Saturday, 11 May 2013

The One With A Theologian Not In Canada

Does anyone remember when I lived in Canada?


I've been back in Blighty now for what feels like a million years. It's rained. I went to Tesco. I remembered why I hate people. Just kidding, but I did remember why my claustrophobia spikes when forced into giant supermarkets where the non-spatially aware of Didcot flock like a murder of crows. But, I did also get to play with five-month-old babies who sneezed on me and then infected me, and my favourite gathering of people, well, gathered, Chez Lawfull on Tuesday night and it reminded me of why I love people. So, y'know, Jumble Lawfull counter-acts the grocery-requiring pensioners of Oxfordshire's most terrifying ghetto. Anyway, Canada feels like an age ago which is terrifying when I think about it.

Fortunately, thinking is one of the things I do best. As is being awkwardly introspective and engaging in internet over-share. This time last year I was thrilled about the prospect of the third year abroad experience. I was bascially finished with the most horrendous second year imaginable, complete with plenty of uncertainty over whether or not I would even get a place at an international institution for a year. However, one thursday last May, any worries about being forced to go to Waterloo were banished with one email: an email saying I had been accepted to Ottawa. (As an aside, if anyone can tell me where Waterloo is, I'd be very grateful. I did ask the Canadians, but even they weren't sure).

Following a summer horrendous enough to equal my second year of university, my depature to Ottawa could not come soon enough. In fact, I only began to feel nerves one Sunday after church.

"Shall we pray for Hannah?"
At this point, I had asked one person for prayer about my elbow.
"Lord, when Hannah is terrified and lonely and sick with nerves..."
"Father God, we know plane travel is dangerous..."

Cheers, guys, what perfect prayers.

Anyway, I could completely feel God's hand on me as I went Heathrow to Ottawa for the first time. My nerves evaporated once on the plane and, as I had my study permit stapled into my passport and stepped out of the airport into the late August searing heat, I knew I was home. I knew I was in an incredible place. And I knew phenomenal things were about to come. And I was right.

The adventure began with a demonstration of sheer bravery on my part; I took myself into town and got exploring, checked out the Parliament Hill which was soon to become the site of many fun memories, met eccentric pensioners who'd had unfortunate accidents and took to the Rideau Canal for some slightly cooler exploration. I also got to explore the University of Ottawa campus for the first time and was stupidly excited by my brand spanking new university card, even if my photo did betray my sweatiness after a day traipsing around in plus 30 degrees.

My memories from the first semester are wonderful and far too many to recount now in just a few sentences. I lived the countryside cottage life with Krista, taking to the lake and examining beaver dams; I spent a balmy evening on Parliament Hill watching the history of Canada be projected onto the centre block edifice and trying to digest the culinary delight that is the beaver tail; I took my first of many visits to the boutiques of the Byward Market and went back in time to Upper Canada Village, taking a look at life pre-Confederation. Then I went further afield, into deepest darkest Quebec: to Tadoussac with its seedy fishermen and the Atlantic Ocean with glimpses of whales and sea-sick Aussies; to Quebec City and the authentic French colonial life and all-you-can-eat buffets with people eligible for the Eurovision Song Contest.

Then there was Thanksgiving with the most generous people you will ever meet, where jelly was served with turkey and it transpired that my tastebuds do enjoy pumpkin pie and the forfeit of sining 'O Canada' in the street in Surburban Ottawa. And who can forget Toronto? Glorious weather and incredible views both out and below from the CN Tower, a favourite diner and meeting with a favourite professor. And managing to then choose the wettest day to visit Niagara Falls, meeting pilots and eluding lecherous tour guides, getting soaking wet from both rain and spray and rocking the blue poncho look. And ice wine and chocolate-covered strawberries and amazing company.


Zak's Diner become the embodiment of #YOHOYA, as did late-night library banter, comedy evenings and dodgy sex therapists with sticky-out ears. Moose-hunting in Parc Omega was full of joy, as was trying to persuade wapitis that you were friendly enough to pet them. Celebrating my 21st birthday in total Ottawa style, hanging out with Cooper, my new best friend and his gorgeous owner, Sam; reminding Yvet about the memo not to be too touristy and having the utter priceless and heart-breaking experience of visiting the Akwesasne First Nations reservation. Then there were lights across Canada and the first snow falls; impromptu sleepovers with Christina and befriending a stuffed hamster. Falling in geeky love with AM Klein, sniffing far too much sweetgrass thanks to my Native Studies class, getting to learn from Harvard's finest graduates and trying, with Christina, to woo a student who doubles up as a trainee soldier.

And not to forget the incredible people I met that first semester: Dee, Grace, Bikram, Christina, Emily, Devon, Lydia, Jon, Gabby, Yvet, Lisanne, Lihan, Mark, Nicola, Beth, Gen, Kat, Tonia, Geog, Kelsey, Sam, Joanna, Vicki, Hazel, Jolene, Julia, Keegan, Mel and a whole host of others whose names I can't recall write now in my still jetlagged state.

