Monday

10 April 2017

— Newly transplanted blue anemones from Esther’s garden

Good Morning All,

I now understand better why people winning Oscars say things along the lines of: “I’m not going to start thanking people, because I’m sure to forget someone, and then I’ll really be in the soup.”

I am of course referring to my recent adventures and misadventures concerning my recommended author list, and my realization that most of us feel passionate about our favorite authors and do not take lightly their being slighted by the likes of me.

Last night, for example, I had a long and pleasant Skype on that subject with one of my university friends. Mind you, all four of the college friends I still see summers have perverse streaks, which might come as a surprise to the rest of you since I am one of the least perverse people you’ll ever meet. I mean, far be it from me ever to show a deliberate and obstinate desire to behave in a way that is unreasonable or unacceptable.

My friend was giving me hell for insisting that J. D. Salinger remain on my list, especially—he pointed out--that cheap novel called something like Throwing Up in the Oat Field. I tried to tell him that I would take Salinger off my list when the Pope removed the Book of Matthew from the Bible, but he would not listen.

Unfortunately, he also pointed out I’d left one of the two or three greatest poets of the 20th Century off my list. “Oh, yeah,” I said, “who?”

“Irish fellow,” he replied. “Guy called William Butler Yeats.”

“Did you say Yeets or Yates?” I asked. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Yeats, you dickhead.”

“Yeats,” I said, as if trying it out on my tongue. “Oh, yeah, name rings a bell. Wasn’t he the guy wrote about that island filled with killer bees?”

But he was right, of course. Somehow, I’d just missed Yeats.

And today is Paul Theroux’s birthday, whom I had also forgotten.

Meanwhile,  here’s the response I got from my friend in Saskatoon when I begged her on both knees to provide at least one more author to my list of only six Canadians: 

"The Procrastinator's Guide to Retirement" by David Trahair.  Yes, I know, it isn't a novel; however, it has wonderful information about pension plans and health care and where to put your money first so as to make the most of it … I borrowed it from the library then decided to purchase a copy of my own.”

In the world of pure perversity, I have to think even my college friends could not hold a candle that. That is gold cup material!

Anyway, this is absolutely the last call for any author or poet! You do not need to consult the list again. If you have a moment, just drop me a brief e-mail in which you merely name your favorite author or poet.

I will then check to make sure I have her or him on the list.

I’ll even add Herman Hesse if he is honestly your favorite author. I will think much less of you as a human being, but I will add him to the list.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron

P.S. As I was typing the above, an e-mail came from my yesterday’s Skyping friend, gently informing me: “And Blake, you fuckin’ idiot!”