applauding anansi

There was a moment lastnight when the audience at the Premiere Dance Theatre wasn’t sure how to react to the various uses of rodents.

Scottish author A.L. Kennedy, reading from her upcoming work, was wryly musing on the logistics of certain Saturday night fetishes.

Lest you think Anansi is another snooty literary institution for the intellectual set, think again.

I couldn’t help but notice Margaret Atwood, sitting in the front row, amused.

Atwood and Kennedy were part of a stellar lineup celebrating the House of Anansi’s 40th birthday.

The venerable Canadian publishing house, founded by Dennis Lee and David Godfrey in 1967, has seen its share of ups and downs. The combination of talented authors with the House of Anansi prove they’re a publishing house with a flair for the contemporary, and a strident supporter of all things poetic, smart, and overwhelmingly Canadian.

With a gracious introduction from host Albert Schultz, the Artistic Director of Soulpepper Theatre Company, Margaret Atwood began the evening’s proceedings with a reading from the essay collection Second Words (1982), On Being a Woman Writer: Paradoxes and Dilemmas.

Oh no, was my initial reaction, I’m not going to understand a thing she’s saying.

Turns out, nothing could’ve been farther from the truth.

Hearing her words brought me back to my time living in England.

Wandering on yet another grey foggy day in 1999, I had, by chance or design, come across an old copy of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own in a Charing Cross bookstore. The timing of the book’s appearance in my life couldn’t have been more auspicious, searching as I was, for precisely that, in more ways than one.

Fast forward eight years. Hearing Atwood’s thoughts about how female writers are viewed and indeed, view themselves, created a profound sense of kinship, one I find deeply, personally relevant, particularly of late.

Believe me Margaret, more than once I've wanted to wear a "Respect Me, I'm a Woman Writer" t-shirt to the supermarket. I just couldn't decide on the font.

Next, Graeme Gibson read an excerpt from his book, Five Legs. He said it was only the second time he’d read from it in public, which, for me, increased its sense of occasion.

Looking at the distinguished figure with the tortoiseshell glasses, I could hardly believe it was he who had climbed up a statue of Egerton Ryerson over 30 years ago and led a chorus of I'm A Yankee Doodle Dandy. (Much as I'd like to see Robert Rabinovitch sit on Glenn Gould's lap on Front Street and do that, I'm not holding my breath.)

I could be wrong, but I sensed a bit of nervousness on Gibson's part, sharing something it took him over six years to produce, with a room full of strangers. It can't be an easy task, to share something so personal. I doubt most writers are ever comfortable reading their own words (or, as I put it, displaying their kids) in front of huge crowds, though Roch Carrier was a notable exception.

I was introduced to the works of Carrier though Barry Callaghan -no slouch himself when it comes to great books. I was a precocious, noisy university student, fed up with reading heavy tomes of dry words and achingly dull storylines; here, said Callaghan, try this and shut up.

The dance of words, character, story and language in La Guerre, Yes Sir! opened up the world of his work, and that of French-Canadian writing, for my hungry mind and starving heart. Incroyable, merci!

Carrier's reading -or performance, more like -of a selection from that most beloved of Canadian tales, The Hockey Sweater, was warm, human, and positively humming with the beautiful rhythm that had so entranced me many moons ago.

Toronto poet Kevin Connolly found an equally hypnotic rhythm as he delivered a deliciously human set of witty and telling observations on daily city life. Elyse Friedman continued the urban theme, giving a stunning reading of a brutal first-dating encounter between online acquaintances from her upcoming book, Long Story Short. As an urban woman, I couldn't help but smirk at the awful familiarity. I noticed a few other women smirking, too.

In between the readings was a gigantic Anansi birthday cake, amiable chat, & the fortunate meeting of some truly incredible people whose own love and history with Anansi made the night even richer. I was shaking when I offered my hand to Monsieur Carrier. What can I say? Pas de mots. I'll never look at a fiver the same way again.

I actually have the evening's host to thank for pointing out that lines from The Hockey Sweater run along the bottom of the bill.

Indeed, the authors weren't the sole entertainers of the evening.

Schultz made a perfect host, mixing a thorough preparedness with his affable personality, boasting, as he tossed Anansi t-shirts out like footballs, that "no other artistic theatre director in this country could hit the balcony." (which he did, twice). No other artistic director would try combining a striptease with a male-girdle prank, either. The old ladies beside me giggled like schoolgirls at that one.

If, as Schultz noted, one were to take into account the amount of time it takes for a single book to blossom, Anansi would be, by such measurement, roughly 100 years old.

Whatever the age, listening to selections from their incredible roster, and meeting some of the great creators and beneficiaries of their output awakened me to the level of contribution the publishing house has made to the fostering and development of Canadian culture.

And it's a culture that is still evolving, as the evening's final reader, the editor of an upcoming book about Toronto band Broken Social Scene, pointed out, before introducing singer Jason Collett to the stage.

Though initially an odd fit, Collett ingratiated himself perfectly with the literati, sharing a story of his own about a Grade 9 dance, a combustible HBC sweater, and the Canadian/American divide in drug culture etymology.

His beautiful melodies, lilting voice, and rich imagery was the perfect conclusion to an inspiring night - one full of connection, community, and humanity.

Never mind the gerbils... here's Anansi.

Here's to forty -or 100 -more.

For more information on The House of Anansi and its authors, go to www.anansi.ca.

For information on the International Festival of Authors, go to www.readings.org.