As for second semester...piles of snow taller than me; being a part of the Idle No More protests and repping Exeter to uOttawa. Getting to grips with the sheer amount amount of food Christina brings to class and enjoying uOttawa's Snow Festival despite the temperature falling to minus 40; supporting the Sens and living the Canadian dream by hopping on a dog sled and flying into the Quebec sunset. Plus Winterlude with magical ice sculptures and tentative steps onto the frozen Rideau Canal and much much much post-colonial banter with Christina. Going to Boston despite the snow storm warnings, the Canadian War Museum followed by wonderful wine, yet more Idle No More protests and Parliament visits. Leonard Cohen tribute acts ReSSA journal fun, Christina and her obnoxiously large pen, Strathcona's swings and destroyed shoes.

Falling in love with baby goats and survivng bus crashes, meeting beavers, albeit stuffed beavers and watching Jenny try to run away from terrifying dinosaurs. Crossing into Gatineau  and being terrified by giant black widow spiders; my creative writing class being the most fantastic creative group of people you will ever meet and getting to learn from truly incredible professors. And as for all the people I met - Jenny, Rebekah,Angie, Larisa, Josh, Selina, Jordan, Simone, Leah, Colin, Mark, Bradley, Adrienne, Bridgette, Emily, Kyle and everyone else I've forgotten - you have all been wonderful.

Maybe I should use this third year abroad concluding post to sum up and speculate how I've changed, which I did quite a lot of with my six-month anniversary post. What I will say is this: this has been the most incredible year of my life, and I say that with total honesty and completely devoid of hyperbole. I know I am braver and more-assertive, more determined to pursue my passions the year of adventure has re-ignited and I have been so supremely blessed by all the people I have met. My heart is so full with joy right now and I am confident that the memories from this year will continue to top-up my joy levels for the rest of my life.

But the adventure didn't end with hopping on the plane in Ottawa. Oh no, it began with hopping on the plane to Ottawa last August and it won't end until the Lord calls me home.

It's all very well to come home and to say how incredible and life-chaning my year in Ottawa was, but it will all have been meaningless if I don't know live my life in light of that change with Canada worked in me. So I was brave in Canada? That means it's time to be brave in Blighty? So I was out-going in Ottawa? Better be out-going in Exeter then.

It's time to grab the phenomenal memories from Canada and add to them; from the third year abroad adventure to the rest of my life adventure. Let's do this thing!

Sunday, 5 May 2013

The One Where It's Time To Say Goodbye

This post comes to you from Ottawa's airport; it's my final post from Canada. The third year abroad adventure has actually come to an end and to say I'm devastated is a serious understatement. But, what a wonderful final day in this crazy beautiful life-changing city.
 
 
It was my absolute joy to be able to go to All Nations for one final time, to say goodbye to the special people who have shown me such unconditional love over the past year and who I will get to spend eternity with. There's no such thing as goodbye with Christians, it's always just, 'until we meet again!' It was great to be prayed for by Hazel and Joanna, and I felt a real sense of commissioning for the next season of my life.
 
 
And then I spent my afternoon doing what you should do on a plus 30 afternoon in Ottawa: grab a beaver tail, grab a spot in the park and gaze up at Parliament.
 
And whilst I did just cry at my landlord and in the taxi and at the check-in desk and in the duty free shop, I think that's just my impatient heart.
 
Ottawa, it's not goodbye, it's just 'until we meet again!'
 


Saturday, 4 May 2013

The One With Tulips

Today was my last full day in Ottawa. So I decided to make like my first full day in Ottawa and go exploring for a final time. And boy did I see a lot of Ottawa! In fact, I saw everything from Rockliffe Park to Lac Dow and everything in between. A heat wave has come to the city and it's bemusing to be sitting in Colonal By Park with all the sun bathers and frisbee players when just one month ago the ground was still covered in snow. What a crazy city this is!

What a completely and utterly incredible city this is.

I had my final poutine, a delicacy I'm definitely going to miss. Maybe I'll try and recreate it or else it will have to live on in my memories as the calorific delight I know and love and have consumed so much of this past year. I spent what must have been hours just staring out over the Ottawa River and Parliament. It's a view I will never ever tire of. Ever ever!

I also went and checked out the Canadian Tulip Festival. It's exactly what it sounds like. Basically, during World War Two, whilst the British royal family stayed put in Buckingham Palace and risked getting bombed, the Dutch royal family hot-footed it over to Canada. But there was a slight problem in that Queen Holland was preggers and, in order for her child to take the throne, Baby Holland had to be born in Holland and not Ottawa. To combat this problem, Ottawa decommissioned a room in Ottawa and made it Dutch. And that is the story of how the former Queen Beatrix was able to be queen. As a thank you gift, the Dutch gave Ottawa a load of tulips, et voila, the Canadian Tulip Festival was born. You are very welcome for that insightful history lesson.

