There are plenty of other places in Toronto to buy used books, and some, like ABC Books of 662 Yonge St., even have consistently newer copies. But as for richness of experience, Eliot’s Bookshop of 584 Yonge St. is unparalelled.

The building itself has three stories, each packed floor-to-ceiling with old books in wooden shelves. The customer who finds something of interest on a higher shelf is aided by a fleet of footstools positioned in various strategic locations around the store. And with a selection boasting of something around 60, 000 thousand titles, you’re almost certain to find what you’re looking for. If you act fast, that is. There’s a surprising amount of turnover: on more than one occaision I’ve found that the book I’ve left for a later visit has up and disappeared upon my return.

The last time I entered Eliot’s I found the proprietor on the floor in front of the door with a couple of potential sellers, each standing over a few boxes of books. There wasn’t much space left, so Eliot, as bookish as he might seem, nimbly vaulted over the impossibly high counter to get to his usual perch. When I went upstairs to find what I was looking for I could hear strains of the conversation by the door floating upwards. Eliot wasn’t just haggling over the price of the books, inspecting the titles with the eyes of a shrewd businessman, he was carrying on a conversation about books in general, discussing books he liked, the art of collecting, and even telling one seller that he should hold on to a signed copy of Cohen’s “Book of Longing” because it might be worth something. He might be running the store to make money, but he certainly doesn’t seem to want to step on anyone’s toes to do it.

Collecting seems to be Eliot’s passion, as evidenced by the large shelf of ancient (and beautiful) leatherbound books behind the counter. I asked him about them the first time I entered, wondering if any of them were for sale. “No,” he said, kindly, “these are just for me”. He shrugged and said that the reason he collected was that he “just liked books”, as if that needed any explanation. When I told him I was interested in picking up something with Art Noveau illustrations (naive as I was) he patiently told me that those sorts of books were usually very expensive, but that if I really wanted them I should try church and garage sales. It’s how he built up a large portion of his collection.

When you buy books at Eliot’s, your package is wrapped and taped in a brown paper bag, of a quality much higher than what your mom used to pack your lunch in. It’s a detail that is unnecessary but appreciated, and it makes you feel as if your purchase was special. Special being something that Eliot’s doesn’t need to work hard to be.

I don’t know

Apparently I’m giving out recipes now? THIS BLOG IS ALL OVER THE PLACE. Next thing you know I’ll be interviewing politicians and taking photos of myself with my hair draped in front of my eyes. Just- just because I’m inconsistent. That’s all, really. I’m not making fun of either of those two practices. They are both fine, in their own right. People with those blogs probably make more sense, anyway.


Please, try an experiment with me. Set your oven to 500 degrees. Wait ten or twenty minutes. Scrub a brown baking potato. Put the potato in the oven, directly on the rack. Wait thirty-five minutes. Open the oven. Flip the potato. Close the oven. Wait thirty-five minutes. Open the oven. Take the potato out. Cut a line down the middle, lengthwise, and pop the potato open. Pour a little olive oil in (or anything else you might want). Eat.

Enjoy how the skin forms a crisp outside, one that is tasty and not burnt in any way. Enjoy how the inside becomes melt-in-your-mouth delicate, a texture greatly enhanced with the equally delicate taste of the olive oil. And of course, it is hot. By-god, is it hot. You may want to wait a minute or two for it to cool down a little, if you are that kind of person. But don’t wait too long.

I am not the sort of person who eats baked potatoes. If someone offers me a baked potato, and it is not topped with copious amounts of either shredded or sour cheese, I most likely might say “yuck”. I’ll eat it, sure, but the enterprise doesn’t appeal to me. This is something completely different. You are going to enjoy this potato. It doesn’t matter who you are, or what you like. You are going to like this potato. The only downside is the time required to make it, but this is balanced out by its almost nonexistent preparation time. As long as you have a general idea of when you want to eat, this is not an issue.

One final thing: for every 1/4 pound above the base 1/2 pound potato, add another twenty minutes to the cooking time. So you would cook a 3/4 pound potato for ninety minutes, and a pound potato for a hundred and ten. But because you are cooking in a conventional oven, you can put as many 1/2 pound potatoes in as you’d like and they will all cook for seventy minutes.

