For gossip? For news? For knowledge? For escape?
At different intervals I choose books that challenge me or lead me away into jolly old Victorian England. I may choose a book for spiritual fulfillment. Or I'll choose some factual adventure. At the moment, I have on my nightstand The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods, The Pickwick Papers, The Lord of the Rings, and When I Find You Again It Will Be in Mountains: Selected Poems of Chia Tao.
Some history. Some philosophy. A bit of an escape. A story I love. And a bit of poetry. And these are all well and good. But there are certain authors from whom I cannot stay apart for very long.
Robertson Davies is such an author.
No, I have not read all his works. I have this strange fear that if I do, I will somehow feel lost in that I will not have any other characters to which to look forward. Craziness, I know.
But those works I have read? Well, I can best describe them as new age Dickensian. Oh yes, I know that some of you have a strong aversion to Dickens, having been forced to read the likes of Great Expectations and A Tale of Two Cities in your younger years. But I promise some of you that if you returned to the theatrical Dickens you would enjoy him.
If you don't, try Robertson Davies. Not so archaic as Dickens. And certainly enticing. As well as theatrical. In fact, Davies was very much a man of the theater and it showed in his colorful characters and labyrinthine plots.
He also differed from Dickens in that he was Canadian. I don't know of many Canadian authors, to be honest. But Davies' style was distinct from his British counterparts. It had a touch of the North American spirit. But not the spirit of the US. It was something more free, less Puritan, and yet in some ways more subdued. As if the northern climate slowed him down. To look at him, you'd think him either a crazy or gentlemanly southern aristocrat. Somewhere between John C. Calhoun and Burl Ives.
He sinks you into his plots. Wraps you in the warmth of woolen blankets on a cold day and introduces you to characters that vex and catalyze. He throws snowballs and does magic. He tries to hang a man but fails, somehow, causing the reader to chuckle whilst the pit of her stomach falls out of itself. He laughs at Yanks and Brits equally claiming that his country is the only one ever to have defeated the United States twice.
He was a man of letters, though I can imagine he rolls in his grave at that turn of phrase even now.
What I can recommend from Robertson Davies:
The Deptford Trilogy
The Salterton Trilogy
The Merry Heart
And this is but a smattering.
But Davies doesn't just lead a reader into his plots, at least not in his non-fiction. He also speaks to the writer. Lamenting that the writer must ply his trade from the same words used to create stereo manuals and poor textbooks. Writing is an art, he argued, but so many think they can do it simply by putting words on the page. Not so, he explained. He claimed that he could no more teach a great writer to write than he could teach Mozart to compose music as he could.
I regret that I only learned of Davies five short years after his death in 1995. But that regret centers only around the fact that he is one author I would have loved to have met.
So, if you're chomping at the bit for a new author. And you're stuck at home staring out your window at a bitter cold winter day, pick up a story by Robertson Davies and watch the hours slip away.
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