Make no mistake, fanfiction has always existed in mainstream spaces. More romance novels tha you might think are actually Rey/Kylo Ren fanfiction disguised by unsubtle name changes and superficial editing. Fifty Shades of Grey started off as a Twilight fanfiction. Even the Game Changers series (you might know it better as the books from which Heated Rivalry was adapted) is rumoured to have been a “stucky hockey au” [Marvel fanfiction of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes]. The current problem comes from the shift away from bottom-up decision-making to top-down, from authors deciding to monetize their work to publishing corporations asking for it. Most of all, the problem is the visibility that comes with it, which opens up fandoms to potential outside threats, like angry authors or toxic
nternet users.

Capitalism…
The best thing about fanfiction is that it is a gift from the author to the reader. The first unspoken rule when entering online fandom communities is to respect and appreciate the work that is done. Fanfiction authors write for free in their own time, during their very (infamously so) busy lives. Maybe the story is bad, and the grammar non-existent; there might be no punctuation, or capital letters every three words, but it was written by someone who was passionate and experimenting, and it is frowned upon to criticize them for it.

To someone who has only experienced mainstream online spaces, smaller fandoms can be extremely welcoming. There is a reason for that, (weirdos sticking together if you want to be sappy, but, from a more cynical and realistic point of view): compensation — or the lack thereof. The basis for most of the discourse opposing disparaging comments is that fanfiction writing is a hobby shared out of the goodness of one’s heart. No one owes anyone anything, and one only needs to be kind in return. Yet now, a precedent has been set; money has entered the equation. If once is happenstance and twice a coincidence, it only needs to happen again for money to become enemy action, to become a pattern. And who knows how this new business model will impact the community’s ethos of mutual respect.

But, why are publishing companies picking up fanfiction? The answer — it might surprise you — is also money. Fanfiction, even scrubbed of every trace of the original world and characters, still offers the enormous advantage of a built-in audience, thus guaranteeing automatic return on investment. Fans familiar with the work will buy it, and people, morbidly curious, having heard of the story and its origins by word of mouth, will want to get a glimpse.

A risk for the Harry Potter fandom

It is a truth universally acknowledged that if the original author can no longer maintain plausible deniability about fandom activity, bad things happen. Although a lot of authors, such as George R. R. Martin, operate under a kind of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy regarding fanfiction, others like Anne Rice are not so kind. The author of Interview with the Vampire is infamous in fandom circles for threatening to sue fanfiction writers and going so far as to send a cease-and-desist letter to Fanfiction.net, asking them to remove everything related to her work.

The risk of dragging Harry Potter fan-created content into the mainstream is that it might force a confrontation with the author. As of yet, there have been no such incidents, but how long will that peace last? There has rarely been a fandom with so much genuine, blinding hatred for the original author as the Harry Potter fandom. Most of the time, hate geared towards the original creators of works comes from disappointment with the source material: the ending of Game of Thrones, the blatant queer-baiting in Netflix’s Wednesday, or Veronica Mars’ entire fourth season. People hate the directors for the choices they made. Meanwhile, Harry Potter fans hate J.K. Rowling for personal and political reasons, and that hatred runs deep.

J.K. Rowling’s views about the LGBTQ+ community are very problematic, and if there is one thing to know about fandom, it is that it is queer. Writing fanfiction is not just teenage girls shipping male characters. It’s marginalized audiences reappropriating symbols and characters. It’s incorporating queer themes into originally cis heterosexual media, creating trans plotlines, and discussing internalized homophobia, intersectionality, and the intricacies of consent. Rowling has, historically and with great emphasis, denigrated such social issues. It raises concerns about her potential reaction to an army of fans who curse the ground she walks on. Will she continue to close her eyes and allow fandom communities to operate? That seems like a best-case scenario, but far from the only one. Rowling can decide to co-opt the more supportive and ‘acceptable’ branches of the movement, or even retaliate and wreak destruction on a scale only permissible to billionaires like herself.

Outsiders looking in
Original content creators, authors, and directors are not the only threat that heightened visibility brings to fandom. A more insidious, though no less dangerous one is judgmental internet users who feel entitled to fandom spaces, and refuse to adapt to these spaces’ rules and culture despite having chosen to enter them. Fandom spaces are being forcefully gentrified by individuals who refuse to interact with the more alternative parts of the community. Most people know that fandom is weird, but they don’t really understand it. How are you supposed to explain “Dead Dove, Do Not Eat” to someone who’s never heard of it before? People might like the cute couple or the hot, slightly-but-not-too-problematic relationships, but they might not necessarily be prepared for works that go beyond what is usually socially acceptable.

This is not new: it is happening – and has been for a while – to the fandom and LGBTQ+ communities as a whole. Who is the most relevant? The most marketable? Such debates arise as people discuss the inclusion (or exclusion) of more marginalized sub-groups. Hence, internal hierarchies are created and certain groups deemed ‘other’ by the broader community and audience. In queer circles, underground practices like BDSM get slapped with the label of “sexually deviant” and are excluded from some queer spaces they’d historically been a part of.

Fandoms — fanfiction maybe especially — are close to such subcultures and might face the same progressive sanitisation if shoved to the center stage. When something exists as a subculture, it is easy for it to be more diverse because everyone is equally threatened by the public majority. In recent times, fandoms have grown more visible and attractive; yet only certain facets of them are deemed appropriate to the mainstream public. This can have a negative impact on its internal dynamics, based on trust and respect, as newcomers become influenced by public discourse or are simply ignorant of the community’s culture. Hence, safe spaces previously designed for marginalized communities to exist and thrive are gentrified, becoming another pawn from which capitalist entities can profit.

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*Spoilers ahead!*

My 2026 New Year’s resolution is to read more books. While I love purchasing new ones, I decided that while home during winter break, I would gather the collection I had already bought but had never read and bring them back to McGill with me. One of those books was Emily Henry’s People We Meet on Vacation, and I rang in 2026 while reading the story. 

When I started the book, the movie had just been released on Netflix, which further compelled me to read it quickly. People We Meet on Vacation was a well-anticipated film by Henry’s fans, and reached 17.2 million viewers in its release weekend. News of the book’s movie adaptation was announced in 2022, a year after its publication, and audiences were given a trailer in July 2025 to much buzz. However, after reading the book and, directly after, watching the film adaptation, it’s clear to me that the mixed reviews of fans and critics met by the latter were warranted.

A quick summary of the plot for those who are unfamiliar: Poppy Wright and Alex Nilsen, polar opposites, meet at the University of Chicago and grow to become best friends. Each summer, they go on a trip together, travelling to places like Squamish and New Orleans, and grow even closer. Two years before the story’s main events, on a trip to Croatia, something happened that caused them to separate for 2 years only to reunite for one more trip, which the story’s events center around. Would this summer allow them to work things out? A classic storyline. It was an entertaining read that gave me a break from the theory I’d been reading for my classes. 

To begin with my positive impressions of the film version of People We Meet on Vacation, I think that it is visually pleasing. The various gorgeous vacation spots, the bright colors, and the casting all contributed to a visually easy watch. The storyline on its own was interesting, but its utter differences from the book are the basis of my criticism for the film as an adaptation.

As a reader, I have a few strong opinions about the book itself. I personally believed the tension and yearning between the best friends was frustrating because it was so obvious to me they were in love with each other throughout the entire book. It’s annoying to think about the romantic partners they didn’t ever feel “right” with. How their failed relationships weren’t the wake-up calls needed to realize they  wanted each other the whole time. While I know that’s the whole point of the romance novel, I found it hard to fully grasp the idea they had been holding out on each other  for so long despite all of their history, physical, and emotional affection.