I styaued out until the sun went down and I spent a few more glorious hours on Parliament Hill, soaking up the sunset and the beauty of the Peace Tower by night. Finally, I ambled back along the canal, pondering my year from my favourite view of the city and just feeling so incredibly blessed.

Oh Ottawa, what a home you've been!

Thursday, 2 May 2013

The One Where My Professor Makes Up Words

I got this semester's grades back today: A+ A+ A+ A+ A+. Yeah, you're not the only one who's shocked.

My creative writing mark was a total surprise; I thought I was looking at a B+ to A- for my portfolio so I'm both astounded and delighted right now. Especially as my professor coined a new word in my feedback:

"Parts of the story are wickedly humourous in a way that I can identify as the “Barrian” voice. (A full scholarly article needs to be dedicated to the “Barrian” utterance as an expression of the
post-post-modernist British sensibility.)"
 
My professor also used the word 'banter' because he is that much of a hero. 
And it was really sad saying goodbye to him. I've been so fortunate to have him as a professor and he truly has been an inspiration and a mentor. And he has laden me down/up with books which has necessitated buying another suitcase. Three suitcases, two hands: challenge accepted. Universities need professors like him. What a total legend. Especially as he was a little bit sozzled thanks to the generous reception provided by the symposium...
 

And another quote from one of his many wonderful and hilarious emails:
 
"It has been a privilege having you in my courses. If I could have a class with 25 Hannah Barrs and such a class every year I would be teaching until I can no longer hobble up to the elevator."
 
Yes, this has indeed been a very ego-stroking post. But I can't hear you over my A+s so, y'know...

The One Where I Miss Winter

Today it was too hot. Today, as the temperature soared to thirty degrees and my sweat contributed to the already flooded Ottawa River, I wished for -30 to come back. And then I remembered just how very cold that was. And then I tried to decide which was better: frozen nose hair or a sweat turning a generous cleavage into a water slide? I still don't know the answer to that. There was a plan for this morning and that plan was to go on the amphibus, which is basically the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang of city tours, it's a bus AND a boat! However, as I was googling hours and prices, I chanced upon a coroner's report. Turns out four people died on the amphibus because of shoddy safety regulations and dodgy equipment. And I thought to myself, I like the Ottawa River, but not so much that I want to risk drowning in it. So, naturally, when death thwarts one's original morning plans, the back up is the Bytown Museum. Naturally.

 
The Bytown Musuem is adorable and cheap. It's good that it's cheap, because it's not got that mich going for it. It's really cute, and the statue of Colenel John By overlooks the Musuem and you can see his old house and it's all very sweet. And the building itself is the oldest in Ottawa, so it's about fifty years old. I'M KIDDING! I'm just being British and obnoxious and your "history" Canada. Anyway, turns out livestock just used to roam the streets of Bytown - insert derogatory comment about Carleton Univeristy students here. Did I mention it was cute? And cheap? And had mugs declaring love for Britain and Her Majesty.


Choosing sun stroke over laziness, I walked along the Ottawa River from the locks to the War Museum, passing Victoria Island along the way. It sure is beautiful down by the water, and the view up to Parliament Hill is stunning. And such a gorgeous day to take such a splendid stroll. Also, man yelled at me that I looked hot in my dress. I'm not sure if he meant it figuratively or literally. I'm going with the former.

I also tried to buy a postcard from an anxious shop assistant where I had the following conversation:

"So where are you from?"
"England, but I've been living in Ottawa for a year."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to be rude and suggest you weren't from here, I just heard the accent."
"It's okay, I'm actually leaving soon, so I'm quite sad."
"Oh no, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bring up something so raw for you."

Bless.

Oh Ottawa, I do love you.

The One With Maman

The basilica in Ottawa is the most popular church in the city to get married at; first you set the date and then you find the mate - there's a three year waiting list. Upon leaving the church as a married couple, you are greeted with...a giant black widow spider. Called Maman. I think it's the creepiest thing ever, but Jenny, who speaks on behalf of all Canadians, disagrees with me. Apparently 'Maman also betrays this maternal trust to incite a mixture of fear and curiosity.'



Jenny and I went and got our cultured-ness on at Canada's National Gallery where, as with the Museum of Nature, it was school children, retirees and us. Because we are cool. Obviously. And, once again, we were stalked by the security guards - how shifty do we look? What to say about the gallery? Well, there was a lot of optical illusion art which had a Demon Head Master feel about it, and yet, we couldn't tear our eyes away. There was also a painting which was so obviously about rain, but Jenny thought it was about sperm. Honestly! How does this look anything like sperm?


Yeah, looks pretty sperm-like eh?

