Margaret Laurence
Canada's classic authoress was born Jean Margaret Wemyss on July 18, 1926 in the prairie town of Neepawa, Manitoba, Canada. Her Mom, Verna, passed away early. Her Aunt Margaret helped her Father take care of her for a year, then they married and had a Son. Their Father died two years afterwards. Aunt Margaret was a Mother to her, raising the kids in theirr maternal Grandfather's home.
Margaret wrote stories in elementary school. Her professional writing career began in 1943 with a job at the town newspaper and continued in 1944, when she entered the Honours English program at Winnipeg's United College (University Of Winnipeg.) After graduating in 1947, she was hired as a reporter for The Winnipeg Citizen. That year, she married Jack Laurence, a civil engineer.
Jack's profession took the couple to England, Somalia, and eventually Ghana, where Margaret gained an appreciation for Africa and the storytelling traditions of its peoples. It was in Africa that their children, Jocelyn and David, were born, and when Margaret began to work seriously on her writing. Her book of essays about and translations of Somali poetry and prose was published in 1954 as A Tree for Poverty. A collection of short stories, The Tomorrow-Tamer, as well as a novel, This Side Jordan (both focusing on African subjects) were published after Margaret returned home to Canada. Her fiction was thereafter concerned with Canadian subjects, but she maintained her interest in African literature and in 1968 published a critical analysis of Nigerian literature, Long Drums and Cannons: Nigerian Dramatists and Novelists 1952-1966. Present in her African works is a concern with the ethical dilemma of being a white colonialist living in colonial Africa.
In 1957, Margaret and her family moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, for five years. In 1962, Margaret & Jack divorced. She moved to London, England for a year, followed by a cottage in Buckinghamshire for ten years, although she visited Canada often. During this period, Margaret wrote her first works with Canadian subject matter.
"The Stone Angel" was published in 1964, and was the first of her "Manawaka novels", the fictional prairie community modelled after her hometown of Neepawa, Manitoba. It was followed by "A Jest Of God" in 1966 (for which she won her first Governor General's Award,) "The Fire-Dwellers" in 1969, and "A Bird In The House" in 1970. Margaret received critical and commercial acclaim in Canada and in 1971, was honoured by being named a Companion to the Order of Canada.
In the early 1970s, she returned to Canada and settled in Lakefield, Ontario. She continued to write and was writer-in-residence at the University Of Toronto, the University Of Western Ontario, and Trent University. In 1974, Margaret completed her final novel, "The Diviners", for which she received the Governor General's Award and the Molson Prize. It was followed by a book of essays, Heart Of A Stranger" in 1976 and several children's books: "Jason's Quest", "The Olden-Days Coat", "Six Darn Cows", and "The Christmas Birthday Story". Her autobiography "Dance On The Earth" was published in 1987.
Margaret died on January 5, 1987 at her home in Lakefield, after learning her lung cancer diagnosis was terminal. She is buried in Neepawa Cemetery, a few metres from the stone angel which inspired her novel.
“I went upstairs to my room. Momentarily I felt a sense of calm, almost acceptance. Rest beyond the river. I knew now what that meant. It meant Nothing. It meant only silence forever.”
“My mother sighed, making me feel that I was placing an intolerable burden on her, and yet making me resent having to feel this weight. She looked tired, as she often did these days. Her tiredness bored me, made me want to attack her for it.”
“I stepped inside the front hall and kicked off my snow boots. I slammed the door behind me, making the dark ruby and emerald glass shake in the small leaded panes. I slid purposely on the hall rug, causing it to bunch and crinkle on the slippery polished oak of the floor.”
“As a devout Baptist, she believed it was a sin to pray for anything for yourself. You ought to pray only for strength to bear whatever the Lord saw fit to send you, she thought. I was never able to follow this advice, for although I would often feel a sense of uneasiness over the tone of my prayers, I was the kind of person who prayed frantically-"Please, God, please, please, PLEASE let Ross MacVey like me better than Mavis.”
