Timothy Findley Essay - Findley, Timothy (Vol. 27)

Findley, Timothy (Vol. 27)

Introduction

Timothy Findley 1930–

Canadian novelist, playwright, and scriptwriter.

With each of his books, Findley has more firmly established his place among Canada's important contemporary writers. Ambitious in his choice of themes and innovative in his handling of them, he writes of the human struggle against fate and questions the nature of self, love, and reality. Findley has examined these concerns from several different perspectives beginning with The Last of the Crazy People (1967). In this work, Findley portrays the life of a lonely and bewildered young boy whose tragic destiny is to murder his family.

Findley's most successful novel, The Wars, published in the United States in 1978, won the Governor General's Award in 1977. Written in a documentary style, it recounts the story of Robert Ross, an officer in the Canadian army during World War I. Findley here attempts to show that Ross's eventual death is both futile and triumphant. The Wars is described as a powerful account of how war simultaneously defines and destroys personality.

Famous Last Words (1982) is also related to war. In this novel, Findley molds Ezra Pound's poetic figure Hugh Selwyn Mauberley into a fully formed fictional character and traces his fascination with and involvement in fascist politics. Although described as flawed, many critics appraise Famous Last Words as an ambitious work that raises serious questions about the effects of political corruption and the meaning of history.

(See also Contemporary Authors, Vols. 25-28, rev. ed.)

Anthony Boucher

["The Last of the Crazy People"] is almost as pleasing as its odd title. An attempt to explain the far too frequent and inexplicable headline, "'Nice Boy' Massacres Family," it is memorable not so much for its explanation (or for its gore) as for a surprisingly gentle, nostalgic quality which is wholly charming. Story and style may seem at variance, but I look forward to Findley's second.

Anthony Boucher, in a review of "The Last of the Crazy People," in The New York Times Book Review (© 1967 by The New York Times Company; reprinted by permission), July 16, 1967, p. 14.

Margaret Parton

Like Ben Piazza, who three years ago wrote a moving first novel about boyhood called The Exact and Very Strange Truth, Timothy Findley is an actor. Again like Piazza, he is interested in boyhood and its relationship to the adult world, and he has an actor's ear for dialogue, an actor's eye for scenes. After three years, scenes from the earlier book remain vivid in the mind; it is probable that those created by Mr. Findley [in The Last of the Crazy People] will also linger for a long time, if less happily.

The first scene sets the mood, and almost—but not quite—tells us what is to happen. It is early September, after a rainless summer. An eleven-year-old boy carrying a box tiptoes out of his house in the dawn, crosses the back yard to the stable, climbs into the loft, and settles down in the straw by the half-open bale door overlooking the back of the house. The box is beside him, and so is his cat, Little Bones, whose "deadly, vibrant, yet clouded" eyes resemble his own. Together they wait and are still.

We gather from every careful word of this prologue that the boy is insane and about to do something terrible. The rest of the book, flashing back to the beginning of that hot Canadian summer, tells us of the events that have led inexorably to this September morning and of the people who contributed to them. And as we come to know the members of young Hooker Winslow's family and the middle-class community in which...

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Publishers Weekly

1930's Hollywood, with its overripe stars, larger-than-life styles, extravagant successes and even more extravagant failures, and the nightmare barbarities of Hitler's Germany, make a strange juxtaposition here. "The Butterfly Plague" is full of unlikely juxtapositions, but they work to make the book consistently interesting, often disquieting, Mr. Findley's novel is an ambitious one, for he has chosen to deal with the nature of reality, the meaning of life and death and love, and the future of the human race. Despite a style and setting that sometimes verge on the campy, his unique way of perceiving people and places gives his book considerable power. "The Butterfly Plague" is mostly populated by grotesques, including a former Olympic medal swimmer who is a carrier of haemophilia and who is married to a virulent master-race Nazi; her brother; a Hollywood director; and her mother, dying of cancer. All of these people and some other Hollywood types drift in and out of one another's lives and nightmares, and what emerges is a disturbing picture of man's despair.

A review of "The Butterfly Plague," in Publishers Weekly (reprinted from the February 10, 1969 issue of Publishers Weekly, published by R. R. Bowker Company, a Xerox company; copyright © 1969 by Xerox Corporation), Vol. 195, No. 6, February 10, 1969, p. 72.

The Times Literary Supplement

[The Butterfly Plague] resembles an appreciative description of a fantastic film, the kind that depends on surrealistic images and a voguish "sense of period", more interesting to see than to read about…. A quick succession of intricate, brightly-coloured scenes must have been the aim; but Timothy Findley cannot, as a novelist, rival a film-director's pace. Instead of being fixed in cinematic images, the details of landscape, facial expression, physical appearance and (especially) clothing have to be set out in lists, as if they were instructions to the property department, the designer and the wardrobe mistress. Thus the novel proceeds more slowly than can have been intended.

The setting is Southern California, 1938, with flashbacks to Nazi Germany. The mood is one of fear, with epicene women and men wincing at hazards as normal as motor accidents or as nightmarish as Nazidom….

