Herewith, the latest selection from dusted-off published poetry and short fiction, circa 1970s vintage and beyond....
Waiting for the Messiah - a Memoir, Irving Layton with David O'Rourke
McClelland and Stewart, 25 Hollinger Road, Toronto
c. 1985. Hardback, 264 pages.
To this reader, it is hard to reconcile the initial chapter of this book with the succeeding ones. Indeed, the further one delves in this memoir the more it appears as though the reader has been made privy to the maturing of a writer. The beginning chapters have a naivete, an arrogance and even a kind of silliness (deliberately playful, let us dare hope) which is off-putting and unworthy of the literary stature of this man, despite his flamboyance and provocative style.
But, for those of you who may decide to embark upon this reading adventure, a word of advice - persevere. It's worth it, for the work steadily improves and becomes less tendentiously tedious (the initial style and content going far to give credence that some people will do anything for attention and that advanced age is no guarantor of social or emotional maturity) and progressively interesting.
Less, alas, as a result of Layton's own life experience, more as a fallout of his place in the times he writes of, and his relationships, close, tenuous, distanced or what-have-you, with other, more interesting, and sometimes more talented people than he.
Which is not to deny the man's estimable talent. I have tried to in the past, mind, when his misanthropic and seemingly misogynist attitudes have infuriated me to the point of denying the man his due - and my adversary-in-opinion has been none other than my husband, an ardent admirer of this latter-day bard - an unhappy experience.
Layton begins his memoir, logically enough, at the beginning. We are informed that the incipient poet was 'born with the smell of baked Challa in his nostrils', a startling revelation but infinitely less so than his other well-known claim, that he was born with the messianic sign - already circumcised. This affectation does not grow dim with the passage of time, but since it offers a kind of comfort to the man there is no point denying him that cushion.
During his growing, and omnivorously-reading years, he imbibed stories of the lives of other saviours and heroes, including Moses, Buddha, Alexander the Great - whose own births were accompanied by bizarre circumstances, as his was. Thus was born a legend of self.
Once departing from that thesis, we are introduced to life in the Lazarovitch family, with father Moishe, a soft-spoken, pious and scholarly man who brought the shtetl with him to Montreal; mother Klara who shrieks curses down upon young Irving's hapless head; siblings Avrum, Dora, Esther, Gertie, Harry, Hyman and Larry. And, of course, the extended family members, most particularly the men whom sisters had wed, and whose foibles and coarseness are discoursed upon at length. Layton's childhood was not a happy one.
In a background of grinding poverty, in a family whose orientation was mercenary (how else survive in the hostile environment for immigrant Jews in turn-of-the-century Montreal?), the emerging intellectualism of the young boy with a mischievous temperament was a puzzle and a nuisance to his family. While Layton was increasingly drawn by education, with an emphasis on literature and the beauty of language, his increasingly alienated family demanded that he assume the life of an itinerant peddler, an occupation at which, fleetingly, given his gregarious character, he was able to succeed very well at.
But Layton had a self-vision of a glory greater than earning dollars with which to support himself, and eventually evolve into budding mercantilism. His love of, and admiration for poetry, was first inspired by the beautifully rendered readings of Tennyson's Ballad of the Revenge by one of the few teachers for whom Layton had some modicum of respect at Baron Byng High School.
In total, Layton's experiences with teachers in general throughout the public school system, and on into college were dismal, demoralizing affairs for the budding scholar/poet. Insensitive clods they were, demineralized, myopic, harsh, coldly demanding and censorious of the high-spiritedness of a rebellious adolescent with a penchant for learning, but only in the environment of nurturance, which was, alas, a scarce commodity.
He had a budding romance, both with a young woman (and by extension, her mother) and with the dialectic of communism. With the former because he was a normal, lustily yearning young male, the latter because it was socially verboten. After that flirtation, Layton dabbled, with friends who drew him into their circle, with socialist ideals. He met, and became a personal friend of David Lewis whose analytical and brilliant mind he appreciated, but whose oratory he felt was far from brilliant. Through Lewis he met Abraham Klein, then a young articling lawyer, and language-precise, fiery poet with whose help he was able to master Latin, and make his senior grades.