Canada has a group of artists called 'The Group of Seven' whom its pretty obsessed by and so their work featured prominently. Moreover, the work of the Lagare guy was there and Jenny and I both remembered him from Anderson's class - yay for learning!

Without doubt, the best exhibit in the museum was called 'Love Empire' which basically consisted of getting up on stage and speaking into a microphone. Being the shy, retiring, exceedingly quiet girl that I am, I raced up on stage and sang the Canadian national anthem. Or the first line of it anyway. It's very wordy. And half way through, it goes all French.



So that was that; we also recovered from the 30degree temperature by hiding in the shade in a Byward Market courtyard where I got friendly with a bear.



And then it was time to say goodbye to Jenny. To whom I confessed I didn't know her name until four months after having first met her, but that was okay, because she had the same problem with my name! Thank you, Facebook, for rescuing us both with regards to one another's name. Jenny is wonderful and hilarious and absolutely made History of the Jews in Canada so much fun, and she always remembers about the Armenians. NEVER FORGET ABOUT THE ARMENIANS!

The One With Totem Poles

I went across the border today to a strange land; Gatineau, Quebec. I was about to say that the language changed to something weird, but, y'know, I'm from Ottawa, so that French thing is everywhere. Anyway, despite the fact that my shoes are stained with blood thanks to the annual it's-summer-therefore-summer-shoes-rub-the-skin-from-my-feet, I trekked from Ontario to Quebec. It was an arduous journey. I lie. It's about twenty minutes away.


It was a gorgeous walk though; the Parliament buildings were glistening in the sunlight and the flooded Ontario River was looking extremely gorgeous also.


So anyway, to get to Gatineau you just have to keep going straight down from Parliament and cross over the Alexandra Bridge and then just keep walking. And, if you're me, keep looking behind you to soak up the eye porn that is Parliament Hill. I think I'm in love with a building...


What's in Gatineau I hear you ask? Well, if you're an eighteen year old from Ontario, then it's the opportunity to have a drink. Otherwise, it has the Canadian Museum of Civilisation, for the dorks/Canada-keenos of the world. It also has an amazing view of Parliament Hill, NO, I WILL  NOT STOP GOING ON ABOUT HOW GORGEOUS PARLIAMENT LOOKS.


The Museum of Civilisation is known for its room full of totem poles.


Told you. Lots and lots and lots of totem poles.


Obviously, the First Nations, Inuit and Metis groups of the land play a prominent role in the museum's exhibits, although, some of the displays are quite patronising in their portrayal of these groups. I can't tell if that's something unconsciously intentional, genuine prejudice, or me over-thinking these things because of all I've learnt about the First Nations over this year. There was a great moment, however, when I totally recognised one of the displays without having to read the accompanying sign to see what it was. Pictures above is Atahansic and below is the Mother Turtle, two key figures in the foundational myth of the Huron-Wendat people, as well as many other groups of First Nations. Yup, I learnt stuff this year!



What happens when you ask a bunch of First Nations, Inuit and Metis their favourite jokes?



To give the museum credit, it didn't shy away from the contentious issues surrounding Canada and its founding peoples. And to be fair to Canada, it's not as bad as Australia when it comes to indigenous relations. Nevertheless, it is still somewhat abhorrent in its dealings with the First Nations and there is a lot of prejudice against these groups. I was in town the other day when a group of immigrants were fighting with some Inuit. The immigrant shouted, "Why don't you eff off back to where you came from?" Which is ironic 'cause, y'know, Nunavut/Yukon/Northwestern Territories is Canada and Nigeria (the guy had a heavy accent and was wearing a baseball cap with Nigeria stamped on it), isn't Canada.


So there you have it. Gatineau, a museum and heinous racism, all in one post.

The One In Which I Won't Mention Hallelujah

In which I write about Leonard Cohen as informed person, rather than just as some wannabe Cohen fan who only knows 'Hallelujah.'

