Initially, Hauser was put in prison because the captain had no idea what to do with him. Though he knew a few elementary sentences, Hauser was essentially incapable of basic communication. The prisonguard’s son taught him how to speak, and after eventually being released and put under the tutelage of a professor, he learned how to read, write, and draw.

Once he was able to express himself, Hauser recounted his childhood – 17 years in a basement room, with nothing more than a straw mat to sleep on, bread and water to eat, and a wooden horse to play with.

Hauser ended up living a very short life. One night in December of 1833, he died from a mysterious stab wound to the chest. His tombstone reads, “Here lies Kaspar Hauser, riddle of his time. His birth was unknown, his death mysterious – 1833.”

The curious story of this uncivilized boy fascinated many thinkers of the time who were preoccupied with the nature of man, sin, and civilization. He also became an inspiration for authors such as Paul Verlaine and Herman Melville.

More recently, Hauser’s story sparked the imagination of a local graphic artist, Diane Obomsawin. Last week at Drawn & Quarterly, she launched the English translation of her graphic novel, Kaspar, which came out in French last year. The book is based entirely on the writings of Hauser and his contemporaries.

With this graphic novel, Obomsawin presents a refreshing, subtle, and gentle version of the Hauser story. After the book launch, I was able to speak with the author. She explained that she wanted to show Hauser for what he was – a young man in a thoroughly new world, “an excessively poetic being.”

A scene that really struck me was the one in which Hauser is sitting in his jail cell with his toy horse. He is brought a candle and, like many children, is so fascinated by it that he immediately reaches for the candlelight. The speech bubble in the panel reads, “I want to attach the candle flame to my horse.” In the next scene, he hears a bell ring and says, “I also want to attach sounds to my horse.”

Everything he sees, hears, and touches is new. His mind is a sponge, absorbing all the sensations the world presents to him. “It’s as if he were a baby that could speak,” Obomsawin explains.

Obomsawin highlights these moments in Hauser’s life that humanize him and remind us that he was not just a theory or a disorder, but an actual living and feeling boy – a sensitive and fragile human being.

Though Hauser’s story is dramatic, Obomsawin only lightly touches on the tragic. She explains, “it’s not entirely a melodrama because it’s about someone with a tender heart who loves life and loves people. People liked him instantly because he had a remarkable openness toward others.”

It seems that the author saw in Hauser a particular sensibility, reminiscent of her own childhood. “I identified with this character. In a sense, I had been lost too. Maybe because I have been dragged around the world, left and right. I have changed now, but I didn’t used to talk a lot. I felt like I was in a submarine, I was inside, and I saw life like this.”

Obomsawin’s illustrations convey this innocent and simplistic vision of life. Her signature childlike drawing style is enhanced here by minimalistic visual techniques and the use of grey-scale, both of which foster a sense of being inside Hauser’s memory. Indeed, it feels like we are watching his life unfold through a submarine porthole.

To this day, Kaspar Hauser remains an intriguing character, whose story shocks our sensibilities. In her graphic novel, Obomsawin forces us to move beyond that initial shock and see the fundamental humanity within him. She has added yet another facet to a character that is likely to continue fascinating generations to come.

Check out Obomsawin’s Kaspar and other works at the always-awesome Drawn & Quarterly, 211 Bernard O.

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Let me stop you right now if you think you’re going to read another generic account of how historic, momentous, and unprecedented this day was. Yes, he is our first black president. Yes, the D.C. metro broke its traffic record. Yes, it was a remarkably peaceful day. And yes, at last we have a president who makes us willing to acknowledge we’re Americans.

But you never hear about the small stories that complete the picture. So let me tell you mine.

On Sunday morning, my friends and I rented a sedan from a company I will never use again and refuse to name (it starts with “D” and rhymes with viscount). I’ll spare you the full account of our many car disasters, which culminated in running into a snow bank and getting a speeding ticket.

Overall, the 11-hour drive down through five states and nine different tolls (thank you, Delaware Turnpike!), was a blur of music blasting through the iPod speakers, the munching on crackers with brie and hummus, and squeals of excitement from our Kiwi friend every time we passed a “Welcome to …” state sign.

