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In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: CTION 11 with detonators is wilfully anti-intellectual. But Renee's vast anger and Steven's icy manipulativeness remain unfinished, deprived of context.

Soon the Library was just a skeleton of structural supports in stark black, surrounded by fiery orange and red. The building teetered, its roof shuddered, the columns rocked and shifted. Each time it seemed the building was about to collapse, the crowd gasped and held its breath, and each time it recovered its balance, we made a disappointed 'Aww.' Fiery JobMaster provides advanced PDF-based job preparation tools for scanning, tab creation and insertion, page numbering, chapter creation, and late stage editing. It includes all functions of Fiery Compose. Fiery Impose applies imposition layouts to jobs for custom printing, binding, and trimming. Fiery Impose also applies impositions to variable data jobs and saves imposed jobs as PDF files.

The 'interpenetration' of idea and sensibility is a serious omission in the novel, yet may go unnoticed through the concluding sequences, where each scene is more striking than the last in the originality of its horror. Renee's demise is especially ingenious, the bomb (disguised as a baby) exploding during 'her dream of ballet.' In contrast, the bluebird, the squirrel, and the sudden discovery of 'you' as the humane element of the self that accompany Billy at the end are silly, if morally desirable, and make one almost regret his survival. 2/ MICHAEL F. DIXON 'The first sentence of every novel should be: 'Trust me, this will take time but there is order here, very faint, very human.'

' In The Skin of a Lion (McClelland and Stewart, 244, $22.50) does nbt begin so; this assurance of order occurs more than half-way into (not 'through' - I doubt there is a way entirely through) Michael Ondaatje's threnodic monologue on the mystery rooted in an elusive, hidden symbiosis of history, individual experience, and myth. To detect and mimic the faint human order we impose on existential chaos, he implies, is the business of art, and Ondaatje's hypothetical first sentence might well serve as a sort of epigraph to all half-dozen of this year's most interesting and accomplished works of fiction from established Canadian writers. Their wide variation of theme and technique, considered in concert, invites attention to the exquisite struggle of the narrative artist.

Can the conventions of storytelling, themselves an imposed human order, be made to reveal rather than merely reinforce the ritual strategies againstchaos bred by our rage for order? Can the artist make us see, not merely look? In the Skin ofaLion presents the immigrant as artist.

To see through the eyes of a stranger is to correct myopia induced by habit, the invisibility bred offamiliarity. 'Patrick Lewis arrived in the city ofToronto as ifitwere land after years at sea. An immigrant to the city.'

A brief prologue in italics establishes Lewis as the narrator, speaking of himself in the third person, piecing together the pattern of his life over the first forty years of this century in a monologue delivered to his step-daughter Hana as they drive through the night from Toronto to Marmora six hours away. 'Do you see?' He asks Hana periodically.

Like the readers who join her functionally as listeners, Hana 'sees' Toronto, surely Canada's post-war emblem of the urban-mundane, transformed into exotic dreamscape, strange, menacing, inchoate, in a narrative night-sequence appropriately as elliptical and imagistically associative as mind-drift along the wavering edge of sleep. 12 LETTERS IN CANADA 1987 The Bloor Street Viaduct I goes up in a dream' experienced by Lewis indirectly after the fact through'4000 photographs' in a cinematic procession of 'time-lapse evolution, from piles sinking into bedrock through the fronding skeleton of steel rising to the topping of tar; muscle and fire reshaping matter and space to fulfill, on 18 October 1918, the monumental vision of Rowland Harris, Commissioner of Public Works.' For Ondaatje, however, this powerful cinematic sequence is merely an establishing shot, prelude to a shift of focus from monumental work to elemental workers, the immigrant supernumeraries who appear only as compositional details, inert and invisible on the transparent-deceptive surface of the photographs. Vitalized through Lewis's memory tract, they become charged with mythic resonance.

