man’s vulnerable heart is exposed just because he spots a hand-printed, fairly crude sign in the window of an orthopedic shoe store in downtown Winnipeg that reads WENDY IS BACK. Who but Carol could make us see how something so apparently insignificant—who is Wendy, anyway,and why should we care?—could “cut deeply into his heart and widen for an instant the eye of the comprehended world”?
Yet this is what Carol does, over and over again, in her stories. The world in a grain of sand. Blake would have understood.
There was also her play
Thirteen Hands
, which I read with admiration and joy:
You got it all absolutely right, line after line after line, character after character, scene after scene, absolutely bang-on all the time. I wish I were still directing plays in universities, which is what I used to do, as Elma must have told you, for I would want to direct yours; but how happy I am at my age still to be discovering such wonders as your play.
Further nominations for the Giller and the Governor General’s and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize did not get turned into awards, but when the Giller jury overlooked
Unless
in favour of
The Polished Hoe
by Austin Clarke, I learned much later from one of Carol’s friends how she handled rejectionand made clear her sense of human values. Having made the journey to Toronto with her daughter Meg and Meg’s new baby, she was able to retire to their room at the Four Seasons Hotel, not long after hearing the outcome. Once there, she embraced her new grandchild and put disappointment behind her. The baby she held in her arms provided a joy deeper than any prize the world could possibly bestow.
Whenever I would send an e-mail, I would tell Carol to save her energies and not write back, but she ignored all such suggestions, of course, as she did again that Christmas:
Dear Carol,
You probably get 3,683 Christmas cards and e-mails from all your friends and admirers the world over, but may I just make that number 3,684 when I tell you I am thinking of you and sending only warm wishes for your well-being. I hope you will continue to feel supported by the love of those who surround you.
As ever,
Arthur
Arthur,
I was just thinking of you this morning, and so it was wonderful to receive your greetings. I wish you a joyous holiday. Christmas always seems to me terribly hectic, but then it just settles down into quietness and spontaneity, and that is where we are at the moment. Blessings in the new year.
carol
In the new year I was prompted to write again about something I knew she would understand.
Dear Carol,
Since I can’t tell Elma, may I tell you— and you will appreciate it, even be amused by it, because I am now seventy-seven and a bit old to be starting all this stuff—that I have been dealing for these last many months with the very good editor and publisher of Cormorant Books in Toronto, Marc Côté, and it seems that the novel
What’s Remembered
I have been working on for several years will get published. Elma had read aprevious draft and had helped me with it enormously.
Please don’t spend your energies writing back. My computer will be able to tell if this gets through to you, and that’s all I need to know. I do hope you are feeling reasonably well these days. You inspire so many everywhere by being you.
As ever,
Arthur
I could never have guessed that the letter she wrote back the next day would be her last to me. Pure Carol. Pure gold.
Dear Arthur,
Thank you for your warm words. I must admit that I hooted and hopped about in delight and surprise!
Congratulations on being seventy-seven, such a silvery age, and on having a nearly completed manuscript (though I can’t imagine why such an accomplished person would want to write a novel). I love the state of beingnearly at the end, when I have the sense of darning a sock. It’s almost like flying. I believe that metaphor needs some work. Anyway, good luck with it.
All best,
carol
Hooting …
Yet this is what Carol does, over and over again, in her stories. The world in a grain of sand. Blake would have understood.
There was also her play
Thirteen Hands
, which I read with admiration and joy:
You got it all absolutely right, line after line after line, character after character, scene after scene, absolutely bang-on all the time. I wish I were still directing plays in universities, which is what I used to do, as Elma must have told you, for I would want to direct yours; but how happy I am at my age still to be discovering such wonders as your play.
Further nominations for the Giller and the Governor General’s and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize did not get turned into awards, but when the Giller jury overlooked
Unless
in favour of
The Polished Hoe
by Austin Clarke, I learned much later from one of Carol’s friends how she handled rejectionand made clear her sense of human values. Having made the journey to Toronto with her daughter Meg and Meg’s new baby, she was able to retire to their room at the Four Seasons Hotel, not long after hearing the outcome. Once there, she embraced her new grandchild and put disappointment behind her. The baby she held in her arms provided a joy deeper than any prize the world could possibly bestow.
Whenever I would send an e-mail, I would tell Carol to save her energies and not write back, but she ignored all such suggestions, of course, as she did again that Christmas:
Dear Carol,
You probably get 3,683 Christmas cards and e-mails from all your friends and admirers the world over, but may I just make that number 3,684 when I tell you I am thinking of you and sending only warm wishes for your well-being. I hope you will continue to feel supported by the love of those who surround you.
As ever,
Arthur
Arthur,
I was just thinking of you this morning, and so it was wonderful to receive your greetings. I wish you a joyous holiday. Christmas always seems to me terribly hectic, but then it just settles down into quietness and spontaneity, and that is where we are at the moment. Blessings in the new year.
carol
In the new year I was prompted to write again about something I knew she would understand.
Dear Carol,
Since I can’t tell Elma, may I tell you— and you will appreciate it, even be amused by it, because I am now seventy-seven and a bit old to be starting all this stuff—that I have been dealing for these last many months with the very good editor and publisher of Cormorant Books in Toronto, Marc Côté, and it seems that the novel
What’s Remembered
I have been working on for several years will get published. Elma had read aprevious draft and had helped me with it enormously.
Please don’t spend your energies writing back. My computer will be able to tell if this gets through to you, and that’s all I need to know. I do hope you are feeling reasonably well these days. You inspire so many everywhere by being you.
As ever,
Arthur
I could never have guessed that the letter she wrote back the next day would be her last to me. Pure Carol. Pure gold.
Dear Arthur,
Thank you for your warm words. I must admit that I hooted and hopped about in delight and surprise!
Congratulations on being seventy-seven, such a silvery age, and on having a nearly completed manuscript (though I can’t imagine why such an accomplished person would want to write a novel). I love the state of beingnearly at the end, when I have the sense of darning a sock. It’s almost like flying. I believe that metaphor needs some work. Anyway, good luck with it.
All best,
carol
Hooting …
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