(Believe it or not, this recipe is taken from the Achewood Cookbook.)

General questions to calm me down

Lord, don’t give me coffee on an empty stomach. What sort of things was I thinking that I thought that was a good idea? Someone, stop the shaking. It’s terrible.

But there are benefits, too. For instance, you get to wonder what you do, when no one seems to care anymore, and your mind attacks this problem with all the preciseness of a dog accidentally headbutting a door. Which is too say, not very precisely, but at least consistently, and in a way that lets you ignore certain details, like how depressing it is that people might not care anymore!

It’s all so cynical, isn’t it? When did apathy become an accepted political view? Do you feel empowered anymore, like your vote means anything? Do you feel as if what you can do through protests and other things will ever elicit any sort of positive change? Does anyone?

When did we get to the point where the trivial became more important than actual, important things? Should we care that as a society we don’t seem to have any priorities, that no one seems to know who we are anymore? More importantly, should we care that Canadian citizens are being sent to Syrian prisons, apparently, specifically so they can be tortured? Should we care about that? Should we care that large corporations seem to have more say in how we’re governed than we do?

Is this even true? You could certainly draft a capable argument positing it, and that’s probably enough. If you lived in the United States you’d almost certainly be succesful.

Should we care that our standard of living is significantly higher than those of the countries we exploit, mainly for cheap labour and resources? Is that not something we should worry about, the resentment we might cause? Do the ends justify the means? Is it better that we should have more stuff, rather then other countries having what we might consider basic necessities? Would they do the same, in our position? Are we a ravenous, insatiable species, that eats up whatever we can get? Are we forced to compete because if we didn’t someone else might, or someone who is doing a good job of competing already might take things that we’ve already earned? Does the global community mean that we have to be ever-vigilant in these matters, fighting for scraps of land and resources?

Or is that just what we’re taught? Does it always have to be this way? Does success in life really equal success economically and politically?

Maybe. That’s certainly the trend throughout history. Those with the better resources and tools conquered or absorbed those without. Biologically, they were more successful. That happened on every continent, even before Europeans. So should we be surprised? Can we logically expect this to end?

Or are we more enlightened, now? Is there a way that we can end this, and rise above our instincts? You’d think that we are capable of it. We’ve put more energy into more trivial and more destructive things. We’re certainly aware of the problem, there’s no debate as to whether it exists. The discrepancy is real. We’re living unsustainably, in more ways than one because, largely, we’re not the ones who pay for it. So what do we do?

ALSO TIMMY COULD YOU GRAB ME A SODA PLEASE -- HA HA JUST KIDDINGSince it’s weekly, I thought I might as well put a little more effort into the Canada Creation Myths that The Newspaper publishes. Also, it appears that I’m competing with the other comics for size. I’d like my comics to be printed larger than my thumb.

The First Days

We cut walls from his clothes, draping suit-backs over posts and making beds from his pockets. We wrapped ourselves tight with the scraps, packed in warm, and put ourselves to sleep. The jungle ate his flesh, and we were glad because that meant that we didn’t have to. In three days he was covered over from head to toe with vines and other things, flowers and little frosty, curling leaves. We dug for roots while we waited, spread branches to waterproof our roofs, because we had nothing else to do. We could have kept moving but we were glad when we didn’t, when flowers turned into fruit. Yes, we ate from his body. We ate from his body because it was good and we were running out of roots.

We learned to bleach linen, and made maps with the charcoal from the remains of his axe. Slowly we pushed deeper into the jungle, and our maps increased in size to keep pace with our exploration. We found many things. There was the cave with the strange root growing near it, the taro that we could pull from the ground and eat raw with our bare hands, juice turning our fingers pink. There was the lake too, with waters so clear that you felt as if you could look down for miles, and not dead either, you could see the many fish that you wanted to kill with your spear. In the middle it was darker, but we did not go there.