Though the city was bustling, nothing could have prepared us for Tuesday’s crowds.

The next morning, we made our way to the metro, where we joined the throngs of people waiting to get onto the train. Though the hour was early, the lines long, and the cars packed, everyone around us was jubilant. Even the train driver felt our eagerness to get downtown. “We’re almost there everyone. I can see the platform,” he announced to a laughing audience.

Walking out of the metro and onto the streets toward the Mall was like entering a disaster movie (like Cloverfield, where the streets are crowded with people fleeing), except that it was all smiles and laughter, and cheers of “Oba-ma!” The city had parked big buses in the middle of the road to block off streets designated for the parade, adding to the chaos. But there was no panic or fear, just excitement and the awareness that we were all partaking in something monumental.

And everyone wanted in. On every street corner there were people capitalizing on Obama’s image. One man was selling mini basketballs, chanting to the crowds: “Get your balls of hope, balls of change, it’s a slam dunk people!” Two guys were even selling condoms, like the McCain one that read “Old but not expired.” If it hadn’t been so funny, it would just have been creepy.

Also taking advantage of the crowds and media attention were all kinds of activists and crazies intent on spreading their respective messages. We saw cool anti-fur advocates dressed in furry animal costumes, anti-war extremists claiming that Obama was going to take us all to Afghanistan, as well as those “crazy Jesus guys” that seem to pop up at every large gathering, yelling at you with their megaphones about how Obama is taking us all to hell.

But there were also civic-minded people offering whatever assistance they could. Girl and Boy Scout volunteers were directing people, helping the elderly climb steps, and wishing everyone a wonderful day.

And then there was everyone else. Those just like us, coming from all corners of the world, here in the same spirit of unity, hope, and joy. I’m not exaggerating when I say that strangers were hugging in the streets and sharing their food with one another.

A woman named Anne-Marie Champ had joined a stranger in holding up a poster that read “From Slavery to History!!! Obama Baby.” A naturalized American from Trinidad, Champ captured the spirit of the day: “I’m so happy to see this in America. This is beautiful, this is what’s supposed to be.”

What made the experience so remarkable wasn’t hearing our new president’s voice or seeing the sheer amount of people gathered for this event, but the collective spirit. It was the people – those who had travelled from far and wide, and who had their own stories to tell.

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I picked up Drop-In with great interest because I had recently read and loved Persepolis and I wanted to learn more about the genre. But I found that the label of “graphic novel” may be misleading, because Dave Lapp’s book doesn’t have a plotline or a clearly defined beginning, middle, and end. As the publishers more accurately described it, it is a “collection of stories about his work as an art teacher in an inner city Toronto youth drop-in centre.”

In this roughly 150-page book (I’m guessing, since there are no page numbers), Lapp creates a world in and around the youth centre, in which he is confronted with all the issues inherent in that world – poverty, mental illness, racism, etc. And though the subject matter is captivating, I spent most of the time waiting for something to happen.

The most frustrating thing about Drop-In is that there doesn’t seem to be a message. Lapp doesn’t really say anything. He doesn’t take a stand or make a statement about anything. Only twice in the book did I find a clear message – in the first and last pages. The first image is that of a little plant growing up from the drain in the art room. And the last scene depicts a troubled black kid bumping fists with Lapp, giving him props. But even these images are cliché and uninspiring.

Lapp intentionally places himself in the position of the confused or fearful spectator in most scenes. And I find this frustrating because the entire time I am silently urging him to do something, say something, or just freak out. To his credit, I believe he does this intentionally in order not to cast judgment on the people in his stories. And that would be great if his characters unraveled themselves or went through some sort of transformation. But they remain relatively flat and Lapp remains the confused middle-class-white-guy observer.

An expert might say, Camille, shush, you just don’t get it. And it’s true: I am not well-versed in graphic novels. And I am also unfamiliar with the milieu Lapp writes about. I have never experienced an urban youth centre and perhaps I lack the social compass that could guide me through these vignettes. So if I’m missing the point here, let me know.