There are multiple inconsistencies between the book and the film. From specificities like the university the main duo attend, and the location of their wedding; to larger things like how it was a work trip in the film rather than a non-sponsored trip in the book that brought Poppy and Alex back together, as well as the fact that Croatia was not mentioned in the film, these differences impact one’s perception of the storyline. To go more in depth, readers of Henry’s book would know that Croatia was where Poppy and Alex first kissed, which caused their relationship to fall apart, hence the reason why the story even exists. It’s the event they avoid discussing during the entire summer. To take that away and reduce the plot to the events that take place in Tuscany is to remove crucial contexts and serious plot points from the original narrative.

Another detail being criticised by fans is the fact that Alex’s tumultuous background was neglected in the film. If a viewer hadn’t read the book, they would never know that his mother passed away during childbirth, and that he had to raise his brothers by himself while his father mourned the loss. They would also never know that he got a vasectomy because of Poppy’s pregnancy scare. These are all important to understand Alex’s character and the depth of his and Poppy’s emotional connection.

Henry was inspired by When Harry Met Sally (1989). While I do see the connections between both narratives, I didn’t feel the same while watching People We Meet on Vacation as I do when watching When Harry Met Sally. With the latter, I was satisfied with the couple’s long-awaited happy ending; with the former, I simply felt irritated and a little disappointed. The endings of both films are predictable, but even knowing what is going to happen, the development in People We Meet on Vacation wasn’t strong enough to make me feel relieved about their reconciliation. Viewers of the movie can understand that Poppy and Alex’s relationship is strong, but they are not as privy to its complex development as those who read the book. To cushion the blow, some critics believe that the story is better suited as a miniseries, which would give ample space for the development of the storyline and all characters. Meanwhile, the two-hour-long movie feels rushed, especially in comparison to the book.

People We Meet on Vacation can be considered a classic in the contemporary novel universe, and I enjoyed reading it for the most part. But after watching an attempted film adaptation, my feelings about the entire storyline are more mixed than ever. This review is not to take away from people’s enjoyment of the film; a viewer with a penchant for rom-coms who had never read the book would love the movie’s classic friends-to-lovers storyline. However, if you choose to immerse yourself in the People We Meet on Vacation universe, I recommend either reading the book or watching the movie, but not both. While the endings are the same, there are so many inconsistencies that either strengthen or diminish the plot, so it’s best to choose one version of the story and enjoy it.

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Montreal-born writer of Hungarian heritage David Szalay was named the 2025 Booker Prize Winner for his novel, Flesh. 

Szalay was born in Canada, grew up in London, lived in Hungary, and now resides in Vienna.   It is then  unsurprising that he told The Guardian  his latest book was about the “underlying experience of being poised between two places and feeling not 100% at home in either of them”.

Nearly ten years after Szalay’s  All That Man Is was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, the prize-winning Flesh was found by the judges to be “hypnotically tense and compelling,” and an “astonishingly moving portrait of a man’s life.” I agree with the judges — I was hooked from the start, and I sped through the book in a couple of days. 

Flesh has an arresting and uncomfortable premise. Its protagonist, István, a timid, pubescent 15-year-old, is living with his mother in Hungary. His friend asks him if he’s done “it” before, saying a girl he knows is willing to sleep with István. Sexually confused and awkward, the interaction goes nowhere. However, István then starts helping his neighbour with her grocery shopping. The forty-two year old shockingly grooms him, and, in a mixture of disgust and desire, István becomes obsessed with her. The interaction eventually culminates in a violent altercation with her husband that lands István in juvenile prison. 

The reader only sees select episodes from István’s complicated and ever-evolving life, with the novel characterized by often disjointed time jumps. We see István move from prison, to military service in Iraq, to private security in London. “Money exists as a way of distributing power,” Szalay notes. As István secures work as driver and bodyguard to wealthy Karl Nyman and his family, he becomes increasingly immersed in the super-elite circles of London through an affair with his employer’s wife. Eventually, he marries her — a fulfilment of a truly unconventional rags-to-riches story. 

At the forefront of Flesh is the idea of sex and the body. Sex is difficult to write about. In Szalay’s words, “It’s always a challenge to avoid, sort of tipping into a kind of pornography, or writing about it in a sort of way that becomes ludicrous, or both.” Szalay calls it a “risk” to “write about sex from a specifically male perspective,” perhaps aware that Flesh would be caught up in current discussions about toxic masculinity and the positionality of contemporary male authors. 

To dwell on this matter, however, would be to take away from the raw emotional impact that the book has on the reader. István is both a morally ambiguous and unlikeable character. Callous in the way he views and thinks about women, and unkind to many in his life, it is hard to connect or feel sympathy with him. However, the feeling of being lost and isolated in life is a thoroughly universal, human experience. Szalay, in Flesh, “wanted to write about what it [was] like to be a living body in the world,” and this is exactly the impression the novel leaves. 

Flesh holds a 3.8/5 star average on Goodreads, with many criticizing the novel’s simple prose style. Indeed, István’s most commonly uttered phrases are “okay” and “I don’t know”. Often, his inability to emphasize or interpret his own emotions is completely frustrating, and his minimal dialogue leaves much to the reader’s imagination. On the other hand, this makes the reader’s experience ever more personal and unique. Between the sparing prose and one-line paragraphs is space to breathe and reflect. The ending is unresolved, with a bereaved István moving back to Hungary. 

Flesh is not a book for everyone. I, however, found it strangely hypnotic. Recently, a movie adaptation of the book has been announced. I can see plenty of scope for long, still shots of the brooding István pacing the streets — but I can only wish its scriptwriter the best of luck with the dialogue.

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Each panelist spoke in turn, starting with the editors, who discussed the project’s conception, themes, and approaches to history. While not comprehensive, the book is composed of various “snapshots” of McGill, highlighting previously unearthed and little-known narratives. The book was originally conceptualized after McGill’s History and Classics department held a colloquium on the same topic for McGill’s bicentennial, before realizing papers submitted for the conference were a treasure trove of historical information worthy of publication. McGill in History unflinchingly scrutinizes the university’s past – from James McGill’s participation in slavery to the school’s queer history.

The next three contributors spoke about the chapters they had written. Andrea Tone, a McGill Professor of History in the Department of Social Studies of Medicine, wrote a chapter about the contributions of Heinz Lehmann called “Beyond the Headlines.” Lehmann is often considered the “father of modern psychopharmacology” and served as the chair of McGill’s Department of Psychiatry. Tone began by acknowledging a large amount of scholarship has been about the department accepting funding from the US MKULTRA trials, and very rightfully so. While not denying the importance of looking at MKULTRA and the harm it caused, Tone mentions it is important to continue studying less prominent figures in tandem. Compared to the trials, Lehmann is that less prominent figure – despite his groundbreaking work in mental health research, promoting new drugs for treatment of conditions like anxiety.

Hoping to plug racially motivated gaps in scholarship, Tess Elsworthy wrote her chapter, “A Distinct Blow to Our Esteem of That Outstanding Institution,” about Japanese internment and the rejection of Japanese students from McGill during World War II. The chapter frames internment as undemocratic and Canada-specific. Furthermore, the chapter counters the historical determinism that has previously characterized discussion of Japanese internment. Elsworthy aims to highlight McGill’s role in perpetuating ideas of Anglo-Saxon, and more generally, white, dominance that we still confront today. Elsworthy found the historical record acted “like it [internment] never happened,” and brings attention to these often concealed stories that “deserve acknowledgement.”