A chance encounter led him to attend college, at a time when Layton was drifting along, with nothing much else to do but earn the odd dollar to keep a roof over his head and go to meetings at the Young Peoples' Socialist League communist meetings, and Horn's Cafeteria, the hangout for social radicals of the time where social responsibility, proletarians' rights, Marx and Engels, the Communist Manifesto, the evils of the capitalist class, unions and labour were discussed with resounding vigour, and the pilpul of opinion had its day.
In that forum Layton was exposed to the explosive mixture of socialist and communist thought, Trotskyism, anarchism. It was a heady, pleasing ongoing experience for the young man, which he balanced with his private readings of Shelley and Keats, trying to hone his own, by then, not inconsiderable skills, both as an orator, and a poet. Very little of the social cant, of the traditional exposition to which he was exposed was taken at face value; he observed and trod daintily among the ideals and ideas, although his admiration for some of the exponents knew no bounds.
This was the Quebec of the Catholic Church with its stranglehold on the thoughts and minds of Quebecois; it was the Quebec of Arcand, and of police brutality. And this was a Layton whose mind and heart were torn between social activism and literary endeavour. In the end, his literary ambitions emerged victorious, although there is an inescapable thread of social activism in the warp and woof of his literary work.
The college of Layton's choice turned out to be Macdonald College, chosen for the logical reason that it was the only institute of higher learning which he could manage to afford. Associated with McGill University, the only degree this college conferred was that of Agriculture and this explains neatly why Layton's degree is in this area.
Because of the cautious, conservative, intellectually stilted atmosphere of the college, Layton decided that he would form a speakers' club which he called the Social Research Club. To its regular meetings he invited the then-president of the Royal Bank of Canada, followed in fairly rapid succession by the pacifist Lavell Smith, the fabled Dr. Normal Bethune, and the founder of the CCF, J.S. Woodsworth. His plans to also invite Tim buck were thwarted by the organized efforts of other members of the student body who feared the college would be irremediably tainted red, thus scuttling their future plans for a civil service career.
Layton experienced a great deal of satisfaction in knowing that exposure to these fiery speakers of the time, some of them exceedingly controversial, opened up the minds of their student listeners. Even so, the reputation that Layton acquired while at the college was not that of a social facilitator, but that of a rabble rouser, and both the unlikely appellations of 'Hitler' and 'Trotsky' often crowned his reputation there.
Layton mourned the sad fact that while at college the literary-poetic idols held to review and admiration were those of the era of Edwardian England, and as delightful and earth-shaking at their time as they were, they did not reflect the social and cultural tradition of the country and the times which he inhabited. He professes to some bitterness at not having been exposed to the works of T.S. Eliot, Hart crane, and Walt Whitman, let alone Canadian poets like Lampman, Bliss Carman or E.J. Pratt.
This lack left him with the impression for too long, he felt, that he could do no better than to emulate their style. It was when he became exposed through his own search and pique to the work of these ground-breakers that it dawned upon him what progressive poetry, free verse reflecting the temper of the times could really accomplish.
The man, obsessed with the earthiness of life, of passions unleashed, scorning convention and the limpid and sexually repressed poetic style of his peers, evolved a poetic address uniquely his own. One that shocked both the reading public and the then-literary establishment. It was not 'polite'.
He writes of his marriages, of his attachment to women, to his ideas and his poetry. He writes of the joy and ecstasy of creative achievement, of self-affirmation in the final realization that one is yes indeed, a poet of incalculable creative ability. Which there is no denying Irving Layton is.
This is a good book, a rewarding book, and in its own way, a revelation, Messiah complex aside. For in his very own, inimitable way, Layton really has been a messiah; he has helped to unleash unbridled sensualism in poetic expression, given it a fire of his own devising, and brought poetry where it belongs, in the gut as well as the mind of the reader.
Abrasive and even abusive he can be at times, but where is there a poet whose totality is perfection? It is unfortunate that Layton's very well-publicized divergence of opinion with Elspeth Cameron and his dismissal of her 'unauthorized' biography of him did not result in an increased public interest in his own book. One has the impression that the increased notoriety he might have traded upon as a result of the acrimonious exchanges in the media would translate itself in brisk sales, but alas, volume one of his memoirs has not sold well.
Still, he's preparing to write the second volume of Waiting for the Messiah and this reviewer, however inclined to be critical as I am, intends to wait for that messiah. Stay tuned.
c. 1986 Rita Rosenfeld
published in Outlook, Vol.24, No.5
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