Canadian Conundrum

On the weekend, I experienced that most Canadian of conundrums.  It never happened to me before and yet, being Canadian I am not surprised.

The place I was at this weekend is operated by the wife and family of a Canadian writer of some note.  Like most writers writing Canadian stories, he is well known and yet, completely anonymous.  

I think the way most of you might put his work into your day to day world is his connection with the story of the Mad Trapper, Albert Johnson.  Its a book, published in 1980, that tells a story to try to illuminate what the last days of Albert Johnson must have been like.  

Or so I am told by reviews and information found on the net.  I wouldn't know.  I haven't read any of his work.  

I find myself a little ashamed of this, that I know of his work, but I have never ever read even a smidgen of it.  Not.  One.  Single.  Word. And I have read a lot in this life.  A lot.

And so the Canadian conundrum.  Fame and absolute anonymity to the point that one can be in the room with the man, and know him, and recognize his face but only have a glancing familiarity with his work.  I commented on his stature as a writer of some note to one of the retreat participants, and she had no idea what I was talking about.  It wasn't just me. 

And that is just a wee bit sad.  We are so busy reading and watching and connecting with the stories of our near and much more populated neighbour to the south, that we could name dozens of American writers  telling American stories and yet not be able to identify one of our own when we are in the same room with him, with someone who has won the Governor General's Award for Fiction twice in his lifetime, of someone who is a member of the Order of Canada.   

I have to remedy that.  I really must.  A person shouldn't have a complete hole in their reading list.  A Canadian shouldn't be so unaware of the stories of our own people.  Really we shouldn't.  

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring your attention to Mr. Rudy Wiebe.