101 Letters to a Prime Minister (11 page)

Merry Christmas, Mr. Harper. May your heart be the manger in which the newborn Baby lies.

Yours truly,

Yann Martel

A
STRID
L
INDGREN
(1907–2002) was a Swedish author best remembered for her contributions to children’s literature, particularly the beloved Pippi Longstocking and Karlsson-on-the-Roof series. Her stories have been translated into dozens of languages and are read around the world. During her career, she received the Hans Christian Andersen Award and the Right Livelihood Award. After her death, the government of Sweden created an award in her name to honour outstanding achievement in children’s and youth literature.

S
ARAH
L. T
HOMSON
was formerly a senior editor at HarperCollins Children’s Books. After publishing her first book,
The Dragon’s Son
, she resigned from her editorial position in order to pursue writing full-time. To date she has written twenty children’s titles and won several awards, including the 2005 Oppenheim Toy Portfolio Gold
Seal Award for
Amazing Tigers
! and a Bank Street College of Education Best Book of the Year award for
Amazing Gorillas
!

R
OB
G
ONSALVES
(b. 1959) is a Canadian painter whose style is described as both surrealist and magical realist. His art is characterized by fantastical and detailed optical illusions, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary. He has worked as an architect, muralist and theatre painter, experiences that are reflected in his paintings of buildings and landscapes. Though he is not primarily a children’s illustrator, he has worked on the children’s books
Imagine a Day, Imagine a Night
and
Imagine a Place
.

C
HRIS
V
AN
A
LLSBURG
(b. 1949) is an American author and illustrator of children’s books, most notably
Jumanji
and
The Polar Express
. His fantastical stories are set in incredible places and feature magical, dangerous or mysterious objects. Van Allsburg is known for exploring themes in his stories that are darker than those usually associated with children’s literature. He has also collaborated as an illustrator with other authors, including illustrated editions of C. S. Lewis’s
Chronicles of Narnia
. He has won the Caldecott Honor Medal several times.

Dear Mr. Harper,

I hope you and your family had a good Christmas and that you are returning to work with your mind and heart refreshed. I suspect 2008 will be a busy year for us. I have a book to finish and you have a government to run. We both hope to get good reviews for our respective labours.

I was in Moncton in late November last year, doing a series of special events organized by the Northrop Frye Literary Festival, which runs every year in April. Someone asked me, in a lovely Acadian accent, “As-tu lu
The Educated Imagination
de Northrop Frye?” (“Have you read …”)

I hadn’t read Frye’s
The Educated Imagination
. Or anything else by him. Northrop Frye—and I’m educating myself as I tell you what follows, catching up—lived between 1912 and 1991, spending his early formative years in Moncton (hence the name of the festival) and most of his adult years at the University of Toronto, where he was a great light. Frye was
a world-class literary critic who wrote such books as
Fearful Symmetry: A Study of William Blake, Anatomy of Criticism
and
The Great Code: The Bible and Literature
. He led a thrilling life of the mind, most of it fed by literature, and he gave much to his students and readers. He was a great thinker, teacher, Canadian.

I should explain why I have never until now read Frye. It wasn’t intellectual sloth. It was rather a conscious decision. Frye, as I’ve just said, was a literary critic. He looked at literature, he looked
through
literature, seeing in it recurring symbols, underlying structures, overarching metaphors. All of which is no doubt fascinating—but not to the young man I was when I started writing. Self-knowledge is often a good thing—it teaches you your limits—but too much of it too soon can ruin the incipient artist in you if it gives you the sense that you have no original core, that you are just dough in a pre-established mould. Then, as now, I just wanted to write, to create, to invent. I wasn’t interested in being told what I was doing, whom I was repeating, what convention I was adhering to. Why become self-conscious if it meant I wouldn’t dare to write? So I avoided literary criticism, those words and books that might snuff out my wavering creative flame. Trope was tripe to me.

However, right after being asked the question by the person with the lovely Acadian accent, I was presented by her with the book in question, Northrop Frye’s
The Educated Imagination
. She thought of it because of the small book club you and I have going. She wondered if you might not enjoy it (you may be interested to know that I get suggestions of books to send you all the time). I felt it would be rude not to read so considerate a gift. And surely, with three books completed and a fourth one nearly done, I could withstand a literary critic suddenly turning a mirror on me.

Well, I’m happy to report that I read the book and I’m still standing.
The Educated Imagination
was interesting to me, and I think it might be even more interesting to you. Frye, in this short, oral book—he delivered it in six parts as the 1962 Massey Lectures—speaks about the role of literature in education and society, about whether the first is needed by the other two.

It certainly is needed, Frye argues persuasively. It all comes down to language and the imagination. Frye explains that no matter what use we are making of language, whether it’s for practical self-expression, to convey information or self-consciously to be creative, we must use our imagination. As he puts it: “Literature speaks the language of the imagination, and the study of literature is supposed to train and improve the imagination. But we use our imagination all the time: it comes into all our conversation and practical life: it even produces dreams when we’re asleep. Consequently we have only the choice between a badly trained imagination and a well-trained one, whether we ever read a poem or not.” Imagination is not just for writers. It’s for everyone. At another point, Frye says, “The fundamental job of the imagination in ordinary life … is to produce, out of the society we have to live in, a vision of the society we want to live in.” This statement has obvious political implications. You see why I said this book might be of interest to you.

