Category Archives: Michelle Alfano

As I mentioned in my first blog, my immediate family and the extended family of my mother’s generation, for the most part, did not read. Oddly, this afforded me a particular kind of liberation as an aspiring writer. I think subconsciously I reasoned that if no one would read what I wrote, I would write about whatever I wanted to, free of reprimand or censure: teenage abortion, adulterous husbands, sexual abuse, bisexuality, miscegenation, violent love affairs, marital strife, abuse of children, cultural dislocation, blatant and subtle racism.

Ah the unlikely benefits of a book free adolescence! And I was bolder, ruder than someone who thought they had a close relation peering over their shoulder as they wrote.

The likelihood that an older member of the family would pick up an issue of The Capilano Review or the Journey Prize anthology or even an ethnic specific magazine like the now defunct eyetalian, was slim. If a book of mine was ever to be published, they would likely peer at it in wonder, politely ask for a brief précis (having had it filtered through an equally bewildered younger relation) and then, I’m sure, promptly forget about it.

I could rage against the villains of my young adulthood: sexual repression, xenophobia, sexism, into an English language vortex with impunity. I could describe and barely disguise that odious family doctor, that first deceitful boyfriend, that pinched, sadistic nun in grade school, that villainous male relation.

I could rage at, fume about, regret, sentimentalize, lust for, cry for, dozens of persons dead and alive, who would be none the wiser for it.

I suspect that it is the natural state of the writer, even those who are considered “established” and critically recognized, to be envious of other writers. In Harold Bloom’s The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry, the literary theorist concluded that it was “the struggle of the artist to find his or her own voice through an ambivalent, anxiety-ridden relation precisely with those precursors whom they most admire.” The artist also imagines those admired artists as “failing for all their genius, and falling short of the mark that only the present artist is capable of reaching.” What, he concludes, would be left for the artist to accomplish if he or she did not believe this of their idols?*

I think we, as Canadian writers, are particularly susceptible to this feeling on two levels. We are a young country. We have a relatively short history of producing literature (say compared to England or Russia or China). We are outnumbered and sometimes outclassed by older countries and civilizations. Many of us were not weaned on Canadian literature and those of us who were might have rebelled against the sometimes tepid nature of that sustenance in school.

We are victim not only to this “anxiety of influence” but we also possess a disturbingly irrational dislike of writers who succeed. It is, I think, a particularly British cultural holdover which states that you should not exceed your place in society, should not brag of your exploits or succeed too much. It’s considered immodest and … very unCanadian.

And who is the mother of all anxiety inducing influences in Canada? What writer under the age of 60 would admit to admiring the greatest literary star we possess in Canada, the much lauded Margaret Atwood (most recently featured in Descant 132)? She is internationally recognized, critically admired, and yet and yet …

There many times appears a twinkle of disdain in the eye of younger writers, usually coupled with some nasty comment about the tone of Atwood’s voice or a critique of her hairstyle. Because literature is all about good hair isn’t it and not the quality of your writing or the constancy of your literary labours?

But primarily she is feared and ridiculed, I believe, because she is so hugely successful on a level that the vast, vast majority of us will never achieve. And that is an unpardonable sin for most Canadians.

* Harold Bloom’s theories as expounded by Leon Botstein, Musical Director, American Symphony Orchestra, “Dialogues & Extensions”, 2000

With the introduction of the Iphone I’m as amazed and intrigued as any other person with even a vague interest in new technology. Its functions – music player, camera, Web browser and e-mail tool as well as telephone – catapulted me into the future with visions of my daughter accessing even more advanced tools in her own life as a reader.

Is it likely that she will have many shelves of books as her parents once had? Or will she find herself with some kind of device that carries not one but dozens, if not hundreds, of books, in one neat technological package? Something that she can throw in her knapsack or bag.

The earliest books were written on scrolls. It wasn’t until 2 A.D. that books were bound at one edge in a format that would now be familiar to us. It’s unlikely that those few literate persons who made the transition from the reading of scrolls to the reading of books, as we know them, suffered a great deal of anxiety about that transition. Regardless of the beauty of the scrolls themselves, they, as readers, were likely amazed and intrigued by the changed and improved format.

One thing that music lovers and cranky Luddites of a certain age regret, even as they embraced the new technology of downloading their favourite music and replacing all of their old albums and cassettes with CDs, is the loss of the tactile pleasures of holding an album, turning it over, reading the notes, looking at the cover art, etc …

As a reader I share the same sensuous pleasure in the construction of a book: favouring the art on one cover over another edition, favouring a hard copy over a paperback, considering its size and heft in my hands, scrutinizing the font size, the quality of the paper. In short, fetishizing the whole physical experience of reading.

Oddly enough as I was writing this, I was also thinking of the woman mentioned in Leah Sandals’ blog (February 2, 2007). The artist Robin Pacific promised to give away almost her entire library of 1,670 titles at Red Head Gallery. Could I do so, would I do so? After my initial feelings of mortification I thought how liberating that might be as well. Sort of the liberation one might feel in having an entire library on a computer you could hold in your hand.

This technological future for books seems inevitable. It’s possilble now, it’s just not commonplace or the norm. Will my daughter cart hundreds of books from one new home to another as she moves about? Not likely. Will she spend $20 or $30 on a book? Probably not. I don’t imagine that’s a loss that she’ll mourn. Will she miss holding a book in her hands? I would like to hope so but I’m doubtful about that as well.

I’ve been thinking of the consequences of a writer growing up in a house without books. Not a dictionary nor an encyclopedia, not even a newspaper. My parents were literate in their native language (Italian) and moved smoothly from Sicilian dialect to Italian in speech. They spoke English well, having been here since the early 50s and owning their own business. They wrote in Italian as well. They valued education a great deal. But … they had no interest in reading whatsoever. The habit of reading in others was a considered a wasteful (and puzzling) enterprise.

I came to reading later, much later than most perhaps for someone who enjoys reading. It was in my late teens and it began as a result of not wanting to deal with people I now think. I was the typical sullen, unhappy teenager. I was often chastised by my mother when “caught” with a book in my bedroom. It was almost as if I had been caught with a bag of weed or a condom. There was work to be done! Why wasn’t I sweeping or cleaning up or getting ready for the numerous responsibilities of the family business (this involved maintaining a vendor’s stall at the Farmers Market in Hamilton where I grew up). It was an all consuming family enterprise. To be fair, my mother was dealing with her own many griefs and frustrations then.

With my nose stuck in a book did that not scream – leave me alone I’m reading! I read at work, between serving customers, while standing behind the stall (don’t read – it looks like you’re not ready to serve people!). I read at home (don’t you have something to do?). I consumed school related texts.

So I drifted into reading and fell in love with Gatsby and Daisy. Lizzie and Darcy. Anna and Vronsky. Becky Sharpe. Fully expecting them to love me back.