The jungle held many things, and eventually we learned the uses of all of them. Many of the rocks we found flaked too easily, but some were good for tools and others could be melted down and turned into bronze. There were many plants, but not many that provided us with food, though we had enough. The flowers, eventually, stopped sprouting. We used the leaves for tea and the visions we saw told us to build a citadel on his chest. So we cleared some land and piled some rocks and felled some trees until we had a fortress, a place high and safe from the rest of the jungle. We brought in our beds and used the cloth from our homes to build a tent in the middle, where we got down on our knees and prayed. Why had he forsaken us, and left us alone in the world?

In the Footsteps of Giants

The sun is lost in the egg. It returns only in the form of a half-shimmer refracted dimly from one of the many smooth and ancient craggs that dot its surface. It’s much bigger than I thought it would be. Zhou Enlai smiles broadly, exposing three capped teeth, and slowly passes it to me.

“Do you see why we had to stop in Antsirabe?”

I can’t speak so nod, and hold out my arms in an attempt to receive the egg gingerly. This is impossible. More than its size, and at its widest point it measures almost three feet, what really impresses me is the weight. It’s full. I gape, rolling the bulk of the egg back and forth in my hands, convincing myself that I can’t be hearing what I know I am: sloshes, slight splashes, what must but can’t be the yolk. There is only so much of this I can take before I give up, screw up my eyebrows and ask Zhou what’s inside.

He smiles. “What do you think?”

“It sounds like a full egg. It feels like one, too.”

He barks an order and it disappears, is taken from my hands by a porter and secreted away into a padded box stamped with the insignia of the People’s Republic of China.

“That’s exactly right,” he says.

“But that can’t be. That egg couldn’t be any less than three hundred years old. There’s got to be another explanation.”

“There is. It’s fresh.”

Zhou Enlai is an imposing man, not tall, but what he lacks for size he makes up in pure energy. On the trails he bounds ahead of me, the group, pausing only to point out a rare bird, bug, or lizard. From August to May he is a professor of zoology at Duke University, a job he says he enjoys because he “mostly doesn’t have to deal with any lacrosse students”. His smile is framed by a month-0ld beard, trimmed during the school year, he says, but now allowed to grow out, black hairs curling over the tan parts of his face. The straps from his pack dig into his blue flannel shirt, and his hiking boots are as worn as the dirt road. In other words he is exactly what you might expect from an excited young scientist working in the field.

But his is no ordinary research expedition, and he is leading no team of graduate students. He has been commissioned by the Chinese government to do something that few scientists working above sea level have in the last hundred years: explore.

“Right now, big things are happening in China,” he says, by way of explanation. “There have been many changes. Suddenly China is on top of the world again. She wants to prove to her citizens and to everyone else that she deserves to be there. This is a piece of that. Chinese must be seen to lead in every field. And for zoology, the best way to do that is to find something.”

He’d been to Madagascar before, as a student in the early nineties, and more recently as part of a group of researchers investigating the effects of logging and farming on some of the island’s rare indigenous animals, many of which exist in no other place in the world.

In Magarano, on the eastern coast, he met a Malagasy trader from the interior village of Antsirabe named Sauakari who told him that he had seen an elephant bird, a creature of amazing proportions extinct since the beginning of the eighteenth century. Zhou was interested, but his commitment to his project prevented him from investigating further. He did, however, set Sauakari up with an international calling card and instructions to contact him at Duke if he saw anything else. It was only months later that the trader acquired the egg, apparently found in an abandoned nest. That was all that Zhou – and the Chinese government – needed to get started.

“The egg is enough. But they have the shells of four in the Smithsonian, and of at least one in every major museum in the western world. And no one else has a live elephant bird.”

The elephant bird, otherwise known as the voura patra, is the largest bird to survive into the modern era. At eleven feet tall and 1100 pounds, it is believed to be the inspiration for the mythical Roc, its tales carried into the West by Arabic and Indian traders. Though never seen by a European, it was well known to the islanders, who used its eggs for food and to make ritual artifacts.

In 1658 the French Governor of Madagascar, Étienne de Flacourt, wrote one of the only contemporary accounts of the elephant bird when it was described to him by the natives. He paints it as “a large bird which haunts the Ampatres and lays eggs like the ostriches”, saying that it was forced to place its eggs in only “the most lonely places” so that people might not take them. Oral accounts of the bird seem to agree with this assessment, describing the bird as a shy, peaceful giant. But could it really have survived into the present without anyone noticing it?

