30 Novels, day 21: “The inadequacy of truth”
Discovering the work of Robert Kroetsch was, for me, the
discovery that the place I lived, the world I knew, could be written about. Not
every novel had to be set somewhere else. This place -- the prairies,
mountains, and parkland of Alberta -- was some other place’s somewhere else. It could be exotic, too. Even if you lived here. It could be just as strange and ridiculous and terrifying and heartbreaking
as any part of the world.
This place could be story, too.
For a long time Badlands
was my favourite of Kroetsch’s novels. For me it was an easier story to get
into, and follow. There was a quest, and a struggle with the elements, and a history I was familiar with. In contrast, I wasn’t sure what Kroetsch was
doing in What the Crow Said. It was referred to as a work of
Postmodernism, a label that always brought a chill to my reading heart.
Finally
I listened to the book. To what the
crow was saying. I heard the family
resemblance between Kroetsch’s Crow
and the tall tales my own grandfather was known for telling and that my own
father passed down to me. Once I heard that voice in the book, the voice of the
tale-teller, the joker, the prairie bullshitter, I could relax and enjoy the
story. I could talk to the book, and it would talk back to me, in a language I
knew.
In this novel Kroetsch made Alberta into a tall tale, and it’s still
being told, by all of us, every day. Sometimes the truth, the bare facts,
really are inadequate, and you have to make up a story, the wilder the better.
Here’s a poem I wrote after Bob died last year on the first day of summer:
Perennial
(in
memory of Robert Kroetsch)
A
wayward stock
escaped
from gardens.
Rare
along roadsides,
fence
lines, hazarding the margins
of
sloughs
or
where seed
has
been scattered
for
the wintering birds.
North
of here, possibly.
Or
west.
Late
in the season
bright
red berries
succeed
the white flowers.
When
out looking
watch
for horsetail, prairie
sage,
cocklebur.
Pull
off to the shoulder.
Follow
the bees.
Enter
the church of the grass.
The
longest day of summer is the first.
Sunset
isn’t for hours.
The
scent of clover.
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