Robert Kroetsch: 1927-2011
I heard today that Robert Kroetsch died in a car accident.
I never studied with him, though I tried to talk my way into Kroetsch's Novel Colloquium at Sage Hill when I was in my mid-twenties.
It didn't work: Steven Ross Smith was polite but it was clear to both of us that I didn't have the credits or the experience.
Another time, I wrote him an earnest letter, asking if he'd be willing to apply to the MWG's Emerging Writer Mentorship Program as a mentor and then, maybe, pick my submission.
But he was just on the cusp of retirement and wrote back to say that couldn't take on another responsibility.
A year and a half ago, when I got the (dreaded) author questionnaire that preceded Hump's publication and had to think about who "would speak for my work," it took me a very long time to come up with a shortlist.
But Kroetsch was the first name on that list.
I mean, I'd lived inside his writing for so many years: The Studhorse Man. The Puppeteer. Badlands. Seed Catalogue, and, most recently, his Too Bad: Sketches Towards a Self-Portrait.
And he had been so friendly and gracious during his years in Winnipeg, teaching at the University of Manitoba.
So I tentatively contacted Kroetsch. And it took him less than a week after my ms. made its way to Leduc, Alberta, where he was living, to get back to me with this:
"Ariel Gordon is superbly, supremely, a poet of the body. She finds words for the physicality of the forest, of the garden, of pregnancy. Hump speaks the erotics of being alive and being in love with being alive." – Robert Kroetsch.
And then I found out that my publisher dislikes blurbs, so it wouldn't be going on the back cover. And then I found out that he'd also blurbed several friends with new books, including Jonathan Ball and Tracy Hamon.
But I didn't care one whit. Because even the idea of Robert Kroetsch, ROBERT KROETSCH, reading my poetry, was enough to make me weep. And twenty years from now, that'll be all that matters.
What I'll remember most was my last exchange with Robert, back in February.
I'd been thinking about Robert of late, how I should send him and email and tell him again how honoured I was to have him read my work.
Robert died yesterday in a car accident on the way home from a reading in Canmore. And I'm just so sad, even though he was 84 and had lived a good long life and was still writing.
My condolences go out to Kroetsch's family, to his many friends and colleagues but, mostly, to his readers.
Here's to you, Robert. Thanks again for everygoddamnthing.
I never studied with him, though I tried to talk my way into Kroetsch's Novel Colloquium at Sage Hill when I was in my mid-twenties.
It didn't work: Steven Ross Smith was polite but it was clear to both of us that I didn't have the credits or the experience.
Another time, I wrote him an earnest letter, asking if he'd be willing to apply to the MWG's Emerging Writer Mentorship Program as a mentor and then, maybe, pick my submission. But he was just on the cusp of retirement and wrote back to say that couldn't take on another responsibility.
A year and a half ago, when I got the (dreaded) author questionnaire that preceded Hump's publication and had to think about who "would speak for my work," it took me a very long time to come up with a shortlist.
But Kroetsch was the first name on that list.
I mean, I'd lived inside his writing for so many years: The Studhorse Man. The Puppeteer. Badlands. Seed Catalogue, and, most recently, his Too Bad: Sketches Towards a Self-Portrait.
And he had been so friendly and gracious during his years in Winnipeg, teaching at the University of Manitoba.
So I tentatively contacted Kroetsch. And it took him less than a week after my ms. made its way to Leduc, Alberta, where he was living, to get back to me with this:
"Ariel Gordon is superbly, supremely, a poet of the body. She finds words for the physicality of the forest, of the garden, of pregnancy. Hump speaks the erotics of being alive and being in love with being alive." – Robert Kroetsch.
And then I found out that my publisher dislikes blurbs, so it wouldn't be going on the back cover. And then I found out that he'd also blurbed several friends with new books, including Jonathan Ball and Tracy Hamon.
But I didn't care one whit. Because even the idea of Robert Kroetsch, ROBERT KROETSCH, reading my poetry, was enough to make me weep. And twenty years from now, that'll be all that matters.
What I'll remember most was my last exchange with Robert, back in February.
Dear Ariel,And I could somehow see him as he was writing this email, the light, his hands on the keys, and it made me so very happy.
I reread your poems this grey Alberta winter morning and marveled once again at your ability to translate the experience of our senses into sensual language. What a gift!
Robert
I'd been thinking about Robert of late, how I should send him and email and tell him again how honoured I was to have him read my work.
Robert died yesterday in a car accident on the way home from a reading in Canmore. And I'm just so sad, even though he was 84 and had lived a good long life and was still writing.
My condolences go out to Kroetsch's family, to his many friends and colleagues but, mostly, to his readers.
Here's to you, Robert. Thanks again for everygoddamnthing.
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