Have you ever wondered why McGill dominates university rankings in medical-doctoral studies but does not hold a comparable position in the arts, despite Montreal being such a hub of art and culture? Panelist Marlene Shore tackles this question in her chapter “Risky Business,” which deals with the funding and implicit direction of McGill as a private university by politically right-wing business stakeholders. While exploring how these private funds, with their private interests, have shaped the course of McGill’s pedagogy.

The panel expressed a collective hope for the book’s usage in classrooms as an entry point for students into the historical domain. After all, what better way to get people interested in history than provide them with their own?

McGill in History pushes students to consider the power structures of their institution and consider why McGill has the neoliberal university model we see today. It foregrounds neglected narratives which reveal a more complex view of McGill’s long history. This inspires one to ask: what stories might be missing from narratives seemingly set in stone, and what forces have shaped the McGill we know now? If one can understand McGill not as a wholly rigid institution, but as a product of its multiple intersecting histories, there is, in that same vein, hope to push for future change of institutional focusses, funding, and pedagogy.

McGill in History is available to purchase for $37.95 online through the McGill-Queen’s University Press, or accessible through the McGill library.

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James Baldwin crafted a literary career that spanned 30 years, and his popularity can largely be attributed to his style. Trained as a preacher, his words were devoid of lukewarm prose. His speeches came off as sermons, yet their subject matters always captured diverse audiences, whether they agreed with his views or not. His essays bled passion, accompanied by wit and a sharp analytical eye that solidified him as a master in his craft. Still, there has historically been less appreciation for Baldwin’s strength as a novelist, with Louis Menand’s recent profile on Baldwin articulating that the writer’s novels are “not books you are eager to get back to” and “less formally adventurous and far less entertaining…” than other texts of the time.

As I slowly work through his fiction backlist, I’ve grown more in disagreement with the negligence of Baldwin’s contributions to the literary world, with Menand’s opinion in particular being one of my least favourites. I’ve always found that the cultural fascination with the subversive style and content in Baldwin’s non-fiction is equally present in his novels. Similar to his essays and speeches, Baldwin’s fiction is deeply personal, political, and philosophical, acting as an extension of himself and his surroundings. His semi-autobiographical fiction debut, Go Tell It to the Mountain, utilizes religious themes to narrate his family’s complicated history. Other novels, such as Giovanni’s Room, and, in my humble opinion, his magnum opus, Another Country, also reflect elements of Baldwin’s life through their brutal examinations of queerness, masculinity, and race in Paris and New York, cities Baldwin spent significant portions of his life in. The author’s characters are often manifestations of hyper-masculine societies that have forced queer men to suppress desire, and while deeply harrowing and sometimes difficult to read, his fiction demands that we directly confront the darkest parts of humanity and observe how systems of power can aggravate individual pain and suffering.

One subtle, but nevertheless present, aspect of Baldwin’s personal life that permeates his novels is his distaste for naming. Like Menand discusses in his piece, Baldwin was not enthusiastic about labeling himself as gay. His discomfort with labels was not just limited to his sexuality. The police in If Beale Street Could Talk are not overtly called racist in the same way that Rufus in Another Country is never called a rapist. James Baldwin was not as interested in constative language as he was in experiences and their associated feelings, as he told Jordan Elgraby in a stellar 1984 Paris Review interview, “I don’t know what technique is. All I know is that you have to make the reader see it.” Baldwin understood that the strange prickling feeling all over your body, warning you that something is wrong, that you’re in some kind of danger, or that you’ve committed a social transgression, would tell you more about racism or homophobia in 1960s America than any textbook could. His fiction provides a balanced and thorough lens on the micro and macro structures that produce systems of violence, and his lack of descriptive language when examining such brutality forces his readers to do their own work in determining where to place the blame.

Critics have sometimes described Baldwin as bitter, seemingly harbouring immense hate for white America and its future. Yet, Baldwin’s anger bred action. His rage was not unique or isolated but instead stemmed from his desire for a more loving society as he wrote in his essay “Autobiographical Notes,” “I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.” Love was always one of Baldwin’s main concerns — a fact that shines clear as day in his novels.

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So, let’s focus on the writers who stood with Algeria, defended its people, and celebrated its culture. Algeria is the largest country in Africa, a land steeped in history and bursting with cultural richness. Its literary landscape reflects this diversity: blending Arabic, Berber, and French influences into a unique and powerful tapestry of voices. From the works of Assia Djebar, who vividly captured the struggles and triumphs of Algerian women, to Kateb Yacine, whose Nedjma is a cornerstone of modern Maghrebi literature, Algeria has no shortage of authors who deserve the spotlight. These writers don’t just write about Algeria: they write for it, giving a voice to its people and its soul.

Understanding Algerian literature is to understand Algeria itself — a nation marked by resilience, resistance, and an unyielding spirit. It’s a reminder that literature is more than just beautiful prose or philosophical musings; it is a tool for advocacy, for truth-telling, and for preserving identity.

Kateb Yacine – Nedjma

Nedjma by Kateb Yacine (1956) is a profound exploration of identity, colonialism, and resistance. The novel follows four young men — Lakhdar, Mustapha, Rachid, and Mourad — whose lives are intertwined with the enigmatic Nedjma, a woman symbolizing Algeria itself: beautiful, elusive, and deeply connected to the country’s history. Written in a fragmented, non-linear style, Nedjma mirrors the disrupted reality of colonial Algeria. Yacine weaves together myth, history, and personal trauma, reflecting the cultural and political struggles of his homeland. Rooted in Algerian oral traditions and Berber heritage, the novel also subverts French literary forms, using the colonizer’s language as a tool of resistance. More than a novel, Nedjma is a powerful statement on Algeria’s resilience and the enduring complexity of its identity, making it a masterpiece of postcolonial literature.

Assia Djebar – Women of Algiers in Their Apartment

Assia Djebar’s Women of Algiers in Their Apartment (1980) is a collection of short stories that vividly portrays the lives of Algerian women. Inspired by Eugène Delacroix’s famous painting of the same name, Djebar delves into their experiences of colonialism, war, and the aftermath of independence. The stories in the collection explore themes of oppression, resilience, and solidarity. Djebar portrays women who are not only survivors of colonial violence but also active participants in their country’s struggle for freedom. She highlights the intimate, often untold stories of their sacrifices, fears, and triumphs, challenging stereotypes of silence and submission. Through her innovative narrative style, Djebar blends personal memories, oral histories, and poetic language, crafting a deeply layered exploration of identity and resistance. Women of Algiers in Their Apartment is a poignant and powerful act of cultural and feminist resistance, offering a window into the inner lives of Algerian women and the complexities of their struggles. It remains a vital contribution to both Algerian and feminist literature.

Mouloud Feraoun – The Poor Man’s Son

Mouloud Feraoun’s The Poor Man’s Son (1950), is a semi-autobiographical novel that captures the struggles of growing up in a poor Kabyle family under French colonial rule in Algeria. Written with striking simplicity and honesty, the novel offers a poignant portrayal of rural life in the harsh mountainous regions of Kabylia. The story follows the protagonist, Fouroulou Menrad, as he navigates the challenges of poverty, tradition, and the limitations imposed by colonialism. Despite his difficult circumstances, Fouroulou dreams of education and personal growth, viewing knowledge as a path to self-liberation. His journey reflects Feraoun’s own life as a teacher and intellectual who remains deeply connected to his people. The novel goes beyond personal narrative to address broader themes of social inequality, cultural alienation, and the resilience of Algerian identity. Feraoun depicts the dignity and solidarity of the Kabyle community while subtly critiquing the colonial system that perpetuates their hardships. Published just a few years before the Algerian War of Independence, The Poor Man’s Son stands as a testament to the spirit of resistance and the enduring hope for a better future.

