From a small-town childhood to a postwar lumber camp to the throes of the Quiet Revolution, Des lames de pierre keeps returning to one central concern: What does it mean to set words down on paper?
Think back to a road trip you’ve taken. Grande Plaine IV is a bit like that road trip: funny and sweet, clever and heartfelt. Young.
A straightforward detective story full of great, gritty, and questionable characters quickly spins into a self-reflexive narrative, twisted in on itself.
Le sermon aux poissons is the first book in a Lisbon-based trilogy that loves nothing more than to blur the lines between myth and reality.
Her sad soul would stay close to Holt Renfrew, maybe even after Holt Renfrew might move, for example, to Toronto, and without Holt Renfrew at any time consenting to open the doors that would lead to her salvation, to her dress.
Every year the thought of a new Blais keeps us afloat, our heads above water, promising us that, once we’ve finished our homework, we will be free, at last, to go out and play.
When, at the moment of her last rites, the priest asked my great-grandmother if she was afraid of death, she answered, “Death, Father, I have seen it 17 times.”
Nature has no secret plan. Nature is not a kind organizer. Nature doesn’t give a shit. She does her thing. Drops us through the hole, then waits.
Deslauriers’ work often focuses on adolescence, that fragile, fumbling period when “we are tightrope walkers. Anything can tip us over.”