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Mordecai Richler died on July 3, and within minutes of the announcement there was a stampede from the grand panjandrums of “CanLit” to conscript him posthumously into the ranks of “Canadian novelists.” Mordecai was a novelist who happened to be Canadian, which isn’t quite the same thing, and he spent much of his life making gleeful digs about all the great writers who were, as he put it, “world famous in Canada.” Richler, by contrast, was world famous in, among other places, Italy, where his last novel, Barney’s Version, is a bestseller in its seventh printing and hugely popular among a population not known as great novel-readers. The word “Richleriano” has become the accepted shorthand for “politically incorrect.” Richler was certainly Richleriano. In Solomon Gursky Was Here, there’s a scene set in the early Seventies in which one middle-aged character, forced to play host to a gay son and his lover, staggers drunk into the bathroom to check the pencil mark he’s drawn on the jar of Vaseline. His wife is broken-hearted, he’s filled with disgust. “It’s not that I’m prejudiced against faggots, it’s just that I don’t like them,” he says, pouring himself another Scotch. It is a satirical moment, but the pain underpinning it is true in a way that the approved supportive bland uplift is not. Yet I wouldn’t bet on any tyro novelist’s chances of sneaking that scene past a North American editor, most of whom are decidedly non-Richleriano. Pat Carney, a Canadian senator and former cabinet minister, wrote a memoir last year and discovered after publication that a change had been made to the passage detailing her father’s job on a merchant ship to China: the editor had reflexively amended “fireman” to “firefighter.” The senator’s father was not, as the ensuing paragraph made clear, a man who drives a municipal fire truck and squirts a hose at blazing buildings, but a man who stokes the ship’s furnaces with fire-making coal. Nonetheless, better to get things wrong than risk even the most hypothetical offence. A passing remark that the drab dress Canada’s governor-general wore for the Speech from the Throne made her look like a washerwoman was struck down, over the author’s protests, on the grounds that “it suggests all Chinese-Canadians worked in Chinese laundries.” (Her Excellency the Viceroy was born in Hong Kong.) Against this grubby world of feeble evasions and genteel absurdities, Mordecai Richler stood firm. He was not in any coherent policy sense a conservative, but he had no time for the faintheartedness of a liberalism so defensive that, as he wrote in 1959, it couldn’t bear to contemplate “a Negro whoremonger, a contented adulterer, or a Jew who cheats on his income tax, buys a Jag with his ill-gotten gains, and is all the happier for it.” The straitjackets of identity politics have only tightened in the four decades since he wrote those words, but the strange thing is how much of it he foresaw so long ago, almost half a century now, in the novel in which he found his voice, The Apprenticeship Of Duddy Kravitz (1959). Two decades later, Kerry McSweeney pronounced magisterially in the journal Studies in Canadian Literature—what, you don’t subscribe?—that “however memorable, Duddy Kravitz is hardly a masterpiece.” Compared to what? As the years go by, Duddy seems more and more remarkable in its anticipation of contemporary fads. Take Virgil, the novel’s kindly epileptic, who wants to be proud of his condition and to that end starts a magazine for epileptics with features such as “Famous Health Handicappers Through History”: “No 2: A Biography Of Julius Caesar. Life was no breeze for the young Julius, but from the day of his birth until the day he met his untimely end he never once let his health handicap stand in his way. Julius had been born an epileptic and was not ashamed of it. He had guts-a-plenty.” This is 1959: decades before the Americans with Disabilities Act, before “differently abled” and “visually impaired,” before the FDR memorial in Washington got bogged down by accusations that they weren’t placing sufficient emphasis on his polio. The Richleriano aspects of Mordecai’s career fall into three phases: first, he offended Jews; then, English-Canadian nationalists; finally, Quebec separatists. In the early Jew-offending phase, he gave a lecture to a Jewish audience at which someone asked: “Why is it that everybody loved Sholem Aleichem, but we all hate you?” The answer to that hardly needs explaining. Mordecai remembered every detail of his working-class childhood in Montreal and the rare glimpses he got of the would-be gentrified Jews in the suburbs of Outremont and Westmount, and some of those details were too funny to let go. In Solomon Gursky, it all comes together at the seventy-fifth birthday gala of the Bronfmanesque Bernard Gursky, a coruscating dissection of the charity banquet circuit—“plaques, plaques, and more plaques, which they awarded one another at testimonial dinners once, sometimes twice a month.