“It’s certainly possible,” says Zhou. “The Ivory-billed woodpecker, for example, has gone ‘extinct’ several times, only to be rediscovered again and again after a period of a few years. And that’s with people actively looking for it. In Borneo they think they’ve discovered a new species of civet, possibly, which no one on the island has ever seen before. So for the elephant bird to continue on in this island, with all its dense jungles… well, that’s why we’re here.”

And, of course, there’s the egg. Concrete evidence always helps when you’re dealing with vague possibilities. But Zhou isn’t so sure that the egg’s evidence can be defined as ‘concrete’. “I do think it’s real. But the fact is that I offered Sauakari a lot of money. He’s earning much more as our guide than he would be otherwise. So we can’t be sure until we get it into a lab. It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened before.”

That’s true. The history of zoology is an interesting one, and it is filled with as many clever hoaxes as amazing discoveries. Most of these date back to colonial times, when new settlements were forced to compete for homeland attention and funding. But perhaps the most well-known example is also one of the most recent: the famous photograph of the Loch Ness monster, showing an inky silhouette rising up from the depths of the lake, was in reality a fake. The hoax was masterminded by Marmaduke Wetherell, who was hired in 1933 to track down the beast for London’s Daily Mail, and was able to convince a respectable gynaecologist to pretend he had taken the picture, giving the picture an air of credibility. What is perhaps most interesting about the photograph is that even those who did not believe it to be the monster believed that it was genuine, thinking it might be some other creature like a fish or an otter. The revelation that it was fake dealt a serious blow to the study of cryptozoology, the study of creatures about which evidence is uncertain, a field already choked with amateurs.

“There is a sense that what we’re doing right now isn’t real science,” Zhou tells me early one morning, both fingers wrapped tight around his steaming cup of coffee. “That I’d be better off in a lab or, if in the field, studying an animal that we already know much about. Maybe that’s true: there is something unrealistic in searching for dinosaurs in the congo, abominable snowman in the Himalyan mountains. But I didn’t become a scientist to reinforce the status quo. I’m not in this field to blindly accept the work of those that came before me. I want to challenge the authorities, find something thought lost and eliminate the mystery. I want to show others that science is not something static but ever-changing, constantly evolving to meet new information, and not staid enough to refuse all wild dreams. I want to teach all of this to a new generation of Chinese scientists, the ones young enough to still get excited by this.” Here he pauses and laughs, takes a sip of his coffee. “This is going to sound corny, but I want the world to grow. Even if it’s only by one bird and a handful of scientists.”

He smiles and stares into a middle distance.

“Even if it’s only by one bird.”

As much as he waxes poetic about the future and present of science, Zhou Enlai is not a man entirely without motive. There is, of course, the enormous fame he would enjoy both at home and abroad, fame which might help ease the return of the potential prodigal son.

“I love China, but before, it was no place to live. My grandfather was forced to work twelve hour shifts in a coal mine, then spend his evenings searching the slag heap for waste coal which he could bring home and use to provide heat for his family. It was terrible, and they were very poor, but he refused to leave. There’s something that I admire in that. The pride, I think. Not only in yourself but in your country. My father was more realistic and he left as soon as could, and I admire that too. Maybe I wouldn’t have had the same opportunities if he had stayed in China.

“I wasn’t born there, but I feel a deep connection. Of course there’s the language, which I grew up speaking. But it’s something else, too. I feel roots. My dad thinks I’m crazy. He’s only been back a few times. But when I go there, it’s almost as if I am wading in history, as if that’s the place that I really belong, where my children will belong. It’s difficult to explain. I don’t get the same feeling when I go back to my old hometown, to Brooklyn. So much has changed that I don’t feel as if I live there any more. It exists in my memories only, that’s it, maybe I know a few landmarks but they aren’t the same as when I was small.”

He couldn’t have moved back before because it would have been “too unstable”, he says. But his contract at Duke is almost over and he’s thinking of leaving. He wants to be in China for the Olympics, a moment of triumph that he believes will usher in a new age for his people, though he concedes it will also be an incredibly touristy morass. “It could be busy, smelly, whatever. I don’t care. It will be ours.”

