#CanadianWriters
Those whose houses were burned burned houses. What else ever happ… once you start? While the roofs plunged into the root-filled cellars,
The moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage you stand in the centre of your ro… house, half-acre, square mile, isl… knowing at last how you got there,
Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities: the houses in pedantic rows, the p…
He, who navigated with success the dangerous river of his own bir… once more set forth on a voyage of discovery into the land I floated on
An affair with Raymond Chandler, what a joy! Not because of the mangled bodies and the marinated cops and hints of eccentric sex, but because of his interest in furniture. He kn...
Living backwards means only I must suffer everything twice. Those picnics were already loss: with the dragonflies and the clear… What good did it do me to know
Let others pray for the passenger… the dodo, the whooping crane, the… everyone must specialize I will confine myself to a meditat… upon the giant tortoises
More and more frequently the edges of me dissolve and I become a wish to assimilate the world, in… you, if possible through the skin like a cool plant’s tricks with ox…
The water turns a long way down over the raw stone… ice crusts around it We walk separately along the hill to the open
He is here, come down to look for… It is the song that calls you back… a song of joy and suffering equally: a promise: that things will be different up t…
The snake hunts and sinews his way along and is not his own idea of viciousness. All he wants… a fast grab, with fur and a rapid pulse, so he can take that flutter…
Love is not a profession genteel or otherwise sex is not dentistry the slick filling of aches and cav… you are not my doctor
‘They capped their heads with feat… their faces, wore their clothes ba… with torches through the midnight… and dragged the black man from his… to the jolting music of broken
There is nothing to be afraid of, it is only the wind changing to the east, it is only your father the thunder your mother the rain
Two voices took turns using my eyes: One had manners, painted in watercolours, used hushed tones when speaking