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On the dizzy skeleton of the viaduct, under Lake Ontario in the stifling, dark, mile-long tunnel feeding Harris's othermonument ('a temple'), the waterworks in Victoria Park Forest, and in the noxious, deadly slaughterhouse and tannery, Ondaatje's prose rhythm ritualizes their agonizing labour into the controlled grace of tribal dance, tuned to the mythic procession of light and dark, while a larger rhythmic structure interlaces imagery spun from the primal elements of. Earth, air, fire, and water into a texture of extraordinary intricacy and evocative power. The workers, as a blended or collective character, seem to merge with and emerge from this primal texture. If you would like to authenticate using a different subscribed institution that supports Shibboleth authentication or have your own login and password to Project MUSE, click 'Authenticate'.

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During a recent visit to Kiev as part of a selection panel for a call for sound and art works made by the, I visited the Ukranian capital's World War Two memorial. I made my way through the Soviet era metro and out to the hills overlooking the wide Dnieper River, with clusters of imposing looking tower blocks beyond its opposite banks. After passing through a park, the gold-domed Pechersk Lavra and Memorial To The Holodomor Victims (the Ukrainian “terror-famine” in the early 1930s) I enter a pedestrian boulevard. At the head of it sit kiosks and cafes, with small groups of visitors escaping from the hot weather, sipping beer in the shade of umbrellas. The broad boulevard stretches out under the hot sun for nearly a kilometre. I hear the muffled sounds of distant music being played.

Suddenly, a loud and mournful male voice starts singing in contrabass right next to me. The entire boulevard is lined with speakers, blasting out a loop of emotionally piqued funereal songs, the sound crackling and warbling from disintegrating speaker cones and what could be poor MP3 compression.

In the distance is a giant sculpture of a steel-plated woman warrior. Further down, I come up to a large, covered section, partly made of poured concrete, shafts radiating out in rhythmic echoes from a Soviet star, embedded crater-like on a monolithic pillar to the left as you enter. There are several grottos, with the tinny sound of mournful singing reverberating around the cool space and bouncing off its hard walls. A roughly hewn socialist-realist frieze depicting rows of super-sized soldiers, workers and peasants, sits against the hard edged abstraction of the concrete. The march of figures lead through the grotto, and out to the other side, guns, farming tools and reinforcement bars pointing towards the warrior woman “Mother Motherland” (intentionally built just taller than the Statue Of Liberty). Onwards, past another large cluster of gargantuan soldiers frozen in the midst of battle, two tanks face each other with their gun barrels crossed, both bizarrely painted in bright blue and orange, and covered in dots.

The elegiac songs continue, and from this position the guttural stops and warped, soaring vowels puncture the airspace with delayed echoes around the figure, the multitude of speakers sounding out the vastness of the space; a journey from the everyday to cosmic-scaled history at the foot of Mother Motherland. Here she is, gleaming in the light, a sword thrusting skywards in one hand, in the other a shield emblazoned with Soviet hammer and sickle.

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Inside the bunker-like pedestal supporting the Mother is the, that tells the history of World War Two and the Eastern Front from the Ukrainian, and Kievian perspective. Finished in 1981, the building and its collection are a time capsule from the late Soviet era. The figure was designed by the socialist-realist artist, famous for his grandiose sculptures glorifying Soviet heroism.

The two floors of exhibits take in much of the horror of that time, and aims to convey war through feeling, creating dramatic displays. Like how a title sequence of a movie sets up a tone for the following feature, music acts as a lead-in, preparing visitors for the main event ahead and helping define the emotional parameters of the experience. The objects on show create a bleak impression: many are simply bits of detritus left over from battles, rusting shards of metal, decomposed boots.

There’s the wreckage of an airplane, photos of unnamed victims hanging on its torn wing. Panoramas of fiery battle scenes are framed by soldiers’ heads cast in heavy bronze. A cluster of old speaker cones emit a painfully high pitched static tone (appropriate, though I imagine they were meant to be broadcasting something different).

