Two Solitudes, Hugh MacLennan

This book is well-written, but I found it largely inaccessible. The portrait of the elite in Montreal is entirely foreign to me, and for the first three parts, the years move so swiftly and the drama drifts from character to character that never are we given to chance to *know* these figures beyond what they represent to society. At the end of the novel Paul Tallard is writing a book on Canada, stating just what MacLennan has been trying to do:

"As Paul considered the matter, he realized that his readers' ignorance of the sessntial Canadian clashes and values presented him with a unique problem. The background would have to be created from scratch if his story was to become intelligible."

Curiously, the criticism that applies to his previous book, and Paul's remarks on art in general, are precisely my critique of Two Solitudes:

"A novel should concern people, not ideas, and yet people had become trivial."

"Your characters are naturally vital people. But your main theme never gives them a chance. It keeps asserting that they're doomed."

People in the book discuss the politics of Quebec and ponder on the Canadian identity every day, so the issues the novel is concerned with are no secret. I think an essay would be more suitable to this debate than the stilted conversations of the characters, though. In this case, the characters become mouthpieces.

There is so much background, so much descriptive text for every character that walks on stage, but this is more "telling" than "showing." Characters are introduced this way, but behave only in a predictable manner afterwords. Athase's death is central to the plot, but Kathleen and Marius, both very complex and promising characters, disappear from the scene partway through the book: is it because their purpose has been exhausted? The time-lapse is really disconcerting for Kathleen, Marius, Daffy and even McQueen's stage exit: each make a brief appearance to show their fate before dropping out of the plot. We do not see their growth and progress, we do not learn what they really think.

Yardley I truly love. He is a creation I recognize: the Maritime sailor, rough and charismatic, who lives according to his own rules and righteousness, and remains full of curiousity about the world. I know people like him. I do not know many McQueens or General Methuens, whose world is so glamourous I can only believe it exists in movies, and whose roles are entirely cliched.

The romance between Paul and Heather redeems all of the ennui of this saga, in which MacLennan must be trying to construct a Tolstoysian novel of Canada with its vast cast of characters and intertwined drama. The love between Paul and Heather I can relate to and believe in. How their friendship develops, and that first, charged encounter in the car - "You know GReek, and you understand cars, and your'e a hockey player. It's a fascinating combination. What else have you been doing since we all went fishing together in Saint-Marc? // Paul - am I very different from what I used to be?), then in Heather's studio is one of the finest pieces of the novel. It touches on essential matters, shows their shared intellect and interests, and then the insecurity that comes with romantic involvement. Paul and Heather should have been the hero and heroine from the beginning. Each one's introspective thoughts are worth reading. I think the novel has been designed to show precisely what attracts and binds them to one another.

"What was love anyway, but the knowledge that you were not alone, with desire added?"

"For there was no loneliness now, not even when she was awake and he was asleep."


I think what Paul says of art is true:

"An artist had nothing to offer the world except distilled parts of himself."

In other words, write/paint what you know.

Is Paul autobiographical? Does this describe the creation process of MacLennon's own book?

"Out of Marius, out of his own life, out of the feeling he had in his bones for his own province and the others surrounding it, the theme of his new book began to emerge. Its outlines grew so clear that his pencil kept moving steadily until three in teh morning. He was not forumlating sentences; he was drafting the design of a full novel. He had never been able to see so far into any work... Outlines of scenes he would later create followed each other inevitably, one by one out of his subconscious. he picked up ten pages covered with scrawled notes, and as he reread them he found tha teach scene had retained in his mind the trasparent clarity of still water."

It sounds so grand: this stroke of inspiration, but fills me with despair if this is how writing should be, for I struggle with every episode and rarely does a whole book flash into my mind completed.