There was a question, on one of the forums that I currently belong to. It asked, what defines a Canadian novel. I thought about it, after my initial idea, which was depression, I realized that is not true. Yes, books like Stone Angel are certainly sad, but it was also realistic, and in it, the main character does make realizations that are, in a way, hopeful. Farley Mowat’s works are humorous, but also touching.
So what defines a Canadian novel then?
Is it our landscape?
Is it our cultures?
Is it the weather?
Is it clumped cities or expansive wilderness?
This was my answer.
The Canadian book is defined by the author.
We are both hopeful, and yet cynical. We are beaten by the weather, but proud of our ability to withstand it.
We are capable of war, and yet we long, and are relied upon, for peace.
We are divided amongst ourselves, but take us away from our land, and we stand shoulder to shoulder, even if we don’t speak the same language.
We desire to fit into a niche, but yet, we find individuality.
We are bonded by our nation, but seek our individual histories as well.
We love our cities, but seek the serenity of our vast lands.
Canadian writing is both the isolation of a Yukon winter, and the hubbub of a megacity.
Canadian writing is both proud, and self-depreciating. (I’m looking at you, Maritimes.)
We are small towns, farmers, loggers, and we are politicians, and salesmen.
We are able to describe a paddle as it breaks a still and reflective water, and we are able to embrace a crowd, a gathering, whose voices split the night.
We can come together and offer the shirts off of our backs, yet we can feud with our neighbors over the colors of our doors.
We are proud of our nation’s past, but embarrassed by our follies all the same.
All of that can be found in their works. Canadian writing is diverse as its people.
Our works reflect us, who we are. Our works can be defined in one word: Humanity.
That is the defining characteristic of Canadian writing