Asylum

by Alexis, Andre

• ISBN13: 9780771006708
• ISBN10: 0771006705
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2009-04-07
• Publisher: Emblem Editions

Summary

Alexis's long-awaited second novel follows his award-winningChildhood. Set in Ottawa during the Mulroney years, Asylum is Andre Alexis's sweeping, edged-in-satire, yet deeply serious tale of intertwined lives and fortunes, of politics and vain ambition, of the building of a magnificent prison, of human fallibility, of the search for refuge, of the impossibility of love, and of finding home. Whether he is taking us into the machinations of a government office or into the mysterious workings of the human heart, Alexis is always alert to the humour and the profound truth of any situation. His cast of characters is eccentric and unforgettable, all recognizable in one way or another as aspects of ourselves or people we know well. At the centre of the story, which covers almost a decade, is a visionary project to build an ideal prison, a perfect metaphor for the purest aspects of artistic ambition and for all that is great and flawed in the world. Andre Alexis is a true original, one of the most talented and astute writers writing in Canada today. This dazzling novel is filled with tragedy, dry wit, intellectual grist. It is playful, linguistically accomplished, and psychologically profound. Its yearnings constitute the highest level of human concerns and pursuits. Alexis has written The Great Canadian Novel, with a twist. From the Hardcover edition.

Author Biography

André Alexis was born in Trinidad and grew up in Canada. His debut novel, Childhood, won the Chapters/Books in Canada First Novel Award and the Trillium Award, and was shortlisted for The Giller Prize and the Rogers Communications Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize. Alexis is the host and creator of CBC Radio’s Skylarking. He lives in Toronto.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpts

Little had changed and yet everything had changed. On this, the anniversary of his attempted suicide, WalterBarnes sat in one of the two chairs he nowowned, readingone of his two books. Of the two, a Bible and the ArdenKing Lear, he had chosen the Bible, not for any consciously spiritual reasonbut rather because he found it beautiful and amusing, in particular the Pentateuch, of which he was reading Leviticus.He was not aware that a year had passed since he’d first triedto kill himself. If he had been, he would not have known whether to rejoice or mourn; though, in any case, he might well have chosen to mark the event in this way: reading, at home.

The year had been dull, unworthy of commemoration. He had, for the most part, kept to himself and shunned contact with anyone outside the university. Much of his life had been conducted within the, what was it, three square miles that had for boundaries: the university, the canal, Catherine Street, and the river. And time passed without him being aware of it.

Yes, but this home of his was a residue of the year that had quietly passed. Time had passed, but it had taken with it so much that had seemed important: telephone, television, cable, credit cards, magazines, newspapers, glasses, goblets, snifters, shoes, clothes, books, books, books . . .


He had not chosen the life of an ascetic. It had not been in him to choose one style of life over another. Rather, he had decided not to have his house full of things that would eventually have to be dispersed. He expected to succeed at suicide, sooner or later, and he wished to be ready for his death at a moment’s notice.
The two books he’d kept hadn’t been kept so much as found. They had fallen between the headboard of his bed and the wall. He’d found them in May, after months of living in anticipatory austerity; anticipation of death, yes, but also, after his third failed suicide, of life. He read them for distraction, and for amusement, and as a way to pass the time without company.

So, little had changed?

Hehad changed, it’s true, but in the scheme of things that was nothing at all. And he had not changed all that much. He still taught at Carleton, the books he needed kept on the shelves in his office. He still lived in his house on 3rd, however denuded it now was. He still regretted, though less poignantly, his failings, his childhood, his previous life.

So, whathadchanged?

For one thing, he now realized that death didn’t want him any more than life did. Who knew that his first attempt at suicide would be his most resolute? The second attempt was a sad debacle. It was mid-March, but he had convinced himself the river would not be cold enough to do what he wanted of it, so he bought rat poison, enough to kill a townful of rats. He made his own bread, sifting a quarter cup of strychnine into the flour and kneading it into something that could, if one were kind, be called a loaf. He then made himself spaghetti bolognese, boiling the pasta in water, to which he’d added a spoonful of strychnine. He fried the tomatoes, bacon, and rosemary in a cup of olive oil, to which he’d added two tablespoons of strychnine.

He would have eaten this final meal, but two things happened. First, after setting the table and putting the sticky pasta and thick sauce onto a plate, he went to the door to his backyard. He went to take a final, sentimental look at the night sky, but he was suddenly overcome by the most violent stomach pain. It was all he could do to crawl to the living roomwhere he lay, in agony, for hours, thinking death was upon him.

As he was in the living room, Walter did not hear the neighbour’s dachshund, Otto, come into the house. And so it was Otto, climbing up onWalter’s chair,who ate most of the spaghetti. This was particularly sad, because Walter liked his neighbours, Mr.and Mrs.Molna

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Excerpted from Asylum by Andre Alexis
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.