Yesterday's post, I mentioned the book "I Have Heard The Owl Call My Name". I intentionally mis-attributed authorship to one fictional J. Myron Lipshitz because, hey, hearing an owl call that name would really be something.
"I Have Heard The Owl Call My Name" was in fact written by Margaret Craven, a name marginally more likely for an owl to pronounce.
It's an musty story about a white minister and an old First Nations village. While the topic of cultural clash is important, the setting of the book strikes me as powerful and evocative unless you are a frequent rider of the BC Ferry system, in which case you would have seen the book a dozen times from the comfort of the Starfish Deck. Written well before the residential school scandal of recent years, the book provides a very chilling yet unintentional glimpse into the darkest heart of the conflict between aboriginal peoples and our white government. Other than that, it has not aged well.
So, I like the rare J. Myron Lipshitz edition much better.
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