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Spinach with Nutmeg: A Tribute to Timothy Findley MARNIE WOODROW When we speak ofliterary influence, we are usually speaking ofthe impact ofone established writer's words on another aspiring writer. Admiration, reverence and careful study ofa style or voice that seems to us to be GOOD and successful. There is usually an element ofdistance in such apprenticeshlp, wherein we gladly receive the words ofa writer via hls published works. Personal contact with the writerhlmself is uncommon, or rare, and yet if we are speaking of Timothy Findley, we are immediately speaking of the exception to the rule. To many rules. I came to know Timothy Findley through hls books, in hlgh school. The library employed a system of marking Canadian Literature with red maple leaf stickers on the spines ofthe books. I chased this path ofleaves with a fair amount ofignorance , picking randomly from the shelves, and so came upon Mr Findley. The librarian, who was more than familiar with my twin passions for Can Lit and skipping classes, saw thatl held The Butterfly Plague in my hands, and asked ifl would not like to begin with The Wars instead. NO, said I, I would begin with this one. The Butterfly Plague remains my favourite Findley book for two reasons. The author's foreward, in whlch he explains why he felt compelled to rewrite hls novel, shook the foundations ofwhat I believed about books. That each published work was perfect in the eyes of its maker. That once written and published, work could not be taken back, as it were. And yet there was this man, Findley, insisting that hls first version of The Butterfly Plague was not what he had wanted. He drew a comparison to "stage fright" endured by beginning actors, and I was hooked. I was, after all, at that time, determined to become an actress. Writing, although I engaged in it, was notreally in my plans. My second reason for favouring the novel of whlch I speak is that it retains the glow of a "first love," an occasion on whlch I met someone's fictioneering mind and fell for it instantly. It is also an incredible book, written with the eerie, humourous and stirring voice that is Findley. I should not like my hlgh sentimentality to gloss over the technical merits ofthe book itself. The character of Dolly Damarosch is like no one else you will meet in Can Lit, just as NOBODY writes like Tiff Findley. 32 Revue d'itudes canadiennes Vol. 33, No. 4 (Hiver 1998-99 Winter) Lesson number one: real writers admitfailure, and enjoy what it means. Zip forward in time to 1990. The girl who skipped so many classes and gobbled so many books in high school stands behind the cash register in a bookstore. She is no longer sure that being an actress is what she wants. Mr Findley is finishing the arduous task ofsigning box after box ofhis memoirs. As he and Bill Whitehead are passing the register, I collect the spit required to call out to them. In my memory , I remain the babbling cashier asking if there is somewhere I can write to Findley. Throughout his visit to the bookstore I am terrified, too terrified to speak much, to convey my admiration. In my mind I came offas a sputtering, muttering twit, and yet both Tiffand Bill smiled graciously, and provided me with their card. Lesson number two: there is always time to be gracious, even, or especially when, the person addressing you is gripped with nervous terror. After about five drafts of a letter, I finally managed to write to Timothy Findley .and mail the damned thing. I did not expect a reply beyond a polite thank-you, and I'm not even sure I expected that. I tried to thank Findley for writing The Butteifly Plague, and for Inside Memory. And possibly I explained what was, for me at the time, a terrible life crisis. Writing had become an unexpected passion for me and I was not sure how to reconcile that with my longtime dream of becoming Canada's Anne Bancroft. I held Tiff in such high regard that his human presence in...

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