| t of th rt: 8 vol. seven, issue no. two planet of the arts p Andrew Robulack Standing outside of the Arts Club Theatre, | happened to catch sight of a certain charming hobble: Robertson Davies was arriving to give his reading. He was dressed ina fine, but slightly wrinkled, olive suit, and his hair and massive beard were all silvery asplendour in the warm September sun. Although he moved slowly, he was gone before I could summon the courage to greet him, and disappeared into a mysterious door in the side of the theatre . This recent visit of his to Vancouver, sponsored by the International Writer’s Festi- val, was to promote his new book, Murder and walking spirit. Whatever the reason, the pres- ence of Canada’s best man of letters in our city isa thrilling affair ( as the sold out shows in both the Arts Club and the Revue Theatre, where he appeared on closed-circuit simulcast, go to show). When | saw him outside, in real life, what struck me the most about him was his build, which was rather, um...ample. Not overly so, and hardly even noticeably at that, but I had just imagined him smaller. But why shouldn’t he be large? After all, he’s almost eighty and certainly has more important things to worry about than his waist size. And at least age must be considered license to expand. Anyway, there are several different catego- ries of “ being fat” (as it is often crudely put). And, I must say, Robertson Davies fits into one of the more distinguished of them, one which he alluded to in responding to a question after his reading. Some people are fat with worry, some with worry, some with greed, and someare just obese. However, Mr. Davies is “ample” with “content” (it is in this specific category that ‘fat’ becomes ‘ample’), for, to him, his body has become an oddity, though not an insoluble dilemma. Indeed, in Murther he even lightly undertakes to explore how he might view him- self out-of-body: “Not a huge man, not a giant, but six-feet and rather heavy?” Further to the philosophy of his size is his own justification for being that way: Mr. Davies suggests that we think what we eat. After his reading he was asked about the consistent presence of food in his work. He replied that food was very important to the person, ifnot the mind itself- and good food at that. If one under- takes to subsist on cold spaghetti and skim milk “to liven it”, he explained, then one’s mind will react accordingly: “you feed your body like that and you'll get the thinking you deserve!” If this is true then Mr. Davies must eat very well indeed- and his full waist is in definite accord- ance with his fascinating mind. Iwona Siwek The author read brilliantly that afternoon, frequently wiping sweat from his forehead and moustache with a green handkerchief he kept hidden up his left sleeve. He admitted that his first love is the theatre and this showed in the lively resonance of his voice. Of course the words helped as well and he almost the whole of the first chapter, ‘Roughly Translated’ from Murther, which opens like this: I was never so amazed in my life as when the Sniffer drew his concealed weapon from its case and struck me to the ground, stone dead. Mr. Davies’ delivery of this opening sen- tence was so spectacular that I was captivated right from the start. An excellent foot to start a book on. As in his other books, Mr. Davies writes with a clear tongue and a strong intent, not to mention a definite smirk in parts. Having grown up in a journalistic family and then editing the Peterborough Examiner for over twenty years, he is well versed in getting an idea across. And he doesn’t lose touch with these roots in his new book, where the main character, a dead newspaper editor, tends to mirror some of the opinions of the author: “Patronizing the public, and assuming that it hangs, breathless, upon what it reads, is almost the worst of journalistic sins”. To talk about his recent visit to Vancouver, I had originally planned to compose a short critical history of the author’s life and work. I was going to talk about his training as an actor, a playwright, a journalist, a drama and literary critic, the fact that he was Master of Massey College at the University of Toronto, and over- all how he maintains a position as an interna- tional spokesperson for Canadian authors. | would have mentioned the worldwide acclaim for his three trilogies of novels from Salterton to Deptford to Cornish. Through research however, | discovered, with little surprise, the absolute volume of his work and the distinct phrasing of periods in his life; and I chickened out. It’s too much. | opted instead to speak briefly about his reading and then end with a few quotes of him from the archives... “There are just one or two statements about myself that I ought to make. I do not wear a cloak- never have worn or even owned one. | do not take snuff. And I do not take sherry to excess, though I will drink it when offered.” Globe and Mail, September 17, 1988 “What used to be called a Canadian novel was a kind of prairie frontier story, but it was phony. In the plot, people came to the land; the land loved them; they worked the land, strug- gled and had lots of children. There was a Frenchman who talked funny and a greenhorn from England who was a fancy pants but when it came to the crunch he was all courage. Those novels would make you retch.” - The Province, September 1988 “Some days are good and some are bad, but a professional writer is one who writes. It is only the amateur who waits for blinding flashes of inspiration.”- Victoria Times, March 3, 1973 “It is very difficult, I find, to persuade some people, including book critics, to give due al- lowance for the factor of imagination. They seem often unwilling to believe that you could make something up.”- The Province, Decem- ber 1, 1972 “I was just reading an article in Maclean’s that they’ve written about me, which says that a young academic at Trent (University) says that he doesn’t think I have much use for the common man. I’ve known more common men than ‘he’s had hot breakfasts, I'll bet.”- Globe and Mail, September 17, 1988 “I have a favorite motto which I sometimes inscribe for friends in Celtic. It goes: “A man must be obedient to the promptings of his innermost heart.”