire
Fletcher Knight
Toronto: News Stand Library, 1950

"This is the most colourful and perhaps zaniest city in Canada," Montreal newspaperman Al Thomas says in the opening pages. So why move the action elsewhere?

Most of Daughters of Desire takes place on a private island in the Bahamas or aboard a yacht bound for same. Al is not along for the ride. We see the reporter only in the first and final chapters. Our initial sighting has him trying to make Dorothy, his wife's hot cousin, in a Montreal nightclub. Al's role is to provide backstory for the main characters seated at the next table: spoiled rich girl Carol King and high-class hooker Summer Day. An unlikely pair, they've been brought together by Lester Ogden, the latest in Carol's long line of frustrated fiancés. "She's probably Lester's idea of a bizarre and sophisticated gesture for the evening," says Al in reference to Summer.

The promised ménage à trios never materializes; Lester's only trying to shake things up a little. Carol wants to break off their engagement and he just can't have that. To Lester, Carol is much more than a redheaded looker, she's an heiress who will act as insurance if he's ever cut out of his own inheritance.

"This is my last night of the season and I always get drunk on the last night of the season," says Summer. Carol's drunk, too, which may explain why she's making a play for one of the club's "pansy" dancers. Lester interrupts his fiancée's pursuit by appealing to her penchant for gambling. He bets Carol $5000 that she won't be able to get the captain of his Uncle Henry's yacht to propose marriage. Carol, who thinks she's all that, ups the ante by promising to marry Lester if she fails.

The rich are different from you and me.

Uncle Henry, one of Montreal's wealthiest men, was a handsome fellow until polio disfigured. Now he stews cruising here and there in a magnificent yacht manned by a crew of mangled men. Captain Michael Cameron, he of the strong jawline, is an exception. A man with mommy issues, Michael was on a path to the priesthood before being knocked off-course by a nineteen-year-old temptress. To get back on track he's limited his contact to the crew of ugly men. Effeminate fourteen-year-old Cabin Boy Tommy Buttons – yes, Buttons – does not tempt.

Drunken Carol and her new BFF, bleached blonde Summer Day, sneak aboard the yacht. Though they're discovered the next morning, the voyage continues uninterrupted. They won't be afforded an opportunity to disembark before the next port of call: Uncle Henry's secluded Bahamian island.

Daughters of Desire is meant to be a mystery, I guess. The yacht's cook, goes missing, and Carol is attacked repeatedly by a man whose face is hidden by a "seaman's helmet". Some credit is due the author in that the sole suspect ends up being the baddie. The only surprise comes with the reappearance of newspaperman Al and his wife's sexy cousin in the final chapter. One year later, they find themselves sipping cocktails in the very same Montreal nightclub. At Dorothy's urging, the reporter fills her in on everything that happened between Carol and her fiancé, thus bringing the reader up to date.

Daughters of Desire bored. Setting it down, I couldn't help but wonder about the cover. Illustrator D. Rickard depicts three women: redhead Carol, faux-blonde Summer and… well, the third can only be "darkly glamorous" Dorothy. The scene depicted does not feature in the novel; she never so much as meets Carol and Summer. Why elevate her to such a level? Dorothy features in just fifteen of the novel's pages, though her bit part is crucial. It's her notice of the heiress in the opening chapter that prompts Al to launch into Carol's story:
"What a beautiful woman," Dorothy said suddenly, looking over her shoulder, "with the gorgeous red hair."
Dorothy seems positively fixated on the heiress, pressing Al for information:
     "I gather she hasn't a marriage to her credit."
     Al drew expansively his cigar and coughed a little. "Nope. A clean slate. And I'm not even sure she sleeps with her boy blues. There are those who say yea and those who say nay."
     "Tried it once and didn't get it," Dorothy murmured.
     "Nothing, nothing, just mumbling," Dorothy smiled sweetly.
One year later, Dorothy remembers Carol well – "She was the most beautiful red head I've ever seen." – and the questions resume.

I'm now wondering whether Al's failure to bed Dorothy might have nothing to do with the fact that she's his wife's cousin? Could it be that Dorothy is a daughter of sapphic desire? Or am I just making this justly ignored novel out to be much more interesting than it really is?

Trivia: The only Canadian novel I've read to feature a "blackface" performance.


Object: A 159-page poorly produced mass market paperback. The thing isn't even rectangular.

Access: Just two copies are listed for sale online – at US$2.95 and US$7.50, both are bargains. Library and Archives Canada has one. That's it.