Mohammed Dib – The Algerian Trilogy

Mohammed Dib’s The Algerian Trilogy, composed of La Grande Maison (1952), L’Incendie (1954), and Le Métier à Tisser (1957), is a foundational work of Algerian literature that vividly portrays the struggles of ordinary Algerians under French colonial rule. The trilogy is a poignant and unflinching depiction of life in the working-class neighborhoods and rural areas of Algeria in the 1930s and 1940s. The trilogy follows the life of Omar, a young boy growing up in a poor family, as he witnesses the deep inequalities and hardships faced by his community. In La Grande Maison, Dib paints a bleak yet empathetic picture of poverty and resilience in a colonial society. L’Incendie shifts focus to the countryside, where tensions between colonial authorities and oppressed Algerian farmers rise, foreshadowing the coming revolution. Finally, in Le Métier à Tisser, the trilogy captures the struggles of laborers and the growing awareness of collective resistance against the colonial system. Dib’s narrative style blends realism with lyricism, drawing from Algerian oral traditions and weaving in rich descriptions of the landscapes and lives of his characters. His work is not just a chronicle of colonial oppression but also a celebration of Algerian culture and the indomitable spirit of its people. The trilogy is deeply political, offering a critique of colonial exploitation while highlighting the seeds of rebellion that would grow into the Algerian War of Independence. Mohammed Dib’s The Algerian Trilogy remains a cornerstone of postcolonial literature and a testament to the power of storytelling as resistance.

In exploring the works of Algeria’s literary giants, we uncover a rich tapestry of voices that speak to the nation’s struggles, triumphs, and enduring spirit. Their stories transcend mere fiction; they are acts of resistance, reflections of identity, and declarations of resilience in the face of oppression. Whether critiquing colonialism, exploring post-independence struggles, or confronting extremism and authoritarianism, these writers have given Algeria a literary voice that is as profound as it is vital. Algerian literature is a testament to the enduring human spirit and the power of storytelling to illuminate, resist, and inspire. Let us honor these writers for their invaluable contributions, ensuring their voices continue to resonate far beyond the borders of Algeria.

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The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton depicts the complicated relationship between class, wealth, and romance. Set in New York City during the Gilded Age, the novel follows Lily Bart, a 29-year-old woman of high class and poor finances, with no money to her name. Lily’s primary goal is to find and marry a man of means to cement her position in society and live comfortably. However, whenever she is put in a position to marry men that she claims are her ideal, she either flat-out refuses them or does something to inadvertently spoil her chances.

One candidate is Rosedale, an extremely wealthy, up-and-coming man. Being new money, he is not welcome in high society, yet he yearns to be a part of this exclusive class. In an attempt to break in, he proposes to Lily. Lily, believing she can do better, rejects him. The man who seems to truly pique her interest is Lawrence Selden. However, Selden does not fit Lily’s ideal vision of her future spouse. He is not very wealthy and wishes to remain detached from high society. Despite this, Lily and Selden are continually put in situations through which feelings for one another materialize and blossom.

Wharton comments on the fragility of both wealth and status, depicting the way in which both these factors are irrelevant and even contentious with the pursuit of happiness. Selden and Lily’s puzzling relationship keeps readers on their toes, prompting feelings of confusion and uncertainty. By drawing these emotions out of her readers, Wharton expresses her feelings on the triviality of high society, displaying that true happiness is not attained through wealth or status.

Placed into this setting, I found myself exploring the instability of high society. Seeing how each character’s decisions are so heavily restricted, despite their wealth and power, made me think about the imbalance of power and actual agency. Despite being the most “elite” class, they are still bound by responsibility and motives ulterior to pure joy when considering their personal relationships.

I was engrossed by the tension between Selden and Lily, with their love hindered only by material wealth. The moments when they realized their mutual feelings were fervently impassioned, with them both having an urgency to share with the other. Wharton inexplicitly defined these moments, describing them only as a word that suddenly struck each of them. Lily had “something she must tell Selden, some word she had found that should make life clear between them” and Selden “had found the word he meant to say to her, and it could not wait another moment to be said. It was strange that it had not come to his lips sooner — that he had let her pass from him the evening before without being able to speak it.”

As I read the novel, the thought of how much more attainable their love would be if they were of lower class lingered in my mind. They are suffering due to the circumstances of their birth, yet these circumstances are the status that others, like Rosedale, dream of. Here, Wharton expresses the contradiction of Lily and Selden’s respective societal power and how it restricts their agency.

By highlighting the love of Lily and Selden, impossible only due to their social responsibilities, Wharton makes iy clear that happiness is not guaranteed by wealth or status.

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High-profile BookTok titles include A Court of Rose and Thorns by Sarah J. Maas and past viral novels such as The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid. Many books have become bestsellers through the generative power of TikTok’s ripple-effect-style spread of information. The formula is simple: one person reads a book and posts a review or recommendation, causing others to read it and do the same. Soon, the book is trending, with posts constantly springing up reacting to content in the novel and encouraging others to read it as well.

The influence of BookTok on young adult reading patterns is unmistakable. Indigo, Canada’s largest bookstore company, boasts a “Trending on BookTok” website section. Barnes and Noble, Indigo’s US counterpart, has a “BookTok Favorites” section online and in stores. Even an Amazon search for “BookTok books” will generate a list of recognizable YA fantasy and romance titles. The largest North American book retailers have recognized and organized around the unquestionable market force of BookTok.

According to BookNet Canada, a 2023 Canadian Book Consumer Report found that 62 per cent of books purchased by Canadian book buyers were fiction, with the top genres being fantasy, suspense or thriller, and romance – categories which align with the top genres of BookTok recommendations. It is evident that the TikTok culture surrounding reading that developed in the past few years has had direct real-world manifestations.

BookTok itself has become a distinct and identifiable social media subgroup, a community of like-minded individuals who have either recently come to love or have always loved reading. BookTok is candles, fairy lights, glasses, and bookshelves: a certain, broader aesthetic that social media users can tap into at any point (literally).

Yet, in today’s internet landscape of increasingly niche aesthetic subgroups, there are pockets underneath the umbrella of BookTok in which certain books act as subcultural identity signifiers. Where BookTok on the whole sings the praises of romance and fantasy novels like The Cruel Prince by Holly Black and Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo, a certain subgroup proclaims books like My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh and Didion & Babitz by Lili Anolik, signalling membership to a more specific group.

BookTok culture online is complicated and differentiated, but there is an unmistakable subsect of Orion Carlotto-following, Reformation-wearing, Sally Rooney-reading, pink cursive font-using self proclaimed “cool girls.” In carefully styled book recommendation videos (“books about female rage,” “books about Hollywood in the ‘60s,” “books about motherhood”), they signal to their audiences exactly which online aesthetic they align with. The words “intellectual,” “fashion-oriented,” and “third-wave feminist” are not explicitly stated but implied, intuited by the keen eye of the viewer who subconsciously understands how to decode social media messaging.

This paragraph could be replicated with countless other specific sects – the key is that books have come to function as tokens online, identity signifiers which gesture towards different aesthetic groups in the same way certain clothes or haircuts do. To equate ownership of a certain item to participation in a broader aesthetic social category is a consumerist conception of identity that is pushed by the internet. On a visual platform like TikTok, the actual quality or content of a novel is inconsequential – it is quite literally the phenomenon of judging a book by its cover, prioritizing style over substance. A video displaying a collection of books with a certain style of cover art allows a reader to intuit not only the content of the suggested novels, but the aesthetic orientation of the creator.