… They took turns declaring each other governors of universities in Haifa or Jerusalem or Man of the Year for State of Israel Bonds. Their worthiness certified by hiring an after-dinner speaker to flatter them for a ten-thousand-dollar fee, the speaker coming out of New York, New York—either a former secretary of state, a TV star whose series hadn’t been renewed, or a Senator in need.” Bernard Gursky’s birthday is the ne plus ultra of such events: the medley from Jimmy Durante; the Israeli Ambassador’s presentation of a Bible encased in hammered gold, the flyleaf signed by Golda; his wife Libby’s rendition of “their song,” which is inevitably “Bei Mir Bist Du Schein,” with the “Bella, bella” line changed to “Bernie, Bernie.” An official of the Canadian Football League passed Mr. Bernard a ball, a memento of last year’s Grey Cup game, that had been autographed by all the players on the winning team, and then one of the team’s most celebrated players, a behemoth who peddled Crofter’s Best in the off-season, wheeled a paraplegic child to the head table. Mr. Bernard, visibly moved, presented the ball to the boy as well as a cheque for five-hundred-thousand dollars. Three-hundred guests leaped to their feet and cheered. The boy, his speech rehearsed for days, began to jerk and twist, spittle flying from him. He gulped and began again, unavailingly. As he started in on a third attempt to speak, Mr. Bernard cut him off with an avuncular smile. “Who needs another speech,” he said. “It’s what’s in your heart that counts with me, little fellow.” And sotto voce, he told the player, “Wheel him out of here, for Christ’s sake.” Canadian Jews didn’t care for such stuff, and called the Canadian Jewish Congress to see what could be done about Richler. The CJC sent him a note, but he didn’t take too much in, being distracted by the letterhead: “Cable address JEWCON.” Richler liked to say he emerged from two ghettos—one Jewish, one Canadian—or to put it another way: one highly marketable, one of little interest. I would rank him above Philip Roth, et al., if only because the Canadian qualification of his Jewishness gave him an insight into the points where identities intersect, where the perspective shifts. One of my favorite Richler characters is Mortimer Griffin, the protagonist of Cocksure. Mortimer is a middle-class Anglican from the town of Caribou, Ontario, who’s made it big in swingin’ London as the editor of the small but influential Oriole Press. But when the firm gets bought up by a Hollywood mogul, Mortimer suddenly finds his life freighted by Jewishness. On the one hand, for the first time in his life, he’s the odd one out, because he’s not Jewish, which was never a problem back in Caribou. On the other hand, everyone seems to assume he is. A man from Jewish Thought starts following him around accusing him of being a self-hating Jew who’s swapped his real name for something more Anglo; his London friends corroborate the story by pointing out how anti-Semitic he is; his black secretary tells him she won’t sleep with Jews and he can’t prove he isn’t one because he’s circumcised. To make matters worse, his wife is cheating on him with a man she thinks is Jewish, but is actually a bloke called Gerald Spencer who figured it would be a good career move to change his name to Ziggy. Richler wrote Cocksure at the close of a twenty-year sojourn in London. He moved back to Montreal to find himself in the midst of an alleged Canadian Renaissance —a cultural flowering of a young nation eager to cast off both colonial ties to the Mother Country and the cultural oppression from the south. It’s very difficult typing that sentence without tittering. Be that as it may, while Richler was out of the country, Canada had acquired the Governor-General’s Awards for Literature, Canada Council grants for writers, and an elaborate public subsidy racket for Canadian publishing houses that ensures to this day that no matter how bad a book is a publisher has very little incentive not to publish it. Things were different when young Mordecai was shopping his first book: Then, Andre Deutsch, Ltd., the British publishers, made an offer for my novel. A conditional one, however. They would publish The Acrobats if I agreed to do more work on it. I was offered an advance of 100 pounds (approximately $275)—50 pounds on signature of contract and another 50 once my revision had been found acceptable. I sent an immediate cable of acceptance. “I don’t get you,” my Uncle Jake said. “You put two years into writing a book and now you’re happy because some jerk in London has offered you a lousy two-fifty for it. You could have earned more than that cutting my lawn.”Richler was dispatched by Andre Deutsch to Toronto, to impress the Canadian distributor, who instead pointed out the grim truth. “No serious Canadian novelist—including Morley Callaghan or Hugh MacLennan—is able to support himself strictly on the sale of his novels in Canada. The distributor was prepared to risk a first order of four-hundred copies for all of Canada. I stood to earn approximately $32, if they sold out.” All the above was true, but already irrelevant. Richler, whether consciously or not, was already writing for the world, his publishers, editors, and agents in London and New York pre-dating those he eventually found in Toronto: in the Fifties and Sixties, he wrote about Canada from London, distance bringing his experience into focus, sifting and sorting. In any case, he didn’t write about “Canada”—whatever that is—only the particular