Elsewhere a vitrine containing a child’s jumper dangles off some barbed wire, tiny shoes sitting next to a pair of shackles. In one section, if any visitors might have missed the point, a barrel of a cannon points at an old hessian textile, dotted with pictures of victims, a flower pot at its base. In the last room are thousands of photographs of people, surrounding a banquet table lined with the canteens of the dead, phonographs placed intermittently along its length. Different brass instruments are suspended in the air, a swarm of disembodied horns mutely signalling victory. The materials used emit feeling: cold concrete, lofty marble and austere granite, proud brass, melancholy bronze and energetic steel. All of them strong and hard wearing, each resonating at their own sensorial register.

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The whole impression is one of overdriven, screeching emotion. It's so bombastic that my first reaction is how pushy and crass it is. My mind muddles the Soviet kitsch and atrophied, dramatised feeling with the caricatures of the former Eastern Bloc. And now updated to include cruel nouveau riche oligarchs with their tacky gold enamelled Louis XIV furniture, rudimentary capitalism and unrestrained ambition next to abject poverty – and other myths help to reinforce old assumptions about the East as depraved and barbaric. Contrast the above experience with another type of remembrance: the British Commonwealth’s various iterations of Remembrance Day.

They’re all based around a main event of two minutes of silent observance by attendees – performed by veterans and active members of national armed forces – and most usually organised around a cenotaph (empty tomb, in Greek). Communal silence rendered into a monumental sculpture.

This silence is followed by a poignant, yet sometimes incongruously peppy tune called 'The Last Post', a bugle call signalling the end of the day's duties, widely used in remembrance ceremonies. Compared to a ten hectare complex of reverberating elegies and up-the-ante monumental sculpture, two minutes of silence seems a stoically restrained and tasteful method of remembrance.

But crassness and refinement are to taste as politeness and rudeness are to manners. They are spectrums in which public performances of adherence to a social order take place. And both these examples don’t tolerate much deviation from obedient behaviour. If the National Museum Of The History Of The Great Patriotic War (Of 1941–1945) is a platform for individuals to play out a type of reverential melodramatics, the two minutes of silence reach just as authoritatively into the psyche.

Below is a video from the Australian Army Headquarters's YouTube channel showing a lone soldier playing 'The Last Post'. They've decided that it's more effective to have the bugler alone in the posh architecture, with dramatic worm's eye views of him and close up shots on blood red poppies and lists of the fallen on stone. It plays off of ideas of restraint and stoic poise, but it also overflows with a kind of melodrama. As the distance from World War Two increases, its horrors slowly disintegrate in the mausoleum worlds of mediated myth and pomo relativism. The two World War's were proof of how we are always precariously close to tearing ourselves apart. Remembrance Day was started in 1919 and repeated so as to never forget World War One as the war to end all wars – but memorisation by rote learning hasn’t worked and never will.

Historian and broadcaster once told me that “ultimately when people want silence, or when people complain about noise, there's a power struggle going on”. This links the above examples of ritual and memory, showing the role that power has in repeating these spaces and rituals – and being the cause of this ongoing misery.

It’s clear that rituals of silence and melodramatic reverence are preventative measures against noisily active remembrance, something that at this moment can only be understood by the powers that be as an unpatriotic, violent attack on memory. But of course this noise would be a protest against hollow traditions, empty things used to perpetuate war-mongering, and the greed that usually drives it. Music questions power and authority as much as it reinforces it.

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Kiev's memorial complex made me try to think of different types of music and remembrance that act against this mind erasing monumentalism. Enter that other ritual of self-forgetting, nationalistic memory and feeling control: the national anthem. Specifically, Albert Ayler's 'Spirits Rejoice', a free jazz call and response riffing off the French national anthem, 'La Marseillaise'. Without irony it transforms all the hollow rompitypomp of a national anthem and makes it distinctly noisy and present. Its power lying in the fact that it has a very real object that it is ecstatically freeing up, rather than trying to escape from: Tags:.