‘Emotion is Autobiographical’: Father-Son Relationships in the Writings of Leonard Cohen
By Hannah Barr
            Where does one begin when writing about Leonard Cohen? Is it with audacious student whose literary ability was astounding audiences while still an undergraduate at McGill; or with the boundary-pushing post-modern novels; or with the astonishing longevity of his music career? The best place to begin, it would be appear, is with an event which has permeated Cohen’s career in its entirety – from poetry, to novels, to songs – a profoundly traumatic incident that happened to a nine-year-old boy: the death of his father. ‘Nathan Cohen, Leonard’s father, was a prosperous Canadian Jew’[1] who fought in World War One. However, ‘after his return from the war, Nathan suffered recurring periods of ill health, which left him increasingly invalid…in January 1944, at the age of fifty-two, Leonard’s father died.’[2] Perhaps such an event was the catalyst for Cohen’s literary genius, an avenue whereby creative expression could emerge; for, as Cohen would later say, ‘emotion is autobiographical’[3] and the history of literature has shown that there can often be no stronger, more desperate emotion than that of the fatherless child.
            Despite losing his father so tragically early in his childhood, biographies of Cohen recount the extent to which he idolised his father: ‘Leonard wanted to fight wars and win medals…the boy had proof that his father had been a warrior once.’[4] The proof was the .38 gun belonging to his father, engraved with his name, rank and regiment. War and his father later collided again in his song ‘Story of Isaac.’ While filming a documentary on Cohen, Harry Rasky asked him about the song, with Cohen reticent in his response, saying, ‘The ‘Story of Isaac,’ I don’t remember much about that one…You have to have force of a real emotion to carry the song through from beginning to end.’[5] First appearing on Cohen’s second album, Songs From A Room, released in 1969, ‘Story of Isaac’ has been categorised by critics as an example of ‘the quintessential Cohen song – thoughtful, engaged, frightening, and musically austere.’[6] One can be in no doubt of the song’s voice, bearing Cohen’s distinctive grief .
            ‘Story of Isaac’ utilises imagery from the biblical story of Abraham and Isaac from Genesis 22. Whereas Christian theology interprets Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of Isaac as a foreshadowing of the crucifixion, in Jewish theology, the story seeks to condemn human sacrifice: ‘the Akedat Yitzchak is commonly spoken of as “the sacrifice of Isaac” rather than “the binding of Isaac.” As a result, there is a tendency to forget the story’s “punchline”: Human sacrifice is precisely what God does not want.’[7] Cohen’s lyrics are in keeping with the Jewish theological tradition of Abraham and Isaac as well as making the father-son motif central to the lyrics. It begins, ‘The door it opened slowly,/ my father he came in;/ I was nine years old.’[8] Here appears the autobiographical detail, however, the loving father-son relationship between Cohens Junior and Senior is not present in the description of the father who ‘stood so tall’[9] and whose ‘blue eyes they were shining/ and his voice was very cold.’[10] Yet there is still an intimate connection established with the use of possessive ‘my’ and the display of trust demonstrated by the speaker to the father figure in the second stanza: ‘Then my father built an altar,/ He looked once behind his shoulder,/ but he knew I would not hide.’[11]
            The final two stanzas see a shift in tone to one of accusation and anger, as demonstrated through the directness of ‘You who build these altars now/ to sacrifice the children/…you have never been tempted/ by a demon or a god.’[12] Here, Cohen has taken the biblical story and transformed ‘it into a protest about violence and atrocities both ancient and modern, public and personal.’[13] Its political connotations are nuanced and ambiguous, potentially Cohen is intimating about the threat of nuclear war, and certainly his disdain for organised religion is evident. There is, however, an intriguing change in the father-son motif in the final stanza, a surprising dénouement. Cohen writes, ‘And if you call me Brother now,/ forgive me if I enquire:/ Just according to whose plan?’[14] A possible interpretation of these lines could be Cohen reflecting on his elevation to head of the family in the wake of his father’s death; ‘Cohen had painfully inherited his father’s role, most noticeably at moments of Jewish ritual and ceremony’[15] and perhaps his anger at being treated as a man, being called ‘Brother’ by adults in his community while still only a child, is the driving force in his song. ‘Story of Isaac’ is ‘short on beauty’[16] while grief and poignancy are prevalent.
            ‘To the memory of my father/ Nathan B. Cohen’[17] reads the dedication of Cohen’s first book of poetry, 1966’s Let Us Compare Mythologies. It is a canon replete with autobiographical details and emotional reflections, ‘of the forty-four poems which went into its making, something like twenty-four have the “I” as the major participant in, or raconteur of, the event of the poem.’[18] The book is filled with images of Cohen’s Montreal and audacious remarks about love from one so young. Yet, its emotional zenith and literary triumph is in a small poem concealed in the first half of the book: ‘Rites.’ So raw was the sentiment of it that ‘Rites was ‘excluded from his Selected Poems, 1956-1968, the poem painfully recounts the impact and sorrow caused by the death of Cohen’s father.’[19] The imagery is graphic: ‘Bearing gifts of flowers and sweet nuts/ the family came to watch the eldest son,/ my father; and stood about his bed/ while he lay on a blood-sopped pillow.’[20] The contrast of ‘sweet nuts’[21] with ‘blood-sopped’[22] and ‘his heart half rotted/ and his throat dry with regret’[23] is uncomfortable for the reader, such pronounced contrast between life and death. Furthermore, Cohen’s use of punctuation allows his poetic voice to reclaim his father from his family members; they have come to visit the ‘eldest son’[24] but Cohen is quick to emphasise he is ‘my father.’[25]