“the infinite capacity of humans to wound one another without meaning or wanting to”
“Everything drifts. Everything is slowly swirling, philosophies tangled with the grocery lists, unreal-real anxieties like rose thorns waiting to tear the uncertain flesh, nonentities of thoughts floating like plankton, green and orange particles, seaweed -- lots of that, dark purple and waving, sharks with fins like cutlasses, herself held underwater by her hair, snared around auburn-rusted anchor chains.”
“-- What a fool I was. "Want To Be a Little Off-Beat?" Here's ten ways, the article said. A lilac door was one. So off I tripped to the nearest hardware store to assert my unique individuality with the same tin of paint as two million other dimwits. Conned into idiocy. My mind is full of trivialities. At lunch Ian said Duncan's piece of cake is miles bigger than mine -- it's not fair, and I roared that they should quit bothering me with trivialities. So when they're at school, do I settle down with the plays of Sophocles? I do not. I think about the color of my front door. That's being unfair to myself. I took that course, Ancient Greek Drama, last winter. Yeh, I took it all right.Young academic generously giving up his Thursday evenings in the cause of adult education. Mrs. MacAindra, I don't think you've got quite the right slant on Clytemnestra. Why not? The king sacrificed their youngest daughter for success in war-- what's the queen supposed to do, shout for joy? That's not quite the point we're discussing, is it? She murdered her husband, Mrs. MacAindra, (Oh God, don't you think I know that? The poor bitch.) Yeh well I guess you must know, Dr. Thorne. Sorry. Oh, that's fine -- I always try to encourage people to express themselves.-- Young twerp. Let somebody try killing one of his daughters. But still, he had his Ph.D. What do I have? Grade Eleven. My own fault....”
“Must've been off my head, wandering around the harbour so long. Didn't even get the nightgowns. Are the kids okay? Damn, I wish I didn't always have to be home at the right time. At the Day of Judgement, God will say Stacy MacAindra, what have you done with your life? And I'll say, Well, let's see, Sir, I think I loved my kids. And He'll say, Are you certain of that? And I'll say, God, I'm not certain about anything any more. So He'll say, To hell with you, then. We're all positive thinkers up here. Then again, maybe He wouldn't. Maybe He'd say, Don't worry, Stacy, I'm not all that certain, either. Sometimes I wonder if I even exist. And I'd say, I know what you mean, Lord. I have the same trouble with myself.”
“When I say "work" I only mean writing. Everything else is just odd jobs.”
“Privacy is a privilege not granted to the aged or the young.”
“I can't change what's happened to me in my life, or make what's not occurred take place. But I can't say I like it, or accept it, or believe it's for the best. I don't and never shall, not even if I'm damned for it.”
“Too bad to deprive them, but if a person doesn't look after herself in this world, no one else is likely to.”
“Bless me or not, Lord, just as You please, for I'll not beg.”
“What goes on inside isn't ever the same as what goes on outside.”
“Where I'm going, anything may happen. Nothing may happen. Maybe I will marry a middle-aged widower, or a longshoreman, or a cattle-hoof-trimmer, or a barrister or a thief. And have my children in time. Or maybe not. Most of the chances are against it. But not, I think, quite all. What will happen? What will happen. It may be that my children will always be temporary, never to be held. But so are everyone's.I may become, in time, slightly more eccentric all the time. I may begin to wear outlandish hats, feathered and sequinned and rosetted, and dangling necklaces made from coy and tiny seashells which I've gathered myself along the beach and painted coral-pink with nail polish. And all the kids will laugh, and I'll laugh, too, in time. I will be light and straight as any feather. The wind will bear me, and I will drift and settle, and drift and settle. Anything may happen, where I'm going.”
“So, if this were indeed my Final Hour, these would be my words to you. I would not claim to pass on any secret of life, for there is none, or any wisdom except the passionate plea of caring ... Try to feel, in your heart's core, the reality of others. This is the most painful thing in the world, probably, and the most necessary. In times of personal adversity, know that you are not alone. Know that although in the eternal scheme of things you are small, you are also unique and irreplaceable, as are all of your fellow humans everywhere in the world. Know that your commitment is above all to life itself.”