As internet culture develops and becomes more specific, distinct, and intricately organized, it is important to recognize the way everyday objects can be co-opted to serve as signifiers towards pre-packaged aesthetic groups, not by the fault of any individual, but through the invisible guiding hand of the internet that pushes for commodification and categorization. There is nothing wrong with reading what the internet recommends or having genre preferences, but we should seek to read a differentiated, nuanced range of stories rather than according to a certain aesthetic – always reaching for diversification and depth rather than neat aesthetic cohesion, resisting the urge to judge a book (or a person) by its cover. Online culture has real-world consequences, as evidenced in current book sales mirroring TikTok trends. The categorizing, flattening gaze of the internet can quickly become transposed to the world of literature with detrimental and limiting consequences.

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November 7 marks eight years since the death of this wonderful poet, singer, and ladies’ man. On September 21, I had the lovely opportunity to celebrate Cohen’s ninetieth birthday at a special event held by The Word Bookstore. Guest speaker and biographer Christof Graf gave a talk entitled “Memories of Leonard Cohen,” during which he shared his experiences accompanying Cohen backstage at his concerts. Graf described himself as a fan “addicted to Cohen,” lucky to have the opportunity to interview Cohen throughout his career and eventually write several books about him. During the talk, Graf provided a detailed account of Cohen’s life here, saying that “Cohen is intrinsically connected to Montreal; he is built into the very fabric of the city.” Audience members were also invited to share their memories of the singer. Though my friends and I were too young to contribute, it was extremely eye-opening to hear from people who had seen him in concert as far back as 1966. Some attendees had even been in Montreal long enough to remember when Cohen would walk up St. Laurent for his daily breakfast bagel, waving hello to his neighbours and to those who recognized him on the streets. 

In the weeks since I attended this celebration, I have spent a frankly absurd amount of time listening to Cohen’s music and reflecting on the legacy of love he has left behind in Montreal. It feels like his ghost is following me wherever I go: walking down the Plateau, where he used to live; going to English classes in the Arts building, where he used to study; even writing this article for The McGill Daily, where he used to contribute. It is impossible for me to separate my experiences in this city from his. 

Part of why I am so submerged in Cohen’s legacy at the moment is because I’ve spent half of my semester analyzing his writing for a class on Canadian poetry. I was reintroduced to “Suzanne,” a song I knew and loved long before I knew anything about its singer. As I heard him sing the lyrics softly into my earphones for the hundredth time, I realized that Cohen himself had put into words what I’d been feeling for him: “She shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers / There are heroes in the seaweed, there are children in the morning / They are leaning out for love and they will lean that way forever / While Suzanne holds the mirror.” 

Cohen’s poetry is a way for me to reflect on my relationship with Montreal. The more I read and hear from him, the more I feel my bond with this city strengthening. Though his work is rarely explicitly about Montreal, those who have lived here can easily identify what he’s talking about – “our lady of the harbour” in “Suzanne,” images of downtown streets like St. Catherine sprinkled throughout Parasites of Heaven. It’s no wonder that the city is so proud to be known as Leonard Cohen’s hometown. 

“I feel at home in Montreal in a way that I don’t feel anywhere else,” Cohen shared with an interviewer in 2006. Similar to his nomadic lifestyle, I myself have moved around many cities over the course of 20 years, never quite feeling tied down to one particular place. Living in Montreal, however, I have made this place my home on my own terms. I’m sure most people who have moved here from another city would agree with me when I say that there’s something about Montreal that you can’t find elsewhere – whether it’s the people, the distinct subcultures, or the strong sense of local identity, it’s the kind of place that makes you want to stay forever. Cohen put it best when writing the introduction to The Spice-Box of Earth in 1961: “I have to keep coming back to Montreal to renew my neurotic affiliations.” 

Even as I continue romanticizing the city through the lens of Cohen’s work, however, I am careful not to romanticize the man himself. I know there is a lot we differ on in terms of political ideology, with much of it being a product of his time. His background as an upper-middle-class, Westmount-dwelling Montrealer is ultimately quite alien from my experience as an immigrant in Canada. What is important to me beyond these differences is that I am still able to learn more about myself through his work. Both his poetry and songwriting actively engage the audience, inviting them to question their own ideologies as they confront his. He is not interested in making his reader comfortable or catering to their tastes. He only wants us to face our own truths. To borrow Cohen’s words from his poem “What I’m Doing Here,” he is waiting for each one of us “to confess.” 

I’ll confess first: I love Leonard Cohen because I know we share the same love for a city far bigger than either of us. I can feel that love while listening to a song recorded in the 1960s, and I can feel it if I go for a walk down Rue Crescent  today. I can feel that love in the legacy he has left behind in Montreal every single day. 

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Devil, fiend, being, creature, abomination: out of all the words used in Frankenstein to describe the animated being at the heart of the story, it’s a bit odd that most often he is only called “the monster.” Why do we never use daemon (tastefully spelled as such by Mary Shelley in the original 1818 edition of the novel) or wretch, as the being sometimes calls himself? Even construct, which feels admittedly stiff for a creature of bone and flesh, might suit him better considering that he came to life only after being sewn together at the painstaking hand of his creator.

The being has never been given a name of his own – monster has simply been his moniker ever since he was first introduced to the literary readership of Regency-era England. Confronted with the visage of his rogue creation, Victor Frankenstein reaches for a word to realize what he saw as being formless, abominable, and unnatural. But the monster was not preconceived as an outcast, which he would later become: in fact, he was hardly preconceived of at all. What Frankenstein had animated was the result of an obsessive occupation with the power to endow life. His ambition was not set on shaping an individual awareness, but rather on the lofty ideal of a consciousness from whose existence he could draw the ultimate sense of obligation. This being, whose countenance he fled at the moment of its awakening, developed sensitive agency incidentally; his very existence was a natural consequence of Frankenstein’s unnatural actions. His progeny occurred through accident, and his monstrous condition was therefore manifest.

“The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature.”

To the vague end of his creator’s design, the creature was intended to be comprised of a seemly arrangement of limbs and features, which Frankenstein had curated himself for their characteristic beauty. Perhaps unconsciously he’d expected a natural degree of conformity from something he could consider beautiful. But as soon as the creature stirs, Frankenstein is overcome with repulsion at its animism – its monsterhood, to him, becomes horrifyingly apparent. He watches the monster’s formless ambitions, now inextricable from this sinewed amalgamation, hoist up its outsize mass and take its first ungainly steps.

Something about reading Frankenstein to this point speaks to a familiar narrative of the queer experience. This becomes most obvious in the painful relationship between creature and creator, progeny and progenitor, and is also present in the monster’s baleful abandonment of a human society that will never accept him. At the same time, the thematic exploration of guilt, progeny and responsibility hints at an unmistakably feminine perspective: the one request of the creature to his creator in return for his own removal from the skirts of human society is not for retribution, but a singular understanding. The monster’s only demand is for a reciprocal, female companion.

“If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.”

The archetype of the female abomination began, insofar as concerns the public imagination, with the superfluous influence of Medusa’s image — vicious, terrifying but just as often tempting to her victims — which has only ever grown since her inception in legend. Her narrative, from her assault at the hands of the god Poseidon to her monstrous transformation, has become inextricable from both feminine violence and appeal. In varying ways, the mantle of desire has been donned by every one of her successors.