            The tone of ‘Rites’ is one of embitterment towards the feeling of powerlessness Cohen was left with in the wake of his father’s death, particularly caused by his uncles’ overbearingness. Cohen critiques their gifts: ‘it seemed so obvious, the smell so present’[26] with the repetition of ‘so’ illustrating his sentiments further. Moreover, he describes their actions with a negative tone: ‘but my uncles prophesised wildly,/ promising life like frantic oracles.’[27] Perhaps this is the centre of where the frustration evident from Cohen’s narration lies; his uncles promised life but it was a futile promise, his father still died. In the end, the image the poem ‘Rites’ leaves us with is one of a desperately sad nine-year-old boy: ‘and they only stopped in the morning,/ after he had died/ and I had begun to shout.’[28] This illustration of noise is all the more poignant in lieu of how Cohen was expected to behave at his father’s funeral, ‘with his uncles and aunts around him, his mother along suffering, while he repressed his feelings.’[29] ‘Rites’ is without a rhyme scheme nor a formulaic rhythm, it is unadulterated emotion, memory at its most raw made tangible through poetry. Whereas the death of his father became more autobiographically diluted and the father-son motif more of a poetical device by the time of writing ‘Story of Isaac’, in his earliest works, Cohen’s portrayal of his father-son relationship was at a devastating level of candour. 
            In 1963, Cohen gave an interview on Canadian television about his novel The Favourite Game, and was asked whether it was in anyway autobiographical. He responded: ‘The emotion is autobiographical because the only person’s emotions I know about are my own. The incidents are not autobiographical. I apologise. I’m terribly sorry. I cringe before the tyranny of fact but it is not autobiographical. I made it all up out of my little head.’[30] If the slight smile Cohen gives while saying these words do not suggest otherwise about how autobiographical it is, an examination of the novel certainly does. Before The Favourite Game, Cohen wrote two short stories dealing with his father’s death, ‘Ceremonies’ and ‘My Sister’s Birthday.’ The latter’s title refers to a specific detail surrounding Nathan Cohen’s death that, having been told ‘the funeral would take place the following day [after his father’s death]’[31] Leonard pointed out that it was his sister, Esther’s, birthday that day. The innocence of that detail is moving; by the time the account of his father’s death appears for a third time in The Favourite Game, ‘it was a more poised account, partly due to Leonard’s writing having matured considerably in the time between these abandoned stories and his first novel, and partly from the distance accorded by having ascribed it in the latter to a fictional character (although Leonard has confirmed that it happened as he wrote it in the book.’[32]
            There are a considerable number of similarities between the hero of The Favourite Game, Laurence Breavman’s account of his father’s death, and Cohen’s personal account. In the novel, ‘the mirrors of the house were soaped, as if the glass had become victim to a strange indoor frost corresponding to the wide winter’[33] just as ‘Masha had the maid soap all the mirrors in the house’[34] in accordance with Jewish custom. Breavman expresses antipathy towards his uncles, ‘his uncles joked with friends of the family. Breavman hated them’[35] just as Cohen described in ‘Rites.’ Furthermore, in the novel, Breavman talks with his mother about his father’s body, commenting that ‘”He looked man, didn’t he?”’[36] as well as remarking that ‘”his moustache [was] really black. As if it was done with an eyebrow pencil.”’[37] In reality, the conversation took place between Cohen and his sister, ‘later that night when Esther asked Leonard if he had dared to look at their dead father, each confessed that they had, and agreed it appeared that someone had dyed his moustache.’[38] There is a beauty to this story, another mark of childlike innocence that the biggest concern upon seeing his father’s dead body was not that it was a dead body, but that his moustache was not how they remembered. However, the most obviously autobiographical element with regards to Cohen’s father’s death is when Breavman ‘the day after the funeral [he] split open one of his father’s formal bow ties and sewed in a message. He buried it in the garden, under the snow beside the fence where in summer the neighbour’s lilies-of-the-valley infiltrate.’[39] It is not an event Cohen plucked from his head; ‘Leonard has since described this [note in the bow tie] as the first thing he ever wrote. He has also said that he has no recollection of what it was and that he had been “digging in the garden for years, looking for it. Maybe that’s all I’m doing, looking for the note.”’[40]