This is a common phenomenon among second-generation members of immigrant families, the identification with a country that at best might be hazy blotch in their memories, at worst, and typically, nothing at all. For these people, who only start to gain first-hand knowledge of their “homelands” as adults, the tendency is to glaze over the often harsh realities and romantise the country, in some cases even renouncing the citizenship of the one in which they were born. It happened in the 1980s in Jewish suburbs of New York, with the second generation kids of more or less Americanised parents growing forelocks and “returning” to Israel. More recently it was evidenced by the London bombings, terrorist attacks orchestrated for various reasons, but by mainly English-accented second generation members of immigrant families, identifying themselves with countries and ideas that their parents fled. That isn’t to say that Zhou is anything as radical as a terrorist, but it does shed some light on his enthusiasm for the search.

For example, why he might be more willing than others to ignore bad omens and accept incomplete evidence. Which is why, on a hilltop overlooking a valley crowded with trees, he might be more compelled to point at a loose collection of dead plant matter and call it a “nest” instead of its much more common name, which is “mud”. Which is exactly what he’s doing, basing his assumption on nothing more than a hunch and a shrug from Sauakari, whose people told many stories about the bird, but none about its nest.

The uninspiring clump of damp sod is little more than four feet in diameter, roughly sized, with a barely perceptible buildup along the edges, a slight ridge, something you have to squint to see, almost like a magic eye. One could imagine the elephant bird fitting into such a space, even raising chicks there, but one’s imagination would have to be very active. For one thing, there isn’t enough of a lip to suggest that the space was occupied by an eleven-hundred pound bird, let alone one laying such massive eggs. For another, there aren’t any feathers. None of this, of course, phases Zhou.

“We’re close, I can smell it. This is the first step, it always is,” he says, as he dances around the site, occaisionally pointing out something he considers interesting to the team of two Chinese photographers circling it with cameras at their faces, supplying a constant sober stream of flashbursts and slight steps.

“It’s very old. That’s the problem. And it’s slightly exposed on this hillside, with some of the tree cover looking like it has recently been blown down. The wind would have scattered the feathers, flightless or not that’s what they’re designed for. The odd shape of the nest could also be attributed to this, perhaps the wind shifted some of the building materials in one direction, as it certainly did help to flatten them. But of course, that’s pure speculation. No one knows what size the elephant bird builds their nest because we’re the first ones to take a look at it.” He smiles broadly and pats me on the back, almost knocking me over. “Isn’t it exciting!”

I have to admit that it is, though only if the nest is in fact that of the voura patra. If it isn’t, it will turn out to be anything but.

Three weeks into the expedition, and it’s our best evidence so far. Our only evidence, in fact, aside from the egg, which we can’t be sure is real, or know fully where it came from. Hardly an auspicious start to an enterprise meant to bring glory to a nation of over a billion people.

We camp nearby for a week, for the nest and the hope that, somewhere nearby, we might find another sign. We don’t, however, and soon leave.

On my last day in camp, Zhou and I sit by the fire, watching pots boil and porters folding tents and slipping metal tools into place. The air is as charged as the steam rising through it, the whole camp a flurry of motion. The expedition is splitting in half, with most of us returning home by way of Antananarivo, Zhou remaining behind with Sauakari and a few others. He’s going to keep looking for as long as possible, he says, though he doesn’t think he’ll have to.

“It’s shy. It keeps a low profile. Sauakari was alone when he saw it, for example. I think that it’ll be easier to track with less people. We’re aiming for invisibility.”

As Zhou continues, I can’t help but noticing his manic energy, the almost frantic way that he moves his hands when he speaks. He’s eager to get back and working on the egg, but he doesn’t want the rest of the expedition to be a total failure.

“The odds were low coming out here. I have to admit that. I thought maybe with Sauakari’s help… but the chances of him running into that thing were one in million, maybe more than that, and not likely to be repeated so easily. I’m sure it’s out there. This jungle is huge, and dense, and besides that it’s probably easier for the bird to move through it than us. But I don’t think that it’s impossible. We’ve learned a lot since we started here. I think it’s only a matter of time.”