and isolated corner of the Jewish quarter of anglo Montreal in francophone Quebec in the Canadian section of North America; a ghetto in a ghetto in a ghetto in a ghetto. St. Urbain Street is as foreign to any Torontonian or Winnipegger as it is to a New Yorker, Dubliner, or Parisian. In the Ivy in London or the Polo Lounge in LA, Richler and his fellow scribblers (his preferred term) could talk about novels, deals, and money, but, when he showed up in Vancouver or Edmonton people just wanted to badger him about (dread phrase) Canadian identity. “Special pleading,” he sighed, “whether by Canadian sports writers, kibbutzniks in Galilee, or proliferating Canada culture boosters, never fails to move me to mockery.” On the off-chance that you haven’t read Hugh MacLennan’s essay The Psychology Of Canadian Nationalism—a title so flamboyantly off-putting as to raise suspicions that he was deliberately trying to reduce his royalties as some sort of tax wheeze—let me explain that the author’s principal point is that a “feminine psychology” runs through Canadian literature: the Americans are the masculine in North America, Canadians the feminine. Most of us can see where he’s going, and that’s all we need to know, thank you very much. Nonetheless, Michael Valpy in Toronto’s Globe and Mail felt obliged to expand the thesis the other day. He notes that America’s most famous adolescent is Huck Finn, a boy bustin’ to “light out for the territory,” beyond the constraints of the civilized world, while Canada’s most famous adolescent is Anne of Green Gables, a girl so domesticated that her address is part of her name. According to Valpy, the defining emblem in American culture is the horse, in Canadian culture the house: “To be on a horse is to move. To be in a house is to be fixed.” Actually, a horse can be fixed too, but that’s another story. “It is an American, Thomas Wolfe, who says you can’t go home again,” Valpy continues. “It is a Canadian, Morag in Margaret Laurence’s The Diviners, who says you have to go home again to be in harmony with life.” As a column intended to give you one more reason not to read Canadian novels, Valpy’s is a masterpiece. Unfortunately, it seems he intended precisely the opposite effect, blithely assuming that his house/horse hockey would make readers chuck their Wolfes and rush out to buy The Diviners, if only to check whether Morag expresses herself quite as clunkily as Valpy claims. If it is true that Canadian literature is feminine and housebound, then Mordecai Richler was not a terribly Canadian writer. For one thing, he was, as James Wolcott put it, a “horny” writer. For another, he got out of the house. His film credits include Room At The Top, a quintessentially northern English kitchen-sinker with Laurence Harvey from those gloomy, monochrome, petrol-rationed British Fifties, and Fun with Dick and Jane, a quintessentially garish Hollywood comedy with Jane Fonda. In his novels, Mordecai was a kind of Huck of Green Gables, secure enough in his sense of home to “light out for the territory,” the territory in this case being London, Paris, New York, Hollywood, Spain, and beyond, because for a Canadian, unlike an American or an Englishman, if you don’t go to the world, the world sure as hell isn’t going to come to you: that’s why Canucks, not Yanks, are the great mid-Atlanticists—the high yallers, the octoroons of the world’s great cities, able to pass wherever they go. Richler’s life skewers the smug delusions of the Valpy school. And if there is a Canuck Huck, it’s Duddy Kravitz. And if Canadians cling to home and security, what are we to make of Solomon Gursky Was Here? Richler took the Wandering Jew myth and plunked it in the frozen north, placing one of the chosen on Sir John Franklin’s lost expedition to the Northwest Passage in 1845. He’d been reading a lot of “magical realism” and called Gursky “the first South American North American novel”: it’s magical realism with jokes, a surprisingly effective combination and perhaps the closest to the Great Canadian Novel we’ll ever get. It does everything Valpy says Canadian literature doesn’t do, wandering off to London, Washington, Entebbe, the Polar Seas, as, indeed, Canadians do. But in the twenty-four hours after Mordecai’s death the grand subsidy-fatted bores of Canadian letters lined up to insist that, in fact, the guy was very much a “Canadian writer.” Even his Canadian agent, Louise Dennys, lapsed into the usual shtick: Mordecai mentioned that Canada was to him a fragmentary place in the Seventies. I think it’s because of Mordecai that Canada is no longer a fragmentary place, not only to ourselves but to other people outside of Canada. He’s given it a particular and distinctive shape that we can only be truly grateful for.Even if this were true, which it isn’t, it would be the least of his achievements. On the matter of Canada’s distinctive shape, he and I were once on a radio show in New York with Garrison Keillor, who opined en passant that the reason Americans found it hard to get interested in Canada was that the country was impossible to visualize: it has no recognizable shape. The southern border is just about clear, but the rest of it bleeds away into Queen Maud’s Gulf and the Arctic Circle and God knows where. In his last