I was particularly interested in Cohen's early work. There were several boxes of unpublished writing, so I asked for the first three -- someone had been there ahead of me and they were already sitting on the trolley. Each was filled with folders usually consisting of a few pages -- sometimes many pages -- of manuscripts which either he or someone else had typed on "corraseable bond." Look that up if you don't know what it is -- when I was a creative writing student in the late sixties our professor recommended it to us young scribblers. It freed us from sticky Taperaser and bottles of White-Out, those other tools of the trade. Leonard's early manuscripts are all neatly typed on this brittle pink-beige paper, using the same pica typeface, and much of the writing (as one might expect) is sophomoric - after all, he was a sophomore -- and some of it is downright boring. In fact, for the first couple of hours, I struggled to stay awake. I had not been expecting that.
There were short stories. Not many. Neatly typed and formatted for submission to magazines like The New Yorker or the Saturday Evening Post. Some title pages had his mother's address on Belmont Avenue in the top left-hand corner. Others were sent from a room on Stanley Street, just down the hill from McGill. I'm guessing Leonard rented a room downtown not just to write in, but also to entertain ladies, pursuing a career according to the guidelines laid out by Writers Digest for hardworking hacks in the 1950s. This was the era when writers all hankered after the kind of sudden, miraculous fame that was awarded to J.D. Salinger for his first novel Catcher in the Rye. It certainly beat going into the family clothing business.
Leonard's early plots are not lacking in Jewish angst. A young Jewish man is trying to get laid, and with the help of a more experienced friend, hires the services of a call girl.The twist at the end, such as it is: on their first date he asks her to marry him, stealing her from the older man who introduces them -- .
Another story is set on a street in Westmount and concerns a naive teenage boy and the mysterious girl down the street who plays the recorder -- he calls it a "wooden-flute" which angers her so much she cracks him on the head with it. Although she's clearly a controlling bitch, even a budding sadist, he feels drawn to her garage, along with another neighbourhood girl, where both are controlled and punished by Recorder-Girl. This story feels autobiographical and peters out before going anywhere.
A third story was set in a boathouse in the Laurentians, and involved some voyeurism -- as the young Jewish protagonist attempts to entertain a French Canadian couple who are camping nearby, and ends up competing unsuccessfully with the man who is charming and handsome but as they"re speaking English, the Leonard-like character has a certain advantage. Wistfully he watches from a distance as they embrace in their tent with the light on, casting shadows that make him feel envious and alone.
By the time I'd finished these three stories I was beginning to feel Leonard's life-long battle with depression as if it were my own. The boredom and pointlessness were palpable and overwhelming. No wonder publishers rejected these stories which (to be honest) showed little sign of talent or creative imagination. The thought of young Leonard renting a downtown room for the purpose of these hammering out these turkeys made me feel faint. I hadn't realized until then how conventional he was at an age most of us associate with risk and rebelliousness --
Older women show up here and there in these vignette -- that's what these were, rather than stories.n another, a young man is living at home with his mother and elderly grandfather who suffers from dementia, pees on the floor, and needs round the clock nursing care - apparently money is lacking and the narrator feels pervasive hopelessness in the face of a situation that offers no escape but death.
I got the sense that, while still an undergraduate, Leonard often felt overwhelmed and helpless. But he kept on writing, because it offered a way out. He also wrote poems at that age, a few strong ones. The first to get published was the hair-raising "A Hallowe'en Poem" which describes a group of children who are sacrificing birds -- it was published and drew a letter of praise from the rabbi of Hillel House. I'll get back to that theme - sacrifice - later because it's repeated.
Ballet of Lepers, his first (unpublished) novel, fills several folders in the collection. It partly woke me from my library stupour. Carefully written, yet also rambling and unstructured, it provides surrealistic and violent glimpses into the mind of a disturbed young man who is no longer innocent. The characters include an old man modelled on Leonard's grandfather, and the young hero who is having an affair with the wife of one of his professors. There's plenty of desensitization, boredom and cruelty -- in fact these seem to be the main themes of the young Cohen's fiction. The hated mother looms in the background, like the executioner of dreams. There seem to be no dreams in this poet's world,
Ballet of Lepers is nothing like The Favourite Game -- it's an account of a descent into ... mental illness. Not entirely surprising since Leonard ended up in the Allan Memorial under the care of the notorious Dr. Cameron in 1958.
I haven't even mentioned the drafts of early poems, some of which made it into Let Us Compare Mythologies -- they also leave a strange impression, of someone trying very hard to be a poet, as if his life depended on it.
The professor and his wife show up in several folders, including one long short story which has three pages missing from the middle.
And then it got darker, and worse. But the library was closing - it was ten minutes to eight as I fished out the last folder, labeled DISCARDS from A Spice Box of Earth. About a dozen poems in all, precise, polished pieces, describing a pagan ritual on the slopes of a mountain. A little girl, nine years old, is kneeling on the path. A horned figure. And a heart being pulled from a living body. Not just one poem, but several.The images flash by as if in a nightmare, cut from the final draft. Who discarded them: Leonard or his editor? Why?
The smiling librarian took back the box and wished me good night -- he had a slight German accent. There had been no time to copy the poems, or even reread them. They seemed to describe something witnessed, not imagined -- from the time when Dr. Cameron was running amok in the corridors of the Allan Memorial, long before the true nature of his experiments on patients was known.
The missing poems were dark glimpses into the elite secret society that he had joined at McGill. A Spice Box of Earth went on to win the 1961 Governor General's Award for poetry, without those all-important, climactic pages.
I'm on a lake in northern Ontario, the kind of place Canadians used to go to write their brooding first novels -- The blackflies are biting -- it's getting darker. I'm going inside.