One of the classic dualities of existence is that of the head and the heart, of thinking and feeling, of reason and emotion. It’s not untrue, but I do wonder how useful this division is. One might suppose that a mathematician hard at work is being entirely reasonable while someone crying at the scene of a terrible accident is being entirely emotional, but otherwise can we so clearly delineate between the two? Frye believed that these are rather different ways of using one’s imagination,
that the imagination underpins them both. And the better, the more fertile our imagination, the better we can be at being both reasonable and emotional. As broad and deep as our dreams are, so can our realities become. And there’s no better way to train that vital part of us than through literature.

The imagination, then, is where is all starts, both for you and for me.

Happy New Year.

Yours truly,

Yann Martel

N
ORTHROP
F
RYE
(1912–1991) was one of Canada’s most respected literary critics and theorists. He gained international notoriety for his first book,
Fearful Symmetry
, and continued to establish his reputation with
Anatomy of Criticism
and
The Stubborn Structure
. Frye was a member of the Royal Society of Canada and a Companion of the Order of Canada. During his lifetime, he won several awards including the Lorne Pierce Medal, the Pierre Chauveau Medal and the Governor General’s Literary Award. Apart from his significant contributions to Canadian literature, his name is also a frequent crossword puzzle clue and he is honoured each year at a literary festival in Moncton.

Dear Mr. Harper,

You may have asked yourself on occasion what process I go through to select the books I have been sending you. Why don’t I answer that question in this letter.

Any book adheres to one convention or another—be it that of the Novel or the Biography—and all sentences are either conventionally grammatical or conventionally ungrammatical. It’s the rare, very rare writer who is genuinely unconventional, and usually their revolution is at one level only, affecting, say, point-of-view, while following the herd when it comes to punctuation. A writer who is unconventional on too many levels runs the risk of losing the reader, who can’t manage to get a solid footing on so much new territory and gives up the effort.
Finnegans Wake
, by the Irish writer James Joyce, is an example of such arduous total newness.

A book is a convention, then, as are the categories of thinking that produce books: Art, History, Geography, Science, and
so on. That’s how we like it, we humans. We like orderly sentences and orderly books in much the same way we like orderly streets and orderly governments. Which is not to say that we are not bold creatures. We are; in fact, there is no bolder creature on Earth. To give you a non-literary example: in the late 1960s, the Americans marshalled together the conventions of science, engineering, management and financing, and as a result achieved the highly unconventional goal of popping two of their citizens onto the Moon.

Back to books. They are products of convention, but there are many conventions. I mentioned two already, the Novel and the Biography, which flow from two other conventions, Fiction and Non-fiction. Within each, there are sub-conventions, categories, genres. I have tended to send you books of fiction rather than non-fiction because fiction is a more worked-through interpretation of life. What do I mean by that? I mean that fiction is both more personal and more synthesized than non-fiction. Fiction is more whole-person. A novel is about Life itself, whereas a history remains about a specific instance of Life. A great Russian novel—remember the Tolstoy I sent you—will always have a more universal resonance than a great history of Russia; you will think of the first as being about you on some level, whereas the second is about someone else.

So that’s the first rule: a work of fiction. Now, there are many
kinds
of fictions. There is the literary novel, the thriller, the murder mystery, the satire, and so on. As you haven’t yet communicated to me your literary interests, and since it’s not for me to judge what you should read, I have not excluded any genre. Whatever book I send you must only be good; that is, once you’ve read it, you must feel wiser, or at least more knowledgeable. Or to put it another way, as I did many months ago, it must increase your sense of
stillness
.

The other considerations are simple:

Within those broad criteria, I choose the books I send you in a spontaneous, nearly random way, just whatever strikes me as possibly of interest to you. I also listen to the suggestions
of others, as I did two weeks ago with Frye’s
The Educated Imagination
. (Did you enjoy it, by the way?)

But some rules are meant to be broken, and this week’s book is an example of that. Steven Galloway’s novel
The Cellist of Sarajevo
speaks plainly, but it’s a little too long by our criteria (fifty-eight pages over the limit), it’s Canadian and it’s so recent that it qualifies as prenatal: it hasn’t even been published yet. It’s supposed to come out in April of this year. The unadorned paperback you have in your hands is what publishers call an advance reading copy. It’s sent out to booksellers, journalists and book clubs to drum up interest and excitement in a book prior to its publication—sort of like politicians doing the summer barbecue circuit before an election. The general reading public does not normally see an advance reading copy. What you are holding in your hands is a rare item.

And it’s also a grand and powerful novel about how people retain or reclaim their humanity when they are under extreme duress. I’m sure you will hear about
The Cellist of Sarajevo
from other people than just me. It’s set during the brutal siege of the Bosnian city of Sarajevo in the early 1990s. That story was in the news for years, yet I think most of us just took it in dumbly, wondering how people could do that to each other. Well, Galloway’s novel explains how. It does the work of a good fiction: it transports you to a situation that might be alien to you, makes it familiar, and so brings understanding. That’s what I meant when I said fiction is “whole-person.” While reading
The Cellist of Sarajevo
you are imaginatively there, in Sarajevo, as the mortar shells are falling and snipers are seeking to kill you as you cross a street. Your mind’s eye sees, your moral sense is outraged: your full humanity is being exercised.