But when I shake hands with Zhou and say my goodbyes he’s a different man, and perhaps the realities of the search have sunk in, realising that it’s not as easy as he thought it was going to be. There’s a grim sort of energy pouring out of his eyes, a certain rigidity in his lower jaw that wasn’t there before, in a face earlier so quick to smile. But there’s something else in his eyes too and it’s not hard to make out: the creature is eleven feet tall, and weighs over a thousand pounds. The voura patra; the elephant bird.


I’m working on a big entry right now which seems to grow (in terms of its length and where I believe the ending to be) every time I sit down. So it may take a while. I was originally going to post it in parts but we all know that that doesn’t work, and I want to see it finished. Sit tight.

“There is no such thing as natural meaning. The critic creates the meaning.”

Prof. J. paces the front of the class, an open book held at the spine being used as an aid to his frantic and excited gesturing. His glasses are coke bottle thick and he is young, having all of the freshness of a just-picked peach. The students say nothing, only scribble feverishly into their books, pens moving in unison, twirling upwards in counterclockwise whorls. J. continues.

“Once a work of art is created, such as a novel, it takes on a life of its own. It’s no longer in the hands of the creator, and, if it is worthwhile, it becomes our clay. It’s our job, as academics, to mine the classics for metaphors and to continuously find new ways for them to be relevant to the social issues of today.”

Surprised, I find that there is no shock of fear running through the class. Though the subject of their study has just been completely invalidated, the students seem oddly reassured, smiles even ghosting the lips of those who, from the professor’s words, can sense hints of their own future importance. It only takes me a moment to realise the reason behind the relative calm: these are English literature students, and for them contradiction is a way of life, metaphorical butter to their metaphysical bread. After all, if the students within the program hold any sort of belief that they are attending University for their future, for their careers, then it is easy to see how a contradiction-coping mechanism might become ingrained, bred into them over time.

Later, I talk with Professor J. about the problems with his description of the program. “Well, what did you expect? There has to be some sort of value attached to the discussion of other people’s works. And since we’re the ones who control it we get to assign it.”

But isn’t that a conflict of interest? Shouldn’t the importance of the critics be decided by the critics of the critics?

“We are the critics of the critics. There’s no one else. We’re self policing. It’s not a conflict of interest. If I say that my work is more relevant there is always someone else around to say that his work is more relevant. ‘Correctness’ is determined by consensus.”

So what’s the point?

“If you were listening, the point is a marriage of literature and contemporary social issues, regardless of when any particular book was written. Criticism is an art too, it just operates in a different way.”

Such as leaching triumphs of their meaning in order to feed one’s puffed up egos? But Professor J. doesn’t have an answer for me, anything more than a simple reiteration of the above points. Criticism is an art? Sure. Careful criticism, maybe. But not criticism so bold as to treat its subjects as building blocks, base things that can be put together in any way, so long as they serve someone’s arguments. The material within must be respected, the art praised for its relevance to its own time, to humanity, and to nothing else. Criticism can be an art, but only if it recognises that the creation of something worth criticising is infinitely harder than critiquing it, and that the reassessment of a text is an act that approaches meaninglessness the further you stray from the road.

At the Virgin Music Festival

I thought he was dead, we all did. It was a forgone conclusion. What else could he be? Where else could he have gone? He had to have died, somehow, somewhere, and the police and his parents were forced to agree.

But there it was, right in front of me, on a screen thirty feet high, in words of at least eight inches. He’d signed his name the way he’d always signed his name, and the syntax was the same, I was sure of it. What a place to find him, what a terrible place! In between lame jokes and marriage proposals text-messaged to a Nokia scrolling message board rolling beneath the live feed. At the concert, in the crowd, and he was there!

I looked for him. Of course I looked him! What joy could the bands bring knowing he was there? But it was dark and his face was blurred if I saw it, though I stared hard at every figure, scanning hard for details, pinching my eyes tight, running iris over bodies until I found something, wrestled it out of the dirt: a large nose, too crinkled; a smiling mouth, too small. If he was there, I could not find him, if he was ever there at all.