* . planet of the arts p& Standing outside of the Arts Club Theatre, happened to catch sight of a certain charming hobble: Robertson Davies was arriving to give hisreading. Hewasdressed ina fine, butslightly wrinkled, olive suit, and his hair and massive beard were all silvery asplendour in the warm Septembersun. Although he moved slowly, he was gone before I could summon the courage to ‘greet him, and disappeared into a mysterious door in the side of the theatre This recent visit of his to Vancouver, sponsored by the International Writer’ Festi- val, was to promote his new book, Murder and walking spirit. Whatever the reason, the pres- cence of Canada’s best man of letters in our city isathrilling affair (asthe sold outshowsin both the Arts Club and the Revue Theatre, where he appeared on closed-circuit simulcast, go to show). When I saw him outside, in real life, what struck me the most about him was his build, which was rather, um...ample. Not overly so, and hardly even noticeably at that, but I had just imagined him smaller. But why shouldn't he be large? After all, he's almost eighty and certainly has more important things to worry about than his waist size. And at least age must be considered license to expand. ‘Anyway, there are several different catego- ries of * being fat” (as it is often crudely put). ‘And, I mustsay, Robertson Davies fits into one ‘of the more distinguished of them, one which he alluded to in responding to-a question after his reading. Some people are fat with worry, some with worry, some with greed, andsomeare just obese. However, Mr. Davies is “ample” with “content” (it is in this specific category that far’ becomes ample’), for, to him, his body has become an oddity, though not an insoluble dilemma, Indeed, in Murther he even lightly undertakes to explore how he might view him- self out-of-body: “Not a huge man, nota giant, but six-feet and rather heavy?” Further to the philosophy of his siz is his ‘own justification forbeing that way: Mr. Davies suggests that we think what we eat. After his reading he was asked about the consistent presence of food in his work. He replied that food was very important to the person, ifnotthe ‘mind itself-and good food at that. fone under- takes tosubsiston cold spaghetti and skim mill “toliven it”, he explained, then one’s mind will react accordingly: “you feed your body like that ‘and you'll get the thinking you deserve!” Ifthis is true then Mr. Davies must eat very well indeed and his full waist is in definite accord ance with his fascinating mind. The author read brilliantly that afternoon, frequently wiping sweat from his forehead and moustache with a green handkerchief he kept hidden up his left sleeve. He admitted that his first love isthe theatre and this showed in the lively resonance of his voice. Of course the words helped as well and he almost the whole of the first chapter, ‘Roughly Translated’ from ‘Muarther, which opens like this: I was never so amazed in my life as when the Sniffer drew his concealed weapon from its case and struck ‘me tothe ‘ground, stone dead. Mr. Davies’ delivery of this opening sen- tence was 0 spectacular that I was captivated right from the tart. An excellent foot to starta book on, As in his other books, Mr. Davies writes with a clear tongue and a strong intent, not to mention adefinitesmirk in parts. Having grown up in a journalistic family and then editing the Peterborough Examiner for over twenty years, he is well versed in getting an idea across. And he doesn’t lose touch with these roots in his new book, where the main character, a dead newspaper editor, tends to mirror some of the opinions of theauthor:“Patronizing the public, and assuming that it hangs, breathless, upon. what it reads, is almost the worst of journalistic sins’. al To talk about his recent visit to Vancouver, I had originally planned to compose a short critical history of the authors life and work. I ‘was going ro talk about his training as an actor, a playwright, a journalist, a drama and literary critic, the fact that he was Master of Massey College.t the University of Toronto, andover- all how he maintains a position as an interna- tional spokesperson for Canadian authors. 1 ‘would have mentioned the worldwide acclaim forhis three trilogies of novels from Salterton to Depsford to Cornish. Through research however, I discovered, with little surprise, the absolute volume of his wworkand the distiner phrasing of periods in his life; and I chickened out. I's too much. I opted instead to speak briefly about his reading and then end with a few quotes of him from the archives... “There are just one or two statements about smyself that I ought to make. I do not wear a cloak-neverhave wornorevenownedone. Ido not take snuff. And I do not take sherry t0 excess, though I will drink it when offered.” Globe and Mail, September 17, 1988 “What used to be called a Canadian novel was a kind of prairie frontier story, but it was phony. Inthe plot, people cameo the land; the land loved them; they worked the land, strug- gled and had lots of children. There was a Frenchman who talked funny and a greenhorn from England who was fancy pants but when itcameto the crunch he wasall courage. Those novels would make you retch.”- The Province, ‘September 1988 “Some daysare good and some are bad, but professional writer isone whowrtes.Itisonly the amateur who waits for blinding flashes of inspiration.” Victoria Times, March 3, 1973 “Ivis very difficult, find, to persuade some people, including book critics, to give due al- lowance for the factor of imagination. They seem often unwilling to believe that you could make something up.”- The Province, Decem- ber 1, 1972 “[ was just reading an article in Maclean's that they've writcen about me, which says that a young academic at Trent (University) says that he doesn't think I have much use for the ‘common man. I've known more common men. than he's had hot breakfast, I'll bet."- Globe and Mail, September 17, 1988 “Lhave_a favorite motto which I sometimes inscribe for friends in Celtic. It goes: “A man. must be obedient to the promptings of his innermost heart."*