Debriefing: Terra Nullius

I meet intermittently with a small group of women to discuss poetry. Together we constitute, for lack of a better term, a poetry book club. During a recent meet-up, I mentioned how frustrating I find it when poets compare women to birds. From my perspective (white Anglo-Canadian; degree in English Lit), this is a cliché device usually employed by male poets to patronize and coddle female characters– to portray them as weak and fragile. But we were discussing a collection of poems by a Metis woman. I couldn’t understand why a radical young indigenous poet would frame women this way. Enter stage right: a moment of cross-cultural ignorance. Another group member– an inquisitive, thoughtful women of colour who looks out for other marginalized women as a matter of course– explained to me that those particular bird species have special significance to some indigenous groups on Turtle Island. My friend and fellow group member had done her homework; I was lazily relying on the homework I’d done for Intro to Women’s Literature a decade and a half earlier.

I kept that learning experience top of mind while reading Claire G. Coleman’s Terra Nullius. Coleman is, to quote her bio, “a writer from Western Australia who identifies with the South Coast Noongar people.” Her novel is nothing if not a love letter to freedom, self-determination, and the rights of indigenous peoples. It is didactic, but justifiably so, given Australia’s colonial history; and certain passages and scenes could be riveting if read aloud (invoking oral tradition?) in a junior high classroom by a teacher who cares about the work of reconciliation. But Terra Nullius is also beset by a peculiarly reticent omniscient narrator who keeps characters at arms length even while revealing their thoughts and feelings; unhelpful fictional epigraphs and epistolary fragments; and the author’s frustrating decision to conceal the book’s actual plot and setting until more than 100 pages in.

The plot of Terra Nullius follows several threads that are gradually woven together. The most compelling of these is Sister Bagra’s reign of terror. She is Mother Superior at a residential school for humans (“natives”), where she contravenes her religious order by malnourishing her charges and training them for menial labour; they are slaves more than students. Sister Bagra is somewhat two-dimensional, even for a villain, and the origins of her bitterness and cruelty are never explored. But a good heel is a brilliant source of catharsis: easy to hate and rally against, especially when we recall that she is a fictional condensation of the religious authority figures who have abused, neglected, and killed indigenous children in colonial residential schools around the world.

To me, this is an important but imperfect novel– but I am a settler trained in a literary tradition that is only beginning to consider the value of indigenous storytelling and ways of knowing. So don’t take my word for it, please.

I originally wrote this review for LibraryThing’s Early Reviewers program.


Debriefing: The Rest is Silence


I think I bought my copy of Scott Fotheringham’s The Rest is Silence at Bookmark II in Halifax in 2013 or 2014. It may have been a sale specifically on hardcovers– because I generally dislike hardcovers. I definitely still lived in the South End of the city. And I loved the idea: bio-catastrophe spec fic set in Nova Scotia. This province is a stormy peninsula on the eastern edge of North America that is both economically precarious and insulated from sudden economic and cultural shifts– a good vantage point for exploring the consequences of widespread devastation. And Fotheringham is a molecular biologist; in my experience, authors trained in STEM tend to write startlingly original, insightful prose and verse. (Names that come to mind: Jan Conn, Ellen Ullman, Rosemary Drisdelle.)

Why Not Then

Timing is everything. Not long after I bought my copy of The Rest is Silence, I had to put myself on a climate change / environmental degradation information diet. It was a matter of being able to get out of bed in the morning without feeling like a resource vampire; eat a proper meal without feeling like a parasite; and visit family without being caught in a loop of guilt and dread. No climate change documentaries. No long reads or infographics about antibiotic resistance or ocean acidification. Certainly no eco-apocalyptic movies or novels. I kept my head down and focused on consuming carefully and using my democratic rights to constructive ends.

The “diet” was a matter of accepting that as fun and fascinating and righteously infuriating as it can be to consume imaginative nightmare fuel, that exposure results in no material benefit to the planet. I already do what I can do solo; legislative change and political courage are the most significant missing pieces.

But for me, nightmare fuel can have some rather dire emotional and psychological consequences. And if I’m not feeling resilient: why? What good am I to any cause I care about, hiding at home, awaiting the inevitable? Captain Planet persuaded me into ecological conscientiousness by the end of elementary school; spec fic with ecological themes is less an eco-awakening than it is voluntary submission to a biosphere-centric version of having your eyes clipped open in A Clockwork Orange.

Why [Not] Now

I’ve recently weaned myself off my environmental degradation diet. Yes, we’re still hurtling toward a climate change precipice, but I’ve made a kind of peace with it– not politically, but at least personally. I’ll spare you a detailed description of what that peace looks like, because it’s its own kind of nightmare fuel; think Charlize Theron walking out the back door in The Road.