11 January 2015

A Cartoonist Remembers Sir John A. Macdonald

On the day we're being encouraged to celebrate the bicentenary of our first prime minister's birth, something from the other end. This unusual piece of memorial verse, penned by Grit Grip cartoonist John Wilson Bengough is found in Motley: Verses Grave and Gay (Toronto: William Briggs, 1895).

                              Dead! Dead! And now before
                  The threshold of bereavèd Earnscliffe stand,
                  In spirit, all who dwell within our land,
                              From shore to shore! 
                              Before that black-draped gate
                  Men, women, children mourn the Premier gone,
                  For many loved and worshipped old Sir John,
                              And none could hate. 
                              And he is dead, they say!
                 The words confuse and mock the general ear—
                 What! can there yet be House and Members here,
                              And no John A.? 
                              So long all hearts he swayed,
                Like merry monarch of some olden line,
                Whose subjects questioned not his right divine,
                             But just obeyed 
                             His will's e'en faintest breath,
               We had forgotten, 'midst affairs of State,
               'Midst Hansard, Second Readings and Debate,
                             Such things as death! 
                             Swift came the dread eclipse
               Of faculty, and limb, and life at last,
               Ere to the Judge of all the earth he passed,
                             With silent lips, 
                             But not insensate heart!
               He was no harsh, self-righteous Pharisee—
               The tender Christ compassioned such as he,
                             And took their part 
                             As for his Statesman-fame,
               Let History calm his wondrous record read,
               And write the truth, and give him honest meed
                             Of praise or blame! 

07 January 2015

Amy Levy: Blackbird Dying in the Dead of Night

An addendum to the previous post on Grant Allen's Under Sealed Orders. Anyone considering giving the novel a read are warned that there be spoilers. The image above may have already spoiled things, for which I apologize. In my defence, it spoils things in the Grosset & Dunlap edition, too – the plate coming one page before we learn that Blackbird has committed suicide.

The most interesting character in the novel, Blackbird is modelled on poet Amy Levy (1861-1889), herself a suicide. I wrote about this connection in my book Character Parts, so won't go on about it here, except to say that I perhaps oversimplified Allen's views on the New Woman. Blackbird is one of at least three of the movement's members to die in his novels; the most famous being Herminia Barton, heroine of The Woman Who Did (1895). All are depicted as victims of higher education, the female pursuit of which ran contrary to Allen's evolutionist beliefs.

A frail slip of a thing, forever exhausted, Blackbird fairly struggles to stay upright, as this detail from another plate shows.

How vibrant Sacha and Ionê are!

New Women both, what differentiates them from Blackbird is their level of education. It isn't that Sacha, a painter, and Ionê, an adventuress turned writer, aren't educated, rather they have received the proper amount of schooling. Only Blackbird, the most highly educated character in the entire novel, properly understands her misfortune, as she explains in a chapter titled "The Higher Education of Women" :
"It was my people who educated me. You see, they thought I was clever – perhaps I was to start with; and they crammed me with everything on earth a girl could learn. Latin, Greek, modem languages, mathematics, natural science, music, drawing, dancing, till I was stuffed to the throat with them. Je suis jusque là," and she put her hand to her chin with some dim attempt at feminine playfulness. "Like Strasbourg geese," she added slowly in a melancholy after-thought; "it may be good for the brain, but it's precious bad for the body."
Blackbird's single desire is for endless sleep undisturbed by dreams. To this end, she uses her chemistry skills in making poison distilled from laurel leaves provided by an innocent suitor. Amy Levy killed herself by inhaling charcoal fumes.

Allen knew Levy and, as I write in Character Parts (consider that one a plug), exploited her life and death. In his essay "The Girl of the Future", published in The Universal Review eight months after her suicide, he uses her death to argue against higher education for women: "A few hundred pallid little Amy Levy’s sacrificed on the way are as nothing before the face of our fashionable Juggernaut. Newnham has slain its thousands and Girton its tens of thousands."

His verse, "For Amy Levy's Urn", is as smug as it is sympathetic.

The Lower Slopes: Reminiscences of Excursions round the Base of Helicon
London: Bodley Head, 1894
Which is why I'd prefer to end with Amy Levy's own.

The London Plane-Tree and Other Verse
London: Unwin, 1889
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03 January 2015

Romance Turns Russian Nihilist Reluctant

Under Sealed Orders
Grant Allen
New York: Grosset & Dunlap, [n.d.]