Even such obliquely irredeemable creatures as the Anglo-Saxon “sea witch” have managed to inspire rather liberal interpretations of their appearances and motivations according to certain artistic visions. A 2007 film adaptation of the epic Beowulf by the same name reimagined her in the form of a nearly nude woman with a golden serpentine tail, entirely subverting her original antagonism with the introduction of a misplaced strain of overtly seductive appeal. In the original epic poem no less, the “sea witch,” mother to the monster Grendel, isn’t even referred to by a single set of consistently gendered pronouns.

The literary intersection between the monstrous and the feminine, already occupied by a fearsome lineage of female characters, would certainly have welcomed another addition. The precipice on which Shelley leaves off the completion of the female creature by Frankenstein – and the brutality with which he dismantles his progress – leaves room to wonder how she would have considered the role of a feminine conscience in keeping with the particular natal violence of Frankenstein’s creature. Perhaps she’d decided that Victor Frankenstein, who spent most of the novel looking forward to a marriage with his first cousin, would simply have drawn a blank.

“I do not destroy the lamb and the kid.”

The creature becomes an outcast twice from the world of his progenitors. He is rejected for his nature, which is of an unknowable misery, but it is for the undoing of his own creation that he finally chooses to distance himself. In an off-beat lockstep echoing their first conversation, he incites Frankenstein to a pursuit toward the edge of the known world – away from the conditions of humanity. The nature that binds them resolves only with the dual demise of anomaly and antagony. There also lies monstrosity: in the preter-natal space between the human, the abominable, and the unconceived. In Frankenstein, it’s between every page.

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On September 29, literature enthusiasts from in and around Montreal gathered at Le Gesù to attend the fourth edition of the Kabir Cultural Centre’s “Garden of Literary Delights.” Established as part of the centre’s NexGen MultiArts Festival, this event aims to highlight South Asian writers in Canada who are emerging onto the literary sphere. Each writer read a selected section from their books, before converging in a panel discussion and taking questions from the audience.

The panel was curated by writer and journalist Veena Gokhale, who has written several books herself and takes part in organizing this event each year. For the 2024 iteration of the Garden of Literary Delights, she proudly introduces two new genres: translation and children’s literature. As she introduced the panel, Gokhale emphasized the “pluralism and diversity” of the authors present in the room: Janika Oza, Mariam Pirbhai, Shahroza Nahrin, and Mitali Banerjee Ruths.

Janika Oza kicked off the panel by reading from her recent debut novel, A History of Burning. Oza comes from a long lineage of migrants who left British-ruled India for British-ruled East Africa, where they lived for multiple generations until the 1972 expulsion of Asians from Uganda. As the first person in her family to be born in Canada, she wanted to tell the untold stories that arose from this history of immigration. A History of Burning is a result of this dream. Shortlisted for the 2023 Governor General’s Award for English Fiction and the 2024 Carol Shields Prize for Fiction, her novel is a striking historical epic that charts the genealogy of one family from 1898 onwards. Oza read from a chapter about Rajni, a character who moves from Karachi to Uganda after getting married, giving us insight into the subaltern voices that often go unheard when discussing history from a broader perspective.

It is these unexplored histories that Oza wants to bring our attention to. When asked about her research process for this novel, she explained that she initially tried to consult historical resources, but found that there was a huge lack of written material about Indians in Kenya and Uganda. She turned to asking around her family for information, and filled in the rest of the gaps with fiction. By having these conversations with real people in her life, she says she realized the importance of collective memory and highlighting these stories from within her community.

As Oza shares her experience of visiting Kenya for the first time to promote her book, an audience member stands up to say: “I was born in Nairobi, and the way you described Kenya is so realistic that I can hardly believe you’d never been there.” It felt like a full-circle acknowledgement of the stories she set out to represent while writing A History of Burning.

The problem of representation is one that all the authors on this panel contend with. Mariam Pirbhai is a professor of English literature at Wilfrid Laurier University, who joined us via Zoom all the way from Waterloo to discuss writing her work through a decolonial lens. She presented two of her most recent books: Isolated Incident, a fictional novel about the lives of Muslim Canadians on the heels of a hate crime against a mosque in Toronto; and Garden Inventories, a work of creative nonfiction that reflects on how gardens contain histories of culture. The scene she read from Isolated Incident showed the difference between how two characters confronted an Islamophobic parade in Montreal, an incident based on a real white supremacist demonstration that took place in Quebec City. Pirbhai explained that she tried to cast the lens inward and show the friction that exists within Muslim communities as well, in order to counter how reductively Muslims are represented in the media.

Garden Inventories, which was a finalist for the 2024 Foreword Indies Book Award for Nonfiction/Nature Writing, takes on a similarly introspective tone. It draws inspiration from Pirbhai’s own garden in Waterloo that she spent years cultivating. It was there that she realized that plants were not so different from people, which in turn led her to question our relationship to nature in our everyday lives. Through rich, visually-immersive writing and evocative imagery, Pirbhai draws connections between her human experiences and gardening. She reflects on her position as someone who has moved through multiple continents before settling in Canada, and how this history of immigration affects the way she interacts with the land around her. As a surprise for the audience, Pirbhai even shared a few photos of this titular garden – and it is every bit as stunning as she described it to be!

The next panelist moved us away from landscapes and back to history, as Shahroza Nahrin introduced her translation of works by Bangladeshi author Shahidul Zahir, entitled Life and Political Reality: Two Novellas. A graduate student from McGill, Nahrin has a background in academia and literary translation. She was recently featured on CBC’s “All in a Weekend with Sonali Karnick,” where she spoke about Zahir’s influence on Bengali literature. Before reading from her book, she posed an important question to the audience: “Who makes the decision of which books get translated and which don’t?”

For Nahrin, a translator becomes an activist when they translate a book from a marginalized community and bring these voices to the forefront. She describes Life and Political Reality as a “frictional work,” a “thorny text” that goes against the mainstream grain. The excerpt she read from the book exemplified this perfectly, as it brought attention to the effect of the Bangladeshi genocide on a small locality in Dhaka, highlighting the silenced voices there.

Nahrin is extremely passionate about Zahir’s work, which was evident from the heartfelt way in which she outlined the importance of his legacy on Bangladeshi literature. Similar to the fictionalized accounts of Dublin and Macondo which characterize the works of James Joyce and Gabriel García Márquez, Zahir mythologizes Old Dhaka and creates a unique world through magical realism. Nahrin spoke about the struggles that come with translating the works of such an iconic literary figure, explaining how she and her co-translator tried to keep Zahir’s musical writing style alive throughout their translation. They also made the decision to retain some Bangla dialogues within the text, in order to challenge English hegemony and stay true to the original tone wherever possible.

The importance of bringing South Asian voices into the spotlight, which has been expressed by all the authors so far, is exemplified through the work of children’s author Mitali Banerjee Ruths. A self-proclaimed “Texan-Quebecois” born to Indian Bengali parents, Ruths’ main intention as a children’s author was to write the kind of books she wanted to read as a child. She uses a creative metaphor to describe the lack of South Asian representation within children’s literature: since monsters are often considered non-human because they cannot see their own reflection, Ruths wanted to provide children with their own reflection so that they would not feel less than human. Her latest series, The Party Diaries follows the main character Priya Chakraborty as she plans different parties for the friends and family in her community.

Ruths explained that she wanted children to be able to see different foods and cultures represented in their picture books, both as a valuable source of learning and a way of identifying themselves in what they are reading. She is grateful for the opportunity to shape children through her writing, as she herself harbours a huge appreciation for the books she read as a child. “My kids are always my first critics,” said Ruths, laughing, when a member of the audience asked her about her own children’s response to her books. “If there’s a joke they don’t laugh at, I know I have to go back and rework it!”

