Robert Allen
I’m in the Second Cup in the Gare Centrale. It’s the Wednesday night Nanowrimo meet and Caro and I came to see what they do and who they are. We were the first ones here, the third one being a Concordia Creative Writing student. I asked him if he knew Robert Allen. He answered no, and informed me of his death, two or three weeks ago.
The last time we communicated was in February, a short while after Anne informed me of his skin cancer diagnosis. When I heard back from her last summer, she mentioned that he was doing better. Then he had a launch for a book of poetry. And now he’s no longer with us. He’s left behind a son and several books, one of which he gave to me.
Without Robert, the course of my MA thesis would have been quite different. Gail Scott told me to consult him for ideas about new “experimental” writers. He was the Editor of Matrix magazine and knew many young and talented authors. I called him and he invited me to visit him in his Concordia office, which overlooked the central hallway in the Birks building. I remember barging into the calm abode, panting and sweaty in my winter coat. One of the first things I told him was that “this,” pointing to the radio playing the CBC classical station, was annoying, “Could we turn it off?” He was always patient and generous. He gave me books of Anne’s when I couldn’t find them at Indigo. He gave me a few cigarettes, some wine and some scotch. He sent me copies of Matrix. We talked literature. He spoke to me of the trade, and of teaching, and of the magic of poetry. He once admitted to me that he started writing to impress girls. Indeed, his quill was a fine one.
I won’t bore anyone, or myself, with my ruminations of how I should have gone to that last book launch, and how I should have emailed sooner to ask how he was doing. Instead, I’ll silently swallow my guilt, and hold many minutes of silence to his memory and honour.
Obituaries from:
Véhicule Press
Jon Paul Fiorentino
The last time we communicated was in February, a short while after Anne informed me of his skin cancer diagnosis. When I heard back from her last summer, she mentioned that he was doing better. Then he had a launch for a book of poetry. And now he’s no longer with us. He’s left behind a son and several books, one of which he gave to me.
Without Robert, the course of my MA thesis would have been quite different. Gail Scott told me to consult him for ideas about new “experimental” writers. He was the Editor of Matrix magazine and knew many young and talented authors. I called him and he invited me to visit him in his Concordia office, which overlooked the central hallway in the Birks building. I remember barging into the calm abode, panting and sweaty in my winter coat. One of the first things I told him was that “this,” pointing to the radio playing the CBC classical station, was annoying, “Could we turn it off?” He was always patient and generous. He gave me books of Anne’s when I couldn’t find them at Indigo. He gave me a few cigarettes, some wine and some scotch. He sent me copies of Matrix. We talked literature. He spoke to me of the trade, and of teaching, and of the magic of poetry. He once admitted to me that he started writing to impress girls. Indeed, his quill was a fine one.
I won’t bore anyone, or myself, with my ruminations of how I should have gone to that last book launch, and how I should have emailed sooner to ask how he was doing. Instead, I’ll silently swallow my guilt, and hold many minutes of silence to his memory and honour.
Obituaries from:
Véhicule Press
Jon Paul Fiorentino
posted by julie at
10:31 p.m.
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