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Sinclair Ross in Letters and Conversation DAVID STOUCK The man whose work we have gathered here to appraise and celebrate has never been awarded a Canada Council grant, has never won a Governor General's Award, has not been made a Companion of the Order of Canada, has never received an honorary university degree or prize. At the same time, no body of short fiction in Canada has been so frequently anthologized, no single Canadian novel has been so often taught, or written about, as Asfor Me and My House. The story of this man and his work, both of which have been ignored and praised, neglected and studied, is the story of a culture that has been slow to develop, that has been ambivalent about its character and worth, and that too often has remained indifferent to what lies outside the boundaries of the popular and successful. It is also the story of a writer from the margins to whom the doors of the literary establishment were never really opened. There is a scene early in his career as a writer to which Ross returns in memory. Before a trip to New York in 1941 to meet his agent and publisher after the publication of Asfor Me and My House, Ross was advised by his Winnipeg friend Roy Daniellsto stop in Toronto and meet E. J. Pratt. When English professor E. K. Brown heard of the young novelist's forthcoming visit, he arranged for a luncheon at Hart House. The late-April stopover in Toronto began badly. Ross went to the office of the wrong Professor Brown, a theologian, but neither was the wiser and the two had lunch together, making polite but desultory conversation. Ross discovered his error before leavingthe city and wasdirected to the office of E. K.Brown, English professor, who proceeded with his arrangements, and Ross found himself in company that included Brown,E.J. Pratt, Earle Birney, Robertson Davies, and Northrop Frye. But for Ross the previous day's error only 6 seemed compounded for he found himself out of his depth surrounded by these literary men, who (or so it seemed to the shy author) not only ignored him but probably looked down on him. This was the Canadian literary establishment—eastern, educated, and exclusively male, whereas Ross was a farm boy from the west, with only grade eleven schooling, and more at ease in mixed company. For the young writer from Saskatchewan this introduction to Canada's foremost authors and educators was largely abortive. He came away, not exhilarated by meeting these men of letters, but disappointed by the certain conviction that he could never be one of their company . Yet Birney was a westerner and Ross admired his poetry, and so eventually he wrote to him from Winnipeg in January 1942. To date this is the earliest Ross letter that 1 have been able to locate. It reads: Dear Mr. Birney, I have read and re-read "David"—and unqualified as I am to pen an opinion on poetry, I would like to let you know how deeply it impressed me. I thought it a moving, sensitively handled piece of work. Some of your lines, particularly "into valleys the moon could be rolled in," and "the last of my youth, in the last of our mountains," made me really envious.I hope you will bepublishing more poems like this one—and soon. With kindest regards, Sinclair Ross Birney replied, warmly thanking Ross for his letter of praise and asking him if he would contribute something to the American magazine Story, which was planning an issue on Canadian writing. Ross sent him "One's A Heifer" and Birney thanked him for what he thought was an excellent story. By the following year both men were enlisted in the army and the Story project had been called off, but they continued to write to each other in England. Their letters are concerned largely with arranging a time and place to meet in London and, after the meeting, the acquaintance concluded, because Ross felt intimidated not only by Birney the university professor but also by Birney the commissioned officer, Ross himself being then only a private. Although the correspondence does not really go anywhere, in one of his letters (dated July 26, 1943) Ross speaks of something that would plague him throughout his writingcareer. He bewails the fact that he cannot turn out the slick magazine fiction that his New York agent wants, "being...

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