            Breavman could be Brave-Man, could be Bereaved-Man – he certainly is, despite Cohen’s protestations, in some way a strong resemblance of his creator. ‘And what is it like to have no father? It made you more grown-up. You carved the chicken, you sat where he sat. Lisa listened, and Breavman, for the first time, felt himself dignified, or rather, dramatized. His father’s death gave him a touch of mystery, contact with the unknown. He could speak with extra authority on God and Hell.’[41] The death of Cohen’s father meant the cessation of his childhood, he ‘had painfully inherited his father’s role, most noticeably at moments of Jewish ritual and ceremony.’[42] Furthermore, just as Breavman is able to yell with abandon, ‘”Fuck God!”’[43] so Cohen’s attitude to religion changes irrevocably with his father’s death, arguably originating ‘in his resentment against God for the loss of his father and the consequent anguish that he, his mother and his sister suffered.’[44] Thus, Breavman in The Favourite Game is the trajectory for unbridled grief and anger. The fictional Breavman can express in narration all Cohen could not articulate as a nine-year-old boy.
Cohen’s bitterness towards God and the Jewish religion can be found in his poem ‘Priests 1957’ from his collection, Spice-Box of Earth, where again the autobiographical father-son motif is present. In clever Hebraic wordplay, (Cohen means ‘priest’ in Hebrew), Cohen describes a dysfunctional Jewish family in the tailoring business where ‘Beside the brassworks my uncle grows sad.’[45] Autobiographical elements overwhelm this image and Cohen’s father and uncles worked in a high-end clothing store in Montreal. Then Cohen writes, ‘My father died among old sewing machines,/ echo of bridges and water in his hand./ I have his leather books now. And startle at each uncut page.’[46] Although Nathan Cohen ‘did have bound volumes of Chaucer, Milton and the Romantic poets, [they were] as much for show as for his own enlightenment; he had liked the idea of literature, if not the reality.’[47] However, implicit in Cohen’s description of his father’s books in ‘Priests 1957’ is that his father was prevented from reading his books because of familial expectation: ‘Must we find all work prosaic/ because our grandfather built an early synagogue?’[48] In sonnet form, which contains Cohen’s frustration, he appears to lament how cruelly short his father’s life was, and that a man, who was in his eyes a war hero, should have become saddled with the family clothing business. It is not the memory of his father upsetting Cohen, it is his father’s forgotten legacy as the hero with the proudly-engraved gun.
            In addition to the intimate father-son motif repeatedly appearing in Cohen’s writings, his quasi father-son relationships with other poets and mentors incorporate the intimacy and affection of a son writing about a father, ‘and it is very easy to place a quasi-Freudian, psychological interpretation on some of his later relationships with older men: were the likes of Irving Layton, A.M. Klein, and Joshu Saskaki Roshi simply literary and spiritual mentors, or emotional replacements for the father that Cohen never properly knew.’[49] (Roshi was a Buddhist monk and spiritual mentor to Cohen when he pursued Buddhism). Perhaps the most influential pseudo-father-son relationship Cohen developed was with the poet Irving Layton, ‘the rough and tumble poet rogue, became a substitute father in many ways, a guiding rebel.’[50] Cohen embalmed Irving in his poems such as ‘To I.P.L.’, here describing Layton as ‘more furious than any Canadian poet.’[51] In a slightly more surreal poem, ‘Last Dance at the Four Penny,’ Cohen imagines him and Layton dancing the freilach, describing ‘while we two dance joyously’[52] and ‘As for the cynical,/ such as we were yesterday,/ let them step with us or rot.’[53] Layton’s son later described Cohen as being his father figure, which is ironic considering how much of a friend, father and mentor Layton Senior was to Cohen. A clash of artists’ egos tore Cohen and Layton’s relationship asunder, but Layton’s bravery in pushing the boundaries of Canada’s poetic tastes left an indelible mark on Cohen and shaped his own literary bravery.
            In addition to Layton, Cohen also had an important relationship with A.M. Klein and, reflecting on the latter’s mental breakdown, wrote the affecting ‘To A Teacher’ where he lamented Klein being ‘Hurt once and for all into silence,/ A long pain ending without a song to prove it.’[54] Although the song is addressed to Klein as a teacher, out of reverence for all Klein taught Cohen, the final stanza reaches a zenith of intimacy: ‘Let me cry Help beside you, Teacher./ I have entered under this dark roof/ as fearlessly as an honoured son/ enters his father’s house.’[55] In explicitly referring to his relationship with Klein as being like that of a father and a son, Cohen is able to fully express just how important Klein was to him as a writer and mentor, further emphasised when he describes being in Klein’s presence as being like the ‘honoured’ son. It is sobering to think that Cohen lost not only his father, but also the two father figures of Layton and Klein.
            ‘Emotion is autobiographical’[56] states Cohen and it is undeniable that the emotions he felt upon losing his father appear frequently throughout his writings, sometimes in explicitly autobiographical detail, such as in The Favourite Game, and sometimes in a more nuanced way and as a poetic motif as in ‘Story of Isaac.’ Each time the father-son relationship motif appears it is yoked with a conglomeration of complex feelings and sentiments: resentment, grief, despair. But only Cohen could employ sardonic wit to describe being elevated to head of the household as requiring having to carve the chicken for dinner. Similarly, only Cohen could emotively describe the searching, the digging, for what he wrote in his father’s bow tie. In the writings of Leonard Cohen, the father-son relationship is void of hope and celebration, but the poetic poignancy translates as literary brilliancy. The emotions Cohen has not just felt but endured are passed to the reader, who in turn absorbs the agony of the loss of a father. In the hands of Cohen, the father-son relationship becomes a weapon of expression, one that he has felt its blow.