[Many disasters occur to] bizarre characters. Miss Trainer, a motor-cycling nurse, discovers a lady in "rather old-maidish drawers" and lisle stockings, hanging from a tree, "with a black-handled knife inserted in her vagina". Miss Trainer swoons away—but the cold-blooded reader will be less perturbed, since this atrocity seems, like so much in the book, to be presented rather for its pictorial value than for any literary purpose. Occasionally there is a flicker of Firbank in the writing; but, generally, the book is too stodgy, long-winded and mirthless to make the comparison worthwhile.

"Uncomic Strip," in The Times Literary Supplement (© Times Newspapers Ltd. (London) 1970; reproduced from The Times Literary Supplement by permission), No. 3549, March 5, 1970, p. 241.

Michael Taylor

We no longer believe that some subjects are more appropriate for literary treatment than others: nowadays, every human activity, no matter how banal or disgusting, offers itself as legitimate material for the imagination to work on and turn into art…. There seem to be some subjects, however, which have a built-in intransigence to literary treatment because their historical reality, overwhelmingly banal, perhaps, or overwhelmingly disgusting, surpasses anything that the creative imagination can make of them. Writers instinctively shun these topics, it seems to me, and rightly so. It takes considerable nerve, therefore, to do what Timothy Findley has done [in The Wars]—to write a novel squarely about the unspeakable reality of the 1914–18 war in order to make that reality even more unspeakably real. Having read it, we're meant to put his book down angered and disgusted once again by the sheer futility of those four years, with the additional wrenching caused by our concern for the fate of the book's fictional Canadian hero, Robert Ross.

It's plain that Findley realizes he's dealing with intractable material because he camouflages the fiction of his story by pretending that the novel is a species of historical document, taking as its subject the life of Robert Ross, piecing it together from tape-recorded interviews, press-cuttings from the archives, old photographs, diaries, and the like. This technique enables Findley to...

(The entire section is 581 words.)

Thomas R. Edwards

Timothy Findley's "The Wars" is … elegantly written and structured and well aware of what can't be said about important human experiences. (Like other Canadian writers, such as Margaret Atwood, Robertson Davies and Marian Engel, Mr. Findley seems closer and more responsive to natural mystery than his peers south of the border.) (p. 14)

The book has flaws, certainly. Its rather poetic prose sometimes turns overripe. Its climactic moment—when Ross disobeys orders, shoots his commander and leads a herd of panicky horses to what turns out to be their death in a burning barn—is over-prepared for by insistent imagery of horses and fires….

But for the most part "The Wars" is an...

(The entire section is 196 words.)

Gary T. Davenport

[Brevity] is disastrous in the hands of Timothy Findley. In fact understatement of a very slick and ineffective sort is chronically recurrent in The Wars…. The story is well told, the scenes follow each other with sure logic, and, with one or two exceptions, the thematic interest arises naturally from the events instead of being forced.

The stylistic slickness of which I complained consists mainly of the frequent use of telegraphic one-liners (which one reviewer has associated—I think wrongly—with Hemingway) and typographical cleverness obviously calculated to bring the reader to the edge of his seat. (Two-word sentences. One-word paragraphs. Triple spacing. The works.) Another "special...

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Bruce Pirie

In Timothy Findley's novel The Wars, Robert Ross, soon after arriving in Europe, finds himself leading a line of horses through thick green fog. The foul smell of the air puzzles him, but Poole, his batman, detects the odour of chlorine that has soaked into the ground.

The smell was unnerving—as if some presence were lurking in the fog like a dragon in a story. Poole was quite correct; the ground was saturated with gas. Chlorine and phosgene were currently both in use. Mustard gas was still to come.

This matter-of-fact chemical information is typical of the novel's verisimilitude. An almost documentary realism seems to seduce the reader...

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IAN McLACHLAN

[The protagonist of Pound's modernist poem "Hugh Selwyn Mauberley"] is the main character—initially, at least—in Timothy Findley's new novel, Famous Last Words. Immediately, one recognizes it as a brilliant idea that sparks a variety of possibilities in the reader's imagination. Findley has re-invented Mauberley for his own purposes, making him a younger man than Pound's, American, and a novelist. But any artist—according to Brecht, anyway—has the right to steal another man's work, provided he transforms it in the process. And it's in that transformation that the roots of our initial excitement grow. Pound's Mauberley was a symptom of a world that had apparently been wiped out by the First World War....

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Elspeth Cameron

Ezra Pound in his poem sequence "Hugh Selwyn Mauberley" claimed that "The age demanded an image / Of its accelerated grimace, / Something for the modern stage." With benefit of a hindsight denied to Pound, Timothy Findley in Famous Last Words takes up the challenge in a "prose cinema" of dazzling brilliance. Like his earlier novel The Wars, the story revolves around a man trapped in wartime events. Transforming Pound's poetic persona Hugh Mauberley into a plausible fictional character, Findley probes the meaning of history with such insight and skill that Famous Last Words becomes a leap forward in his work….

Through his uncanny descriptive powers, Findley moves outward from a...

(The entire section is 338 words.)