I agree with most of what the reviewers on the back of the book say: It’s true that Lapp offers an unblinkingly frank portrayal of what he experienced at the youth centre. And yes, “There’s tension in these small slice-of-life pieces but also a dreamlike quality, and that combination somehow captures life’s oddness.” But I can’t help but ask, So what? Unlike this reviewer, I didn’t laugh and I didn’t cry.

In the end it feels like Lapp is handing us this book of memories while raising his eyebrows and shrugging, as if to say “Beats me!” or “Here, you deal with this.” No thanks.

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If you actually put your mind to it, you can come up with a few authentically Canadian specialties – poutine, smoked meat, Nanaimo bars, beaver tails, and the Caesar. But does this really constitute a culinary culture?
Some people would say that Canadian food is really just imported from elsewhere. Yet the origins of even the most “traditional” or “national” foods are contested everywhere – apparently some people argue that the pizza originated in China as the green onion pancake and was brought to Italy by Marco Polo.

So perhaps a culinary culture would be better defined by the food most associated with and most appreciated in a given culture, rather than by an elusive “authenticity.” This definition allows newer nations, who haven’t necessarily had the time to develop a historically anchored culinary culture, to define one for themselves in combination with existing traditions.

Perhaps I am just saying this to justify taking my parents out for some good old all-Canadian shish taouk. But at least I have artist Shié Kasai on my side. Last week at the Montréal Arts Interculturels (3680, Jeanne-Mance), Kasai displayed her artwork in an exhibit called “Survival Japanese Cooking.”

Why “survival,” you might wonder. Kasai explains that her project originated in the Netherlands in 2006, during her residency with a Canadian artist, Yvette Poorter. “[Poorter] built a shed flavoured with a theme of Canadian wild forest in her backyard; she described it a sort of a camping site,” says Kasai. “[But] what would I do at a campsite? I’d probably have to eat. I’d have to look for something to eat and prepare it myself. It challenges your surviving skills. This is why there’s a word ‘survival’ in the project title.”

Kasai defines her project as “a site-specific performance/installation project, which ends up as a cross-cultural culinary experimentation.” Using her background as a visual artist who enjoys working with sculpture, and as a Japanese immigrant, Kasai has created a multi-media representation of what she calls “concept sushi.” “I think this cross-cultural cooking happens in my kitchen on a daily basis and maybe in yours too,” Kasai explains. “This probably also applies to many other immigrants who have to cook with substitutes for many different reasons – convenience and/or necessity.”

Kasai based her concept sushi on a survey she did of Montrealers’ tastes, asking them questions about their eating habits, favourite restaurants, and favourite local ingredients. Using this information, she created “Canadian sushi” with ingredients such as hot dogs, asparagus, and samosa dough replacing the traditional Japanese fish, rice, and seaweed.

Only one question is left: what on earth does this taste like, eh?

If you feel the urge to test these culinary concepts, check out the recipes in Shie Kasai’s Survival Japanese Cookbook, available for free download at shiekasai.com.

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Okay, hold on. There have been countless times when I’ve felt stimulated and engaged, like I’d truly come close to touching the essence of life. A dinner table: food, wine, friends. A topic: language, death, liberty, Sarah Palin, the demise of Britney Spears, the media, James Bond. The question remains whether there is a way to combine a free-flowing and conversational style of learning with academia. Last week I partook in something that is an attempt to reconcile the two: The University of the Streets Café.

On the bus heading up Avenue du Parc, I wondered – okay, I know what going to university is like, but how does one prepare to go to a university of the streets? I walked into Arts Café, where the event was taking place, secretly hoping to find hobos, b-boys, and professors happily mingling, sharing hard-learned lessons about life, and maybe even shedding a tear or two over a cup of Irish Coffee. To my surprise, I found a group of normal-looking, middle-aged men and women, sitting around coffee tables and excitedly chatting about the night’s topic. The buzz of conversation and the smell of crisp, thin pizza permeated the air.