A nineteenth-century novel of espionage and intrigue, the beginning of Under Sealed Orders reads like a work of Victorian erotica. It opens in the studio of painter Sacha Cazalet as she studies her model:
Sacha looked up at him in his becoming running suit; he'd been sitting, or rather posing, for her as joint winner at the tape in her spirited picture of "A Dead Heat – the Finish," and she thought to herself as she looked, though he was her own brother, that a handsomer or finer-built or stronger-looking young man wasn't to be found that day in the length and breadth of England. She drew a deep breath, and added a delicate touch to the stiffened muscle of the straining forearm.
Balancing the scene is Aunt Julia, "a distributor of tracts and good counsel gratis," fairly acting the role of chaperone. The threesome is joined the following day by the mysterious Mr Hayward, a bachelor who encourages athleticism in Sacha's brother – name: Owen – and delights in seeing him race other fit young men. A photographer by trade, Mr Hayward is Owen's "affectionate guardian". Two times a year, he leaves business aside to take his ward off to some exotic locale or other.

This time, Morocco!

Mr Hayward informs the young man of the travel plans at the close of a chapter titled "Diplomatic Discipline". When next we see the pair they're standing together on the deck of a Cunard liner bound for Tangier.

The reader hoping for something akin to The Romance of Lust or A Night in a Moorish Harem will be frustrated. Mr Hayward's secret has naught to do with carnality; he is an exiled Russian prince who, having seen the suffering of the peasant, is ready for revolution. To this end he has been grooming Owen – the son of a Russian aristocrat and English mother, both two decades dead – for a position in the British foreign service. Once accepted, his ward is to await a time when he is afforded an opportunity to assassinate the Tsar.

Seems a real long shot, I know, but standing on the deck of the unnamed Cunard ship, Mr Hayward (né Prince Ruric Brassoff) has considerable confidence in his plan. Sadly, he hadn't anticipated his ward's urges.

During their travels, Owen is smitten by Ionê Dracopoli, an English-born Amazonian adventuress intent on making a solo expedition across Morocco on horseback. The guardian does his darndest to discourage, reminding his ward of his mission in life, but… well, Owen is twenty-one. He'd like to keep away, but sister Sacha just happens to count Ionê as a BFF.

Strange that brother and best friend hadn't met before.

Sacha sells a painting for a magnificent sum, enabling her to take a London apartment with Ionê and a very odd young woman they've nicknamed Blackbird. Try as he might, Owen can't help but visit. It's not long before he declares his love for his sister's roommate (not the peculiar one).

Ah, youth.

In embracing Ionê, Owen rejects the mission laid out by Mr Hayward. Well, you can imagine the turmoil!

From here Allen strikes out in directions that would spoil in the telling. Tempted as I am, I'll hold back.

In the author's œuvre, Under Sealed Orders is average, which is to say that it is much better than most put forth by his contemporaries. Whether it's worth a read has a whole lot to do with one's interest in Russian history and politics. I don't much care for the topics myself, though I was very much interested in the dynamics of the flat shared by "New Woman" adherents Sacha, Ionê and Blackbird.

There's a part of me that is still twenty-one.

Object: A 321-page hardcover with six plates by H.C. Edwards and a further eight pages of publisher's advertisements. I bought my copy last spring from an Illinois bookseller for US$6.95 (plus US$10 shipping). On the surface it seems a very attractive book, but look inside and you'll see poorly printed, cramped type that is hard on the eyes. Edwards' illustrations leave much to be desired.

Access: Serialized in People during the latter half of 1894, the novel first appeared in book form the following year. That first edition, published in three volumes by Chatto & Windus, can be read online at the Internet Archive. The earliest copy I've found being sold online is the 1898 Chatto & Windus reissue (right) offered at US$125 by L.W. Currey.

Pretending that it dates from 1896, a New York State bookseller offers the same Grosset & Dunlap edition as mine. It's not in the greatest shape but at US$9.00 might be worth it had he not decided to charge US$22.00 to ship.

Other than those two copies, all you've got is garbage issued by a venue of print on demand vultures.

The novel is held in one edition or another by ten of our university libraries. No public library has a copy – that serving Kingston, the author''s hometown, included.

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01 January 2015

Decades-Old Verse for the New Year by E.J. Pratt

January the First
                          My deep resolve, this New Year's Day,
                          As written on a page of life,
                          Will be with honest heart to pray
                          The world be cleansed of hate and strife. 
                          Nor shall my resolution end
                          In empty phrases as the air –
                          The stranger shall become my friend,
                          Not less in deed than in prayer. 
                         There shall be neither east nor west,
                         Nor mountain range, nor ocean tide,
                         Where there is hunger in the breast
                         For that which my hands may provide.  
                         To human need I pledge my part
                         This New Year's Day in loyal past –
                         Lord, may the motive of my heart
                         Find no betrayal in the act.
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