years, Mordecai himself took on the same indeterminate, shapeless quality as his native land, with everything straggling and dangling and spreading over the map—the floppy mop of gray hair, the jowls, the jacket, the hanging belly. He, like Canada, was in much better shape thirty years ago. But he was one of the few genuine laugh-out-loud authors and, at a time when the comic novel is in poor health, Richler’s reliability in this respect was good news for readers all over the world who have no interest in the non-fragmentariness or otherwise of Canada. He was rooted in Montreal but, unlike the general tenor of his obituaries, he was not parochial. He jeered not just at the stunted nationalism of Quebec but at the moral smugness of modern Canada, which was why the state had such difficulty paying tribute to him. The prime minister’s statement would have had him weeping with laughter: “Mordecai Richler was the quintessential Canadian man of words, and his loss leaves us grasping for words that can do justice to his importance in Canada’s artistic landscape,” said Jean Chrétien, grasping for words, eventually deciding that the guy “made us all proud to be Canadian.” The charitable in- terpretation is that this is the standard tribute for Canadian “men of words” and that whoever wrote it had never read a word of Richler, but it would be more pleasing to think they’d read it all too well and decided anyway to kiss him off with the usual lame-o CanLit boosterism. As for making us all proud to be Canadian, here’s how one Richler character summed the place up: “Let me put it this way. Canada is not so much a country as a holding tank filled with the disgruntled progeny of defeated peoples. French-Canadians consumed by self-pity; the descendants of Scots who fled the Duke of Cumberland; Irish, the famine; and Jews, the Black Hundreds. Then there are the peasants from Ukraine, Poland, Italy and Greece, convenient to grow wheat and dig out the ore and swing the hammers and run the restaurants, but otherwise to be kept in their place. Most of us are huddled tight to the border, looking into the candy store window, scared of the Americans on one side and the bush on the other.” The irony in all this is that, in the end, Mordecai was one of the few writers in the world who can claim to have saved his country. In the Nineties, irritated by Quebec separatism, he started writing about its oppressive triviality: arriving outside a pub in Montreal one day, he found an agent of the Office de la Langue Française photographing the menu blackboard and measuring the inscription “Today’s Special: Ploughman’s Lunch.” Under Quebec law, signs can only use English words if they’re half the size or less of the accompanying French words. An essay for The New Yorker, later expanded into a book Oh, Canada! Oh, Quebec!, caused particular distress to the Parti Québecois, who never forgave Richler for, as they saw it, making them a laughingstock in the outside world. In fact, the outside world never gave Quebec a thought. No doubt in Manhattan there were those who marveled, “Can you believe it? There’s a long piece in The New Yorker this week that’s actually readable!” Then they promptly forgot about Quebec. Back home, though, where Anglophones had reacted to separatists either by enduring their humiliations (the so-called “lamb lobby”) or by fleeing to Toronto, Richler’s essay legitimized scorn, while the PQ’s outraged reaction to the puncturing of their prestige only emphasized the stunted and pitiful state of the nationalist movement. In the 1995 referendum on secession, the final result was separatists 49.5 percent, federalists 50.5 percent. It’s not too fanciful to assert Richler made just enough difference to save the day. I happen to disagree with him on separatism, since on balance I find smug English Canada the more insufferable, but even so Quebec boasts the world’s dumbest secessionist movement, forever trying to explain to its citizens why we need to set up our own country exactly the same as the one we’ll be leaving. But there’s no doubt Richler the “controversialist,” the “misanthrope,” the “curmudgeon” did more for Canada than all the sunny maple-draped multiculti CanLit boosters put together. At his home in the Eastern Townships, he’d repair to the Owl’s Nest every afternoon and enjoy a little light banter with the bar’s cheerfully unreconstructed clientele— plumbers, carpenters, leathery truck-driving women. “Are they better company than Martin Amis?” I asked him. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “They’re not as witty. But they’re more interesting, it’s a richer world. The literary world, in the larger sense, is dull: it’s a tradesmen’s world.” He came home not to be a “Canadian writer,” but to be a writer. The Montreal he wrote about is fading fast. As he pointed out, he’s far from the only Anglophone Jew whose kids have all fled to Toronto, London, wherever. What matters is not that he gave shape to Canada, but that he gave shape to his own fictional landscape. One day, soon, St. Urbain Street will seem as fanciful as P. G. Wodehouse’s Drones Club or Blandings Castle. But, like Wodehouse, it will endure. From The New Criterion Vol. 20, No. 1, September 2001
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