From historical fiction to children’s literature, the wide range of authors present in this year’s Garden of Literary Delights leaves me with hope for the future of South Asian representation in Canada’s literary scenes. If you’d like to get more involved, the Kabir Centre’s NexGen MultiArts Festival will continue to highlight emerging Canadian artists across different fields over the next month, including a visual arts exhibition and celebrations of classical music and dance.

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I was lucky enough to read Kate Rogers’ The Meaning of Leaving while on a train leaving Toronto, which I think is the most aptly ironic location to experience this bittersweet poetry collection. A Canadian poet who lived in Hong Kong and China for more than two decades, Rogers recently moved back to eastern Ontario in 2019. This is where The Meaning of Leaving takes off, leading the reader on a journey that is constantly on the move from one city to another. Each poem blurs the line between departure and arrival, navigating the intersections of female loneliness, domestic violence, and the search for identity. Published in February 2024 by the Montreal- based publishing house Ace of Swords Publishing, this beautiful collection enters the literary fray right in time for Women’s History Month.

The book opens with the poem “Unreal City,” a sort of anti-ode to Toronto that brings to light all the violence simmering underneath the surface of the city. By mentioning specific locations by name, Rogers makes the setting of this “unreal” poem feel all the more “real” – allowing the words to occupy a tangible space in real life. Even as someone not from Toronto, I was able to relate to the scenes exactly as she laid them out, largely in part due to her straightforwardly familiar tone. “Unreal City” sets the scene for the rest of the poems in this collection, which are divided into five untitled sections that continue moving chronologically through different periods in the poet’s life.

Rogers uses the first section to invite the reader into her childhood home, revealing the abuse she faces at the hands of her father, and establishing a link between this early violence and the violence she goes on to experience in her romantic relationships with men. She wastes no words, shying away from subtlety in favour of boldly laying out the events as they happened.

While I appreciate the lack of restraint and the trust she places in her reader, at times the shrewdness of Rogers’ poetry leaves little room for interpretation. In “Derrick’s Fist,” Rogers’ emphasis on elaborate descriptions of bruises leave a striking first impression on the reader, but her bluntness simultaneously results in an opaqueness that I felt lacked a more personal connection with the speaker. “Albino Sword Swallower at a Carnival, 1970” is an example of another graphic poem I felt was executed better. Here, Rogers is able to show her love for meta-textual references through her masterful association of the violence from her early sexual encounters to the violence experienced by a circus sword-swallower.

Section Two moves forward into Rogers’ time spent in China and Hong Kong, bringing these settings to life with the same attention to detail as she expressed for Toronto. In “On My Way to Cantonese Class” and “Lamma Island Tofu-fa,” Rogers crafts a loving relationship between herself and the city, pointing out the colourful characters that inhabit its every corner. Something as simple as tofu-fa from a roadside hut is likened to salvation. These images of home reach a turning point in the titular poem “The Meaning of Leaving,” in which she recreates her life story so far by moving from the lakes of Ontario to the Hong Kong coastline. The poem takes its title from a translation of “Requiem” by Bei Dao; each line of Dao’s work sandwiches Rogers’ stanzas, giving the words an entirely new meaning. She succinctly communicates the feeling of being lost in one land, before finding peace in another.

Rogers moves further into the realm of politics with Section Three, drawing the reader’s attention to pro-democracy protesters in Hong Kong. Like in her earlier poems, she conflates real-life conflict and trauma with fantastical images: the authoritarian government becomes a Gate of Hell, the young protesters become the nation’s saviours. Rogers emphasizes how the personal and the political interact with each other in times of crisis, and to me, her poetry seems to suggest that love and resistance are inextricable from one another. In “The Jizo Shrine,” we see the importance of holding on to close female friendships. This love letter to the long- lasting bond between two women stands in as an ode to letting go of grief, whether it be private or collective.

Though The Meaning of Leaving complicates the ideas of home and homeland in a nuanced, self-aware manner, I found myself growing wary of certain poems that seemed cast in an orientalist light. The implications of the line “Yet I long to uncover more layers / of Hong Kong’s midden heap” in “Cantonese Class” make me uncomfortable, especially as I recall the long colonial history of white travelers wishing to “uncover” the secrets of the East. “Sei Gweipo” in Section Four is a candid retelling of Rogers’ experience as a white woman in Hong Kong, highlighting her struggle in reintegrating with Canadian society by comparing herself to a “white ghost.” It’s almost overly self-aware in its execution, leaning towards feelings of white guilt, which makes it all the more difficult to read from a non-white perspective.

The book is ultimately redeemed through its meditations on womanhood and anger, which I found embodied primarily in “The Nose-Ring Girl.” Rogers plays with the idea of female vulnerability as she wonders about this stranger’s backstory, before connecting it back to her own college days. The titular nose-ring girl personifies strength and tenacity, as she continues to stand by her principles even when she does not need to. As we enter the fifth and final section, the reader is introduced to even more figures of feminine resilience. Rogers brings back her love for meta-textual references as she imagines an encounter with a victim of the Spanish Flu, and re-imagines the tale of the Don Jail ghost. In both cases, she reclaims a story told largely by male voices to instead shed light on a female perspective.

Rogers chooses to end this poetry collection by returning to the bird motif sprinkled throughout the book, taking on its themes of flight and motion. “Ode to the Ode to the Yellow Bird” is yet another retelling of a tale from the male poetic tradition. Rogers counteracts the pessimism of Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to the Yellow Bird” by making this poem an affirmation of joy. Her yellow bird is the very ethos of the kind of womanhood she writes about in The Meaning of Leaving: she is the Don Jail ghost, the girl in the pink tutu and Nikes, the lady with a bruised face at the fruit market. She is a symbol of resilience and ambition. And despite everything she has been through, the book grants her one ecstatic cry of hope in its very last sentence: “You live!”

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On the outskirts of the city, at the other end of the spectrum of life, a pack of children have set up camp in the forest of Parc Rouge. Some orphaned, some abandoned, and most of them forgotten, the children scrounge for food and supplies, seek shelter in tattered tents, and keep a careful watch for grown-ups. These may come in the form of drunks who wander into their camp, but the children also look out for blooming chests, deepening voices, and other signs of puberty in their own ranks – no adult is worthy of their trust. The paths of old and young converge in this city “so empty it is full, so broken it blossoms.” It is only at their intersection that the residents of Fort Détroit may begin to imagine a future more full of hope than despair, more full of dreams than nightmares.

***

The Future is Catherine Leroux’s fourth novel. First published as L’avenir in 2020, it was translated into English by Susan Ouriou in 2023. Born in Rosemère, Quebec, and now based in Montreal, Leroux has received numerous awards and accolades, including the Prix France-Québec for her novel Le mur mitoyen (2013) and the Prix Adrienne-Choquette for her short story collection Madame Victoria (2015). The Future was selected for the 2024 edition of Canada Reads, CBC’s annual “battle of the books” competition. It will be championed by fellow Montreal writer and this year’s Mordecai Richler Writer-in-Residence, Heather O’Neill.

I don’t believe O’Neill will have any difficulty defending The Future during this year’s Canada Reads debates, which will take place between March 4 and 7. Leroux’s words, expertly translated by Ouriou, seem to leap off the pages of this book to construct before readers’ very eyes the characters, settings, and mysterious goings-on she describes. I found it impossible to read this book without a pen in hand – there were too many beautiful passages to underline, too many sentences that read more like poetry than prose.