Bibliography
Cohen, L., Let Us Compare Mythologies, (McClelland and Stewart, 1966).
Cohen, L., Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs, (McClelland and Stewart, 1973).
Cohen, L., The Spice-Box of Earth, (McClelland and Stewart, 1961).
Cohen, L., The Favourite Game, (McClelland and Stewart, 1970).
Footman, T., Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah, (Chrome Dreams, 2009).
Gnarowski, M., Leonard Cohen: The Artist and His Critics, (McGraw-Hill Ryerson Press, 1976).
Nadel, I., Leonard Cohen: A Life in Art, (ECW Press, 1994).
Rasky, H., The Song of Leonard Cohen: A Portrait of a Poet, a Friendship and a Film, (Mosaic Press, 2001).
Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012).
Telushkin, J., Jewish Literacy: The Most Important Things to Know About the Jewish Religion, its People and its History, (HarperCollins, 2000).



[1] Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012), p.4.
[2] Ibid. p.8.
[3] Cohen in footman Leonard Cohen, as quoted in Footman, T., Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah, (Chrome Dreams, 2009), p.43.
[4] Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012).p.9.
[5] Leonard Cohen as quoted in Rasky, H., The Song of Leonard Cohen: A Portrait of a Poet, a Friendship and a Film, (Mosaic Press, 2001), p.95.
[6] Nadel, I., Leonard Cohen: A Life in Art, (ECW Press, 1994) p.93.
[7] Telushkin, J., Jewish Literacy: The Most Important Things to Know About the Jewish Religion, its People and its History, (HarperCollins, 2000), p.17
[8] Cohen, L., Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs, (McClelland and Stewart, 1973), p.139.
[9] Ibid. p.139.
[10] Ibid. p.139.
[11] Ibid. p.139.
[12] Ibid. p.140.
[13] Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012), p.217.
[14] Cohen, L., Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs, (McClelland and Stewart, 1973), p.140.
[15] Nadel, I., Leonard Cohen: A Life in Art, (ECW Press, 1994), p.21.
[16] Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012), p.219.
[17] Cohen, L., Let Us Compare Mythologies, (McClelland and Stewart, 1966), p.7.
[18] Gnarowski, M., Leonard Cohen: The Artist and His Critics, (McGraw-Hill Ryerson Press, 1976), p.4.
[19] Nadel, I., Leonard Cohen: A Life in Art, (ECW Press, 1994), p.21.
[20] Cohen, L., Let Us Compare Mythologies, (McClelland and Stewart, 1966), p.7.
[21] Ibid. p.7.
[22] Ibid. p.7.
[23] Ibid. p.7.
[24] Ibid. p.7.
[25] Ibid. p.7.
[26] Ibid. p.7.
[27] Ibid. p.7.
[28] Ibid. p.7.
[29] Nadel, I., Leonard Cohen: A Life in Art, (ECW Press, 1994), p.21.
[30] Cohen in footman Leonard Cohen, as quoted in Footman, T., Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah, (Chrome Dreams, 2009), p.43.
[31] Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012), p.13.
[32] Ibid. p.13.
[33] Cohen, L., The Favourite Game, (McClelland and Stewart, 1970), p.24.
[34] Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012), p.13.
[35] Cohen, L., The Favourite Game, (McClelland and Stewart, 1970), p.25.
[36] Ibid. p.25.
[37] Ibid. p.26.
[38] Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012), p.13.
[39] Cohen, L., The Favourite Game, (McClelland and Stewart, 1970), p.27.
[40] Simmons, S., I’m your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, (McClelland and Stewart, 2012), p.13.
[41] Cohen, L., The Favourite Game, (McClelland and Stewart, 1970), p.28.
[42] Nadel, I., Leonard Cohen: A Life in Art, (ECW Press, 1994), p.21.
[43] Cohen, L., The Favourite Game, (McClelland and Stewart, 1970), p.15.
[44] Nadel, I., Leonard Cohen: A Life in Art, (ECW Press, 1994), p.23.
[45] Cohen, L., The Spice-Box of Earth, (McClelland and Stewart, 1961).
[46] Ibid.
[47] Footman, T., Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah, (Chrome Dreams, 2009), p.17.
[48] Cohen, L., The Spice-Box of Earth, (McClelland and Stewart, 1961).
[49] Footman, T., Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah, (Chrome Dreams, 2009), p.15.
[50] Rasky, H., The Song of Leonard Cohen: A Portrait of a Poet, a Friendship and a Film, (Mosaic Press, 2001), p.16.
[51] Mythologies 46
[52] Cohen, L., The Spice-Box of Earth, (McClelland and Stewart, 1961).
[53] Ibid.
[54] Ibid.
[55] Ibid.
[56] Leonard Cohen, as quoted in Footman, T., Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah, (Chrome Dreams, 2009), p.43.