The University of the Streets Café is basically a two-hour discussion between random people at rotating cafés in Montreal. It’s a very casual and informal setting, in which anyone is welcome and everyone is a specialist – simply by virtue of being a human being engaged in society. Run by Concordia University’s Institute of Management and Community Development, the University of the Streets Café attempts to “create gathering places for community members to pursue lifelong learning and engagement in the form of collective discussions. They are an opportunity for people of diverse backgrounds and realities to meet, where all people and perspectives are welcome.”

The dialogue I participated in was entitled “Do we underestimate the importance of teen friendships?” Our discussion covered a variety of topics related to friendship, ranging from how the Internet is reshaping interpersonal relationships, to whether parents’ relationships with their kids can be “friendly,” and how friendships formed during childhood affect our adult lives. Several people talked about their experiences growing up in Colombia or on a commune. Others talked about being a friend to their kids, and others about having a sibling take on the role of parent to them. One man gave a very interesting perspective from First Peoples’ reservations, where he found that there isn’t a traditional hierarchical system of power relations between people.

Though the topic was interesting, I left the cafe feeling disappointed. I think the reason is that I came in looking for arguments, theories, nuggets of truth. But I should have read the flyer – “Probably the most important thing we learn is how to learn together…. At the end of almost any conversation what stands even more than the factual learning is how challenging and inspiring it is to learn with a group and make space for individuals who come at a topic with very different opinions, experience, and levels of expertise.” And that, I realize, is the beauty of non-academic learning.

Upcoming conversations on the topic of “Building a Culture of Sustainability” include “How do we begin to understand the issues?” (November 20, 7 p.m.) and “How do we put accountability into accounting?” (November 24, 7 p.m.) Check out the web site for locations and more information at univcafe.org.

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Patrick Brown, a journalist for the CBC since the late 1970s, has reported on many of the last century’s major conflicts and acted as a correspondent from London, Beijing, and New Delhi. Now living in Beijing, he’s written a memoir about his struggle with alcoholism and his career reporting from the world’s war-torn regions.

Though China is one of the main focal points of Brown’s book, he claims he has never been a specialist in anything, and therefore can’t fully understand China.

On the contrary, it becomes clear that Brown has a very clear and deep understanding of the country’s culture and politics. He seems to have escaped making superficial judgments, offering the on-the-money observation: “Chinese who want to see changes in China today are not looking for another revolution. They are looking for an honest follow-up to the first one.” It’s refreshing to read an educated and informed opinion instead of another knee-jerk and one-dimensional value judgment passed by a so-called “Asia expert.”

But China aside, Butterfly Mind is mainly a memoir about Brown’s career as a war correspondent and his struggle with a lifelong alcohol addiction. The book is divided into seven chapters, each dealing with a different step in his fight with alcoholism. In each chapter, Brown takes us through the various war zones he has covered during his career, and draws parallels between his personal life, the war-torn area he is covering, and China.

Brown’s book feels like a hall of mirrors, in which every aspect of his life is echoed by ongoing events in war-torn countries. Brown sees a very strong parallel between his own self-destruction and self-destruction of various nations. In the same way, he explains that only in coming to terms with the past can a fresh start be made – both for an alcoholic and for a country like China, struggling with the task of building anew since the death of Mao.

At times, the constant mirroring between Brown’s private life and national struggles for freedom feels contrived, which is unfortunate for a book otherwise so sincere and thoughtful in its self-introspection.

I did, however, find the parallels he makes between different uprisings and crises quite interesting. Brown compares the cult of personality of Romania’s Nicolae Ceauçescu to that of North Korea’s Kim Jong-il, for example, and draws links between the Taliban years in Afghanistan and the Cultural Revolution in China – both periods in those countries’ histories when the government was intent on radically changing society from the inside, refusing any outside interference.

A thoroughly engaging read, Butterfly Mind gives an insightful overview of late 20th century turmoil. Brown provides a very clear explanation of the different powers involved in every crisis, as well as a vivid picture of what it was like on the ground.

Meet Patrick Brown at Paragraphe Books (2220 McGill College) on October 26.

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