OPINIONS AND NOTESit was felt in the literary community likea sudden withdrawal <strong>of</strong> current, a dimming<strong>of</strong> lights. This consciousness <strong>of</strong> theloss <strong>of</strong> a distinct vitality is still with us.Marian did not go gently. There was n<strong>of</strong>olding up <strong>of</strong> tents here, but rather thefeisty determination to be taken, if at all,in midsentence, to leave her voice stillringing. She has left those <strong>of</strong> us whoknew her and respected her work with acontinuing regret for a life too early, aunique voice too soon interrupted.Born in Toronto in 1933, Marian Passmorewas raised in various towns in Ontario,where her father worked as a highschool teacher. She managed to takeevery course in English Lit. which Mc-Master <strong>University</strong> <strong>of</strong>fered and stillemerge with a degree in French andGerman, in 1955. At McGill <strong>University</strong>she completed a thesis on CanadianLiterature under the guidance <strong>of</strong> HughMcLennan, and received her M.A. in1957. Subsequently, she taught at Acadia<strong>University</strong>, Montana State <strong>University</strong> atMissoula, and The Study School in Montreal.In 1961 she attended the <strong>University</strong><strong>of</strong> Aix-Marseille at Aix en Provence,on a Rotary Scholarship. For a periodshe taught in private schools in England,and worked as a Financial Translator.In 1962 she married Howard Engel,with whom she travelled to Nicosia,Cyprus, where she taught at the St.John's School. On their return to CanadaMarian eventually gave birth totwins, Charlotte and William, and settledin to the hectic life <strong>of</strong> a mother andhousewife who is also a socially consciousand political human being, as well as,beyond all this, but permeating all, aconstantly working writer. She exploredgenres, writing in the third floor attic <strong>of</strong>the house on Brunswick, <strong>of</strong>ten able t<strong>of</strong>ind time to work only at night. Once— viscisitudes <strong>of</strong> motherhood — she describedto me the night when she lookedup from her work and saw outside theattic window, hanging from the ro<strong>of</strong>,little son William grinning in at her.In those early years she wrote plays,radio documentaries, journalism, children'sstories, and finally found her preferredforms in the novel and short story,though she could still turn her hand, inneedy times, and produce craftswomanlyprose in whatever form required. In 1968she published No Clouds <strong>of</strong> Glory (sincere-issued as Sarah Bastard's Notebook),in 1970 The Honeyman Festival, Monodromos(since re-issued as One WayStreet) in 1973, and Inside the EasterEgg in 1975. These early works are strikingparticularly for the crisp elegance <strong>of</strong>their prose and the surprising depthswhich she could suggest beneath the apparentlyordinary surfaces <strong>of</strong> the heroineswho carried the burden <strong>of</strong> her stories.At this period Marion Engel was playinga key role in the organization <strong>of</strong> TheWriters Union <strong>of</strong> Canada and became itsfirst Chairperson. She spearheaded thestill continuing battle for writers to receivecompensation for library use <strong>of</strong>their works. A staunch member <strong>of</strong> theNDP she was active in civic politics andon the City <strong>of</strong> Toronto Library Board.Separated from her husband, she wasfinally divorced in 1977.The 1976 publication <strong>of</strong> the brilliantnovel Bear won her at last the seriousattention she deserved. This fable <strong>of</strong>mythic proportions, realistically dressedfor maximum viability in the Canadiancultural climate, brought her a certainamount <strong>of</strong> notoriety as well as the GovernorGeneral's Award for Fiction in 1976.Daring in conception, masterful in stylisticcontrol, perfect in pitch, it establishedthe mature craft found in her next twonovels, The Glassy Sea ( 1978) and LunaticVillas ( 1981 ). The former is a seriousexamination <strong>of</strong> female isolation and spiritualneed, and the latter a kind <strong>of</strong> unbuttoned"Tempest"-like mature comedy<strong>of</strong> a large hearted and slightly
OPINIONS AND NOTESfuddle-headed collector <strong>of</strong> stray childrenwho lives on a street in Toronto wherepalpable, if zany, people conduct theirlives with a sense <strong>of</strong> magic and possibilityalways hovering and sometimeseven descending to illuminate their dayswith small, bearable miracles. The variety<strong>of</strong> these two works hints at the worldswhich Marian Engel might yet have createdfor us.The last time I saw Marian, in herhome some four days before her final tripto the hospital, she said to me suddenlyjust as I had risen to leave, "You knowI've figured out why I haven't been ableto finish my novel. I'm afraid that whenI finish it I'll die." And then veryquickly, with a mischievous grin, "SoI've begun to make notes for my newnovel."I was so grateful that she'd given mesomething to be enthusiastically encouragingabout that 1 left with the convictionthat the gambit could even work.There was so much vitality here that shemight indeed be able to pull that novelfrom the teeth <strong>of</strong> the ultimate brute.And then why not another? It was thecocky line <strong>of</strong> an indomitable lady, butDeath had not the imagination to playSultan to her Scheherazade. And we arethe losers.ADELE WISEMANPERSONALCOMPUTERS &PERSONAL PROGRAMSTHE ADVENT OF the personal computerhas created two quite distinct opportunitiesfor the people who buy them. Thefirst opportunity is symbolized, in effect,by a large s<strong>of</strong>tware industry that producesa myriad <strong>of</strong> computer games,learning programs, word-processing programs,and so on. The second opportunityis symbolized by the personal computeritself sitting fresh and new on one's desk.An issue <strong>of</strong> personal freedom arises inthe context <strong>of</strong> this heady market, anissue that is rarely (if ever) aired innewspapers, magazines, or journals. It is,moreover, an invisible issue becausepeople, especially new consumers <strong>of</strong>home computer hardware and s<strong>of</strong>tware,are most hynotized by what might becalled the hardware/s<strong>of</strong>tware mystique:if the average consumer is unable singlehandedlyto produce hardware as sophisticatedas a modern computer, then heor she must be equally inept in the production<strong>of</strong> s<strong>of</strong>tware. The attitude isslightly overstated but it results in a condition<strong>of</strong> creative bondage that can onlybe called s<strong>of</strong>tware slavery. To make mattersworse, there is little incentive towrite programs <strong>of</strong> one's own when seeminglyevery conceivable program for homecomputers has already been written. Thisis very far from the truth, especiallywhen personal computers are viewed asvehicles <strong>of</strong> personal expression. It isprobably overly optimistic to suggest thatan era <strong>of</strong> personal programs is about tosucceed the era <strong>of</strong> personal computers.For one thing it is hardly in the interest<strong>of</strong> the home computer s<strong>of</strong>tware industryto encourage consumers to write theirown programs. Given the by now traditionalinterdependence <strong>of</strong> the hardwareand s<strong>of</strong>tware sectors, one cannot expectsalvation from the producers <strong>of</strong> hardwareeither. Finally, learning to writeprograms is not an easy task.Two years <strong>of</strong> experience as the author<strong>of</strong> Scientific American's (apparently popular)Computer Recreations column hasbrought the existence <strong>of</strong> s<strong>of</strong>tware slavesto my attention. Every time I describeda programming project that producedspectacular visual results or spurred fascinatingintellectual quests, there wereletters from hundreds <strong>of</strong> readers asking200
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