Author Richard Wright (HarperCollins Canada)
Literary fame, the kind that inspires prolonged publicity tours, eager book clubs, prestigious awards and international sales, came slowly to Richard B. Wright. It was his ninth novel, 2001’s Clara Callan — written mostly in the early hours of the morning before the author’s full-time teaching job — that made Wright a name and the release of his future books an event.
The novel, which tells the story of the relationship between two sisters in the 1930s, won the Giller Prize and the Governor General’s Award and sold more than 200,000 copies in Canada. Wright was already in his early 60s then, a respected but little-known mid-list author who supported his writing career by working in publishing and later as a teacher at Ridley College, a private school in St. Catharines, Ont. His well-received 2004 follow-up, Adultery, cemented Wright’s reputation as a CanLit bestseller. With money and fame finally in the bank, Wright, who retired from teaching six years ago, can now devote himself full-time to writing.
His capacity for patience and the insight born of hard work and sacrifice swims under the surface of Wright’s new novel, October, which was longlisted for this year’s Scotiabank Giller Prize. Its narrator, James Hillyer, isn’t a proxy for Wright, but he’s certainly the kind of ordinary, imperfect but decent character that most interests the author. A widower and retired — and undistinguished — professor of Victorian literature, James is a man of observation and wisdom, but not action. He’s resigned, more or less happily, to a life of reading and long walks.
But James’s quiet, predictable autumn of life is interrupted by a call from his daughter, a headmistress at a British girls’ school, with the news that she is seriously ill. On a trip to England to visit her, he has a chance encounter with a man he met one summer many years ago, when they were both teenagers vacationing in the Gaspé. A rich, confident and handsome American, Gabriel was the vibrant opposite to bookish, awkward James. Now Gabriel is dying a slow and painful death, and is traveling to Switzerland to have a state-assisted suicide. He asks James to accompany him to Zurich to witness his euthanasia; James accepts.
The story alternates between James’s flashbacks to his adolescence and his strange, present-day mission. At times, October reads like a thriller or a mystery, but the central question isn’t “Whodunit?” but rather, “What gives life its meaning and value?” Ultimately, it’s a novel about mortality and loss and the considerable consolations of love, art and family. CBCNews.ca spoke to Wright about his inspirations, his interest in taboo subjects and his love of teaching.
(HarperCollins Canada)
A: Yes and no. I think narratively all the time. I think most writers do. I can overhear a conversation on a bus and create a scenario out of that. Or from a look a woman exchanges with another woman or a man. I see stories everywhere. Most aren’t worth pursuing, but some of them stick. I guess it’s the way an architect would look at buildings, at their angles, and think, how can I improve on that? I work in words, in the way a potter works with clay, or an artist with paint. For me, language is such a miracle… Oh no, I’m going to stop there. I’m getting pretentious!
Q: When you wrote this book, did you have opinions about assisted suicide?
A: No, I didn’t, to tell you the truth. But having watched a couple of grisly endings, I thought there couldn’t be anything worse than knowing you’re going to die and being in pain. It’s one thing to face the end while being able to listen to Bach, read a poem, hold the hand of a person you love. But to be in pain and not be able to find any comfort, it’s just so awful. I got interested in this idea for the book when I realized that it would be Gabriel who makes the decision to kill himself. Gabriel is this grab-life-by-the-balls kind of guy. He’s the sort of person who, when he gets to such a debilitating state, life doesn’t mean anything to him. I think I could well be that person myself at one point.
I began looking into the issue of euthanasia and the more I did, the more it seemed a sane and sensible way to end a life that’s become just pain. I saw this documentary about a woman who chose euthanasia. She was in her 40s and she had multiple sclerosis. Her pain was so bad that she was in a rage all the time. I know a lot of people might say, “Oh, well, that’s how life is sometimes.” But I could absolutely, absolutely identify with her. I could empathize with her.
Q: Do you anticipate that this theme will generate some controversy when you do readings and public events?
A: I think that the first thing that happens when you get into this [subject] is that people are going to say, “Oh, you want to get rid of all the disabled people,” and that’s nonsense. Anything having to do with euthanasia has to be driven by choice. You, the person suffering, have to have all your faculties to make the decision.
We’re a very puritanical culture. And I think a lot of the opposition [to euthanasia] is religious-driven. Those people have baggage that they bring to the discussion. Europe is very secular and that’s why [some countries have legalized euthanasia there]. The two world wars may have drained all the blood out of religion in Europe. Secular humanism has taken over.
Q: This isn’t your first book to deal with a controversial subject. You’ve tackled rape, extramarital sex, infidelity.
A: I’ve always been fascinated with how repressed we North Americans are. The Europeans got over it a long time ago, which is why so many artists and writers from here used to go there to be freer to create. In the town I grew up in [Midland, Ont.], sex was so taboo. Mind you, to be fair, sex was a minefield back then because of pregnancy. In my Grade 12 year, five girls got pregnant. And there goes their life. It’s already been written. But sex, of course, for many different reasons, is still a minefield now.
Q: Your novels are very attuned to the nuances and subtleties in human relationships. Does writing make you more conscious about what goes on in your own relationships?
A: Even as a kid I was picking up on things. I could see tensions in the interactions of my parents. My parents sometimes went for days without talking. It was terrible. I couldn’t stand it. I remember doing it myself and my wife saying to me, “Okay, that’s not going to happen. This silent, sullen, sulky stuff doesn’t work.” I have that kind of antenna where I pick up on the unspoken emotions. You could call it a sensitivity, but that’s a precious kind of word. It works against you, of course, because it makes you touchy yourself. But it’s invaluable for a writer.
Q: You went into teaching initially to pay the bills while you wrote novels. Having James’s daughter be a very successful and happy headmistress at a private school seemed like a tribute to your own career as a teacher. Did it ever become a calling for you the way writing has been?
A: I loved teaching. I loved teaching teenagers. But writing was always there. That’s why I got in the habit of getting up early to write before school. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t take teaching seriously. I always did my best. Sometimes, though, some of the things I saw I didn’t like, because I was teaching at a private school. The class thing, the sorts of things these wealthier kids took for granted. Being a working-class guy, I tried to remind them that not everyone starts at the 10-yard line in the 100-yard dash, [which is the attitude] that some carry right into Bay Street and Wall Street. I think the most useful thing I did was remind them that not everyone is as privileged.
October is published by HarperCollins Canada and is in stores now.
Rachel Giese writes about the arts for CBCNews.ca.
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