Leroux’s characters are unique in themselves – the children, especially, are endowed with such spirit and individuality as are rarely to be found outside of childhood – but it is when they come together that the magic of this book is most palpable. The bonds of trust forged by Gloria and Eunice, by Fiji and Bleach, in the city of old, and in the forest of youth testify to the possibility of finding, in Rihanna’s words, “love in a hopeless place.”

Earlier this month, following a book talk featuring Leroux and O’Neill, I had a chance to interview Leroux about The Future, her relationship with Montreal, and her approach to writing speculative fiction. I was especially curious about the book’s second chapter, written entirely from the perspectives of the Parc Rouge children. Leroux told me she was forced to throw away a first draft of this chapter because it was “too boring”: she had written this version as a mother, she said, instead of as a child. Once she learned to put aside her instinctual concerns for her characters’ safety and comfort and to make way for the infinitely more important demands of play, stuffed toys, inter-group rivalry, and bathroom humour, she was able to find the voices of Parc Rouge.

We also discussed Leroux’s close-to-home inspiration for Fort Détroit. This version of the city of Detroit was never surrendered to the Americans in the War of 1812, instead becoming a French-Canadian stronghold. At the time The Future takes place, however, Fort Détroit is no longer a stronghold but a wasteland. Leroux was attracted to Detroit because of its similarities to Montreal: both cities experienced a surge in investment and production, either in the 19th century or the 20th, but now find themselves in economic decline. Economic decline, she said, has certainly taken its toll on the cities, but it has also provided ample fodder for artists and innovators with an interest in rebuilding. “People have had to be creative in order to survive,” Leroux explained.

Certainly, Fort Détroit is a dystopia as desolate as the rest of them. It is all the more terrifying, I think, on account of the fact that no evil dictator has taken control of the city or imposed a rule of terror and totalitarianism on its residents. Instead, it is the cruel forces of “pollution, poverty, and the legacy of racism” that threaten the survival of Fort Détroit – or what’s left of it, rather. Leroux’s future is as factual as it is fictional, and the strength, creativity, and humour with which her characters weather each storm that comes their way are truly inspiring.

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As a history student who has only briefly learned about the horrific legacy of the Vietnam War – confined within the realm of academia – I’ve always remained curious about the lived experiences of survivors. So, at the start of this year, I decided to pick up a book that explores the embodied realities of the Vietnam War in various contexts through historical fiction. McGill alumnus Caroline Vu’s latest novel, Catinat Boulevard (2023), offers a compelling insight into the complex experiences of survivors through the lenses of cultural and racial identity. The McGill Daily had the pleasure of reconnecting with Vu almost a decade after our previous interview on her novel Palawan Story (2014), to discuss her newly released work. 

Caroline Vu was born in Vietnam in 1959, only four years after the start of the war. Due to the increasing danger, Vu was forced to flee to New England, and eventually settled in Montreal. After living in various parts of the world – Latin America, Switzerland, and Ottawa – the author now resides in Montreal where she works as a family physician when she isn’t writing. Vu published two award-winning novels, Palawan Story and That Summer in Provincetown (2015), before releasing Catinat Boulevard in October 2023 to much critical acclaim  – it was even a finalist for the 2023 Hugh McLennan Prize for Fiction. The novel dives into the turbulent lives of best friends Mai and Mai Ly in the city of Saigon during the Vietnam War. Mai flirts with American GIs in bars along Catinat Boulevard, eventually becoming pregnant by Michael, an African-American soldier. The turbulence of the war leaves their son Nat tragically abandoned in a Saigon orphanage. Meanwhile, Mai Ly rises in the ranks of the communist resistance and becomes a prominent figure who writes propaganda and rallies others to join the socialist struggle. The novel travels across decades and continents, eventually ending in present-day New York.  

Catinat Boulevard’s narration left a stark mark on me as a reader. Vu presents her story in the third-person through the eyes of Mai and Michael’s child, Nat. Whilst I initially felt slightly confused by this literary choice, I was able to fully digest its intent the more I read: the narration style became a powerful tool for accentuating Nat’s abandonment and isolation. One event in the novel especially stood out to me because of this choice. Upon hearing that she is pregnant, Mai’s father hits her and kicks her down the stairs. Vu writes this scene through the eyes of Nat: “It was my first exposure to physical violence. Surprisingly I didn’t feel any pain. I only felt a loss of grip as my world tumbled downstairs. I wished my mother had held out her hands to protect me. Instead, she used her own fists to repeatedly hit herself. Then she howled.” 

This is just one powerful instance of many granted by Vu’s unique style of writing that left me curious about her reasons behind narrating in this way. In an interview with the Daily, she replied: “Nat is a kid abandoned by his parents. In the orphanage, he is bullied because of his dark skin. The voice of a kid is more touching. It moves us more because we can identify with it. We understand that voice because we’ve all been kids ourselves.” 

In a time when historically-marginalized readers are increasingly conscious and critical of how literature can evoke wounds caused by physical, emotional, and intergenerational abuse and oppression, writers have to be careful not to produce “trauma porn.” Frankly, although Catinat Boulevard does contain depictions of trauma, it does so in a sentimental way that is necessary to portray the devastating disorder that came with the war. The exploration of trauma in this narrative depicts the calamitous circumstances and consequences of the war and the global 1960s more generally, in a sobering way that should not be dismissed. It is the  characters’ beautiful complexity and their very different experiences of trauma that elucidate this reality. From racism to abandonment to sexual abuse, Catinat Boulevard covers it all. But Vu makes it clear that the trauma she expresses can also be processed in complex ways, and can even be intricately embedded with humour. Having experienced much of this trauma herself in her own life, it was important for Vu to explore these wounds creatively in her writing, whilst being cognizant of their effects on marginalized communities.  

Vu told the Daily: “Yes there is a lot of trauma in the novel. From war to racism to abandonment etc… To lighten up the story, I added humour. I made each chapter short. There are no drawn-out sobbing scenes. No trauma porn! You know, I’ve experienced the same trauma Nat did: the war, the abandonment, the racism… Adding humour and laughing at certain situations in the book is perhaps a defence mechanism for me.”  

The process of writing is central to this narrative. Not in a self-explanatory way, but in a way that is visible and thematic to the reader. Letters appear recurrently throughout the book, which function to connect together the different characters who find themselves spread across Vietnam and the United States. Vu’s frequent adoption of the epistolary form serves to help us as readers get to know each of the characters in a deeper way. But for Vu, writing emerges as a theme not only to foster more complex characterization, but also to reflect her own love of the craft. 

Vu explained: “Catinat Boulevard is an ode to the written word. There are letters written by Michael to Mai. Letters written by Nat to Mother Superior. There are imaginary stories that Nat writes about his mother Mai. There are stories Mai presents to her writing group. There are entries Mai keeps in her diary. There are real-life stories Amanda writes for her newspapers. There is the email Mai Ly sent to Nat. There is the manuscript Nat tries to get published. There are the letters of rejection. 

For Nat and Mai, writing is therapeutic. It gives meaning to their loveless lives. Although they’d never met in person, they’d conversed through their writing. This is the power of the written word. It can transcend time and space. It can bring people together. Even dead ones!”

Mai and Nat’s love of writing is intimately interwoven in the ending of the novel. Whilst Mai discovers her love for writing as a Vietnamese immigrant in search of community in California, Nat uses writing to escape the horrors of living as an abandoned Black child in an orphanage in Saigon. Their writing transcends time and space to reveal parallels despite their isolated lives. Mai writes “problems started long before the kid walked this earth,” reflecting Nat’s words which read “trouble started years before my birth.” Catinat Boulevard ultimately reminds us that though physically far apart, Nat and Mai remain close, their lives forever interconnected despite all their troubles and despairs. 

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