HUNDRED AND FORTY-THREE YEARS YOUNG
Last Thursday Canada celebrated its 143rd birthday. Compared to most nations on this globe our national identity is still very, very young.
Now examine the timeline of our literary history against that of the rest of the world–the Norton Anthology of World Literature cites the first great narrative of world literature to be “Gilgamesh,” written down on clay tablets around 2000 B.C. — and we are not just in our infancy, we are essentially the newest of the newborn. …
Spring has sprung/The grass has riz/I wonder where/The nearest bookstore is . . . Every spring, as the snow begins to melt and the trees begin to bud, I become impatient for sunny summer mornings spent taking in the view from my balcony while I fuss over the brightly coloured blooms in the window boxes , sip steaming hot cafe-au-lait from a mug the size of a washbasin, and get my nose into a book.
I love the freedom of “summer reading.” Even the phrase …
When I was eight years old I read The Road to Agra by Aimee Sommerfelt and knew I wanted to be a writer. This book is the story of a thirteen year old boy named Lalu who takes it upon himself to walk across northern India in an effort to get his seven year old sister Maya to a UN aid station. Here he hopes the doctors can halt the encroaching blindness that will otherwise doom her to a life of isolation and poverty.
When …
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