by Herb Curtis
The relationship between the people of Brennen Siding and their environment is shifting in The Americans Are Coming. How has the Miramichi changed since the forties and fifties, the period in which this book is set?
Chainsaws were introduced in the 1950s. They were clunky, heavy, and temperamental, but they were better than anything that had been used before.
Elvis also came along in the 1950s, and could be heard on radios around the world. The whole world has changed since then. It changes everywhere, every day. The Miramichi is no different. When I was a child, I played with children from all over North America in the summers. Every one of them changed me a bit, and I’d like to think that I changed them, too.
There is constant tension and interplay between the outside world and the world of Brennen Siding. Lindon Tucker sells some of his land and leaves for Fredericton. Shadrack adopts the lens of the Blackville boys and begins to perceive Dryfly as a social liability. Palidin and George “elope” to Toronto. The Americans arrive with their good-time voices, money, and expensive booze. Is self-awareness fatal for this isolated community?
I’d hate to think that awareness of any kind is fatal.
Does dialect shape the characters in your work? Is how they speak who they are?
Until everyone started trying to mimic the way Californians talk, there were different dialects every mile or two along the road – not just on the Miramichi, but everywhere. The people in Blackville spoke differently than the people in Doaktown; the people in Fredericton spoke differently than those from Saint John; the people of New Brunswick spoke differently than Ontarians, and on and on and on . . .
I don’t think people should ever lose their identity, especially their voice. Today people search for individuality by dying their hair purple, tattooing their skin or discovering new fashions, yet they keep their dialect in the closet.
Do you have a list of favourite books?
I have about three hundred books on my shelves, and I’ve read every one of them at least once. I’ve had favourite authors, but that changes from year to year.
As a child, I read the classics, including Mark Twain’s work. His Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was front and centre for me. I was a boy living on a river, and Twain was amusing and insightful. I remember making myself a corncob pipe and actually smoking the darn thing while sailing down the Miramichi on my very own raft. Because I was a boy, and Pip, David Copperfield, and Oliver Twist were boys, I also liked the works of Charles Dickens – especially Great Expectations. Wordy as it is, I think I read it several times.
When I moved to Fredericton at the age of eighteen, a friend introduced me to Alden Nowlan. Shortly afterward, I called Alden and asked if I could visit him. “Yes,” he said, “any time.” So I went to his place on Windsor Street. I was shy and backward, and I suppose I bored him to death. But he had a profound effect on me, and I read everything he wrote. I am not into modern poetry – John Dryden is my favourite poet – but I can read Alden Nowlan’s poetry for hours and then read it again.
Once I met Alden at the Press Club, and we stared at each other without talking – and then we started to growl at each other like dogs. I can’t imagine why we did that. We must have thought it was funny.
Later in life, I was introduced to the work of Tom Robbins, and I’ve read everything he has written so far. Still Life with Woodpecker is my favourite. Tom Robbins puts more imagination into a single page than most authors can put into an entire book – and it’s there on every page.
I don’t like pathos and sentimental drivel in writing; it’s flimflam – the ruse of the unimaginative. To me, the great authors of this country are those who make me laugh: Timothy Finley, Farley Mowat, Alden Nowlan, Stephen Leacock, and the playwright Norm Foster.
For you, what is the nature of author/reader interplay?
Wherever you read – in your favourite chair, on a bus, on a boulder by your favourite body of water, in a library, even in your bed – the author is there beside you, his (or her) spirit entertaining you to the best of his ability. You’re there with book in hand, and the author is whispering to you, telling you an embellished story, walking you through an imaginary world. You are the reader. You’ve paid the price of the book to be with the author. You’re giving him the time it takes to see the story through.
In a sense, you’re having an affair with the author – the most intimate relationship possible. You do not want to waste your time and money on a fumbling, unimaginative bore. What you want and expect is for the author to perform well: to touch, tickle, caress, arouse, and excite you. If the author can teach and inspire you along the way, all the better – you’ve spent your time and money well. The author must never forget that hisnumber one responsibility is to the reader.