This Tuesday, it was finally time to pick up The Rest is Silence. Fifty pages in, I was ambivalent: nothing had really happened– very little rising action or tension. The narrator hadn’t yet convinced me to care about the characters, and a few descriptions of women characters tiptoed into seedy old macho SF writer territory. But I really, really loved the few hints I was given as to the scale of the biological/ecological event underway. And I didn’t mind the similarities to Oryx and Crake: both are narrated by a hermit-in-the-woods type, reflecting on his personal connection to the character who opens Pandora’s box. So I stuck with it.

Wednesday night: another 50 pages. But that’s where this story ends for me. Flashbacks to the narrator’s time in graduate school– where he met the woman who developed the technology bringing the industrialized world to its knees– are written in a stoic, omniscient third person that narrates the characters’ actions like a police report. The ambitious young scientist relishes leering gazes from both strangers and a senior scientist, not as a personality quirk (which could’ve actually worked for the story), but as a matter of course, like feeling hungry at lunch time or enjoying the sun– things that most characters (indeed, most people) experience.

Meanwhile, 100 pages into the story’s present, there is still very little rising action or tension. Characters remain opaque and instrumental; I’m not sure what song the narrator is trying to play, or what kind of machine he’s trying to build. One character, an old fella with David Lynch hair, has his charming moments, but his young assistant’s attraction to the narrator– who is still a cipher for the back story at this point, still going about his days like a sentient insect– is utterly inscrutable.

Getting Off the Library’s Pot

I have a stack of library books by my bed. Just seven titles, but enough to delay, indefinitely, any attempt at reading what I’ve purchased, scavenged, or been given.

Girls, it’s time to say goodbye; it’s for the best.

Nothing’s stopping us from meeting up again someday; we’ll always have my lending history.

  • Bright, Susie. Big Sex Little Death.
  • Comella, Lynn. Vibrator Nation.
  • Danesi, Marcel. From Flappers to Rappers.
  • Grosz,Elizabeth. Chaos, Territory, Art.
  • Khakpour, Porochista. Sons and Other Flammable Objects.
  • Norton, Peter D. Fighting Traffic.
  • Steele, Valerie. Fetish.

Despite being entitled to semester-long “term” loans (as both a library staff member and a graduate student), I always feel compelled to read library books first. Yet I can thoughtlessly delay (for years– even a decade) touching books I’ve spent money on.

Is that what they call an external motivator? Am I using this project as an internal / external transformer? So be it.

Bookshelves as Shackles

Every blog I’ve ever created has ended up being about books, so I might as well accept the inevitable.

Yes, I want to talk about what I’m reading. But more than that, I want to deliver a PSA: get rid of your books.

I work as a library manager, so believe me when I say this:

Books are just copies.

And copies are just stuff.

And stuff just takes up space.

Be free!

“But, but, but!” you say?

I’m not the boss of you; do what you want. But my two cents is this: a lot of books aren’t worth beginning, let alone finishing, and fewer still are worth keeping in what little space most of us have for precious objects and mementos.

They’re horrid to move. They absorb smells. They attract dust. They seduce us into thinking they’re special snowflakes despite being mass produced. Does this sound like a person you’d put up with for any length of time? A house guest you’d let stay forever? So why lower the bar for 300 pages of bleached pulp?

Leave book accumulation to the professionals who actually have the climate control and human capital to make it work: the staff of book shops and libraries.

Let books into your life, but be sure to let them out again.

Be free!

Just wandered in, looking for a kiss.

The analogy I wish to draw here is blatant. The rhetoric of beauty tells the story of the beholder who, like Masoch’s victim, contracts his own submission — having established, by free consent, a reciprocal, contractual alliance with the image. The signature of this contract, of course, is beauty. […]

The experience of art within the therapeutic institution, however, is presumed to be an end in itself. Under its auspices, we play a minor role in the master’s narrative — the artist’s tale — and celebrate his autonomous acts even as we are off-handedly victimized by their philosophical force and ruthless authority. […] And we, poor beholders, like the silly demimondaines in Sade’s Philosophy of the Bedroom, are presumed to have just wandered in, looking for a kiss, so Pow! Whatever we get, we deserve — and what we get most prominently is ignored, disenfranchised, and instructed. Then told it is “good” for us. (62-63)

From Hickey, Dave. After the Great Tsunami.” The Invisible Dragon: Four Essays on Beauty. Los Angeles: Art Issues Press, 1993. 55-64. Print.