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Swann Paperback – Oct. 22 1996
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Carol Shields
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Swann is the story of four individuals who become entwined in the life of Mary Swann, a rural Canadian poet whose authentic and unique voice is discovered only hours before her husband hacks her to pieces.Who is Mary Swann? And how could she have produced these works of genius in almost complete isolation? Mysteriously, all traces of Swann's existence — her notebook, the first draft of her work, even her photograph — gradually vanish as the characters in this engrossing novel become caught up in their own concepts of who Mary Swann was.
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Print length416 pages
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LanguageEnglish
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PublisherVintage Canada
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Publication dateOct. 22 1996
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Dimensions13.97 x 2.54 x 21.59 cm
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ISBN-100679307877
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ISBN-13978-0679307877
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Product description
From Amazon
The bulk of Swann is divided into four sections, one devoted to each of the novel's main characters, all of whom are guilty of distorting or even destroying Swann's work and character to suit their own purposes. Along with Sarah and Frederic, the reader meets Morton Jimroy, Swann's rather pathetic and repellent biographer, and Rose Hindmarch, the middle-aged spinster who was Swann's only lasting human contact outside of her marriage. Swann is, in a sense, a writer's revenge novel, gently satirizing everyone who lives through the literary establishment, from academics to publishers, rare book collectors, and even common readers. Nevertheless, this compulsively readable book should delight anyone with a weak spot for fine literary mischief. --Jack Illingworth
Review
"A brilliant literary mystery...a delightful send-up of the scholarly sideshow that surrounds a work of art." -- Kirkus Reviews
"...a compelling work...exquisitely crafted..." -- Globe and Mail
"Gently satirical… [Carol Shields] has a compassion for her characters that can make you ache for them." -- The New York Times
"Well-drawn characters, expert writing, and silky malice are combined in an exceptionally satisfying work of fiction" -- The Atlantic Monthly
"A spicily witty tale of literary malarkey." -- The Sunday Times (U.K.)
From the Back Cover
"A brilliant literary mystery...a delightful send-up of the scholarly sideshow that surrounds a work of art." -- Kirkus Reviews
"...a compelling work...exquisitely crafted..." -- Globe and Mail
"Gently satirical… [Carol Shields] has a compassion for her characters that can make you ache for them." -- The New York Times
"Well-drawn characters, expert writing, and silky malice are combined in an exceptionally satisfying work of fiction" -- The Atlantic Monthly
"A spicily witty tale of literary malarkey." -- The Sunday Times (U.K.)
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
As recently as two years ago, when I was twenty-six, I dressed in ratty jeans and a sweatshirt with lettering across the chest. That’s where I was. Now I own six pairs of beautiful shoes, which I keep, when I’m not wearing them, swathed in tissue paper in their original boxes. Not one of these pairs of shoes costs less than a hundred dollars.
Hanging in my closet are three dresses (dry clean only), two expensive suits and eight silk blouses in such colours as hyacinth and brandy. Not a large wardrobe, perhaps, but richly satisfying. I’ve read my Thoreau, I know real wealth lies in the realm of the spirit, but still I’m a person who can, in the midst of depression, be roused by the rub of a cashmere scarf in my fingers.
My name is Sarah Maloney and I live alone. Professionally -- this is something people like to know these days -- I’m a feminist writer and teacher who’s having second thoughts about the direction of feminist writing in America. For twenty-five years we’ve been crying: My life is my own. A moving cry, a resounding cry, but what does it mean? (Once I knew exactly what freedom meant and now I have no idea. Naturally I resent this loss of knowledge.)
Last night Brownie, who was sharing my bed as he does most Tuesday nights, accused me of having a classic case of burn-out, an accusation I resist. Oh, I can be restless and difficult! Some days Virginia Woolf is the only person in the universe I want to talk to; but she’s dead, of course, and wouldn’t like me anyway. Too flip. And Mary Swann. Also dead. Exceedingly dead.
These moods come and go. Mostly Ms. Maloney is a cheerful woman, ah indeed, indeed! And very busy. Up at seven, a three-kilometre run in Washington Park -- see her yupping along in even metric strides -- then home to wheat toast and pure orange juice. Next a shower, and then she gets dressed in her beautiful, shameful clothes.
I check myself in the mirror: Hello there, waving long, clean, unpolished nails. I’ll never require make-up. At least not for another ten years. Then I pick up my purse-cum-briefcase, Italian, $300, and sally forth. Sally forth, the phrase fills up my mouth like a bubble of foam. I’m attentive to such phrases. Needful of them, I should say.
I don’t have a car. Off I go on foot, out into a slice of thick, golden October haze, down Sixty-second to Cottage Grove, along Cottage Grove, swinging my bag from my shoulder to give myself courage. Daylight muggings are common in my neighborhood, and I make it a point to carry only five dollars, a fake watch, and a dummy set of keys. As I walk along, I keep my Walkman turned up high. No Mozart now, just a little cushion of soft rock to help launch the day with hope and maybe protect me from evil. I wear a miraculous broad-brimmed hat. The silky hem of my excellent English raincoat hisses just at knee length. I have wonderful stockings and have learned to match them with whatever I’m wearing.
“Good morning, Dr. Maloney,” cries the department secretary when I arrive at the university. “Good morning, Ms. Lundigan,” I sing back. This formal greeting is a ritual only. The rest of the time I call her Lois, or Lo, and she calls me Sarah or Sare. She’s the age of my mother and has blood-red nails and hair so twirled and compact it looks straight from the wig factory. Her typing is nothing less than magnificent. Clean, sharp, uniform, with margins that zing. She hands me the mail and a copy of my revised lecture notes.
Today, in ten minutes, Lord help me, I’ll be addressing one hundred students, ninety of them women, on the subject of “Amy Lowell: An American Enigma.” At two o’clock, after a quick cheese on pita, I’ll conduct my weekly seminar on “Women in Midwestern Fiction.” Around me at the table will be seven bright postgraduate faces, each of them throwing off kilowatts of womanly brilliance, so that the whole room becomes charged and expectant and nippy with intelligence.
Usually, afterwards, the whole bunch of us goes off for a beer. In the taproom on Sixty-second we create a painterly scene, an oil portrait -- women sitting in a circle, dark coats thrown over the backs of chairs, earrings swinging, elbows and shoulders keeping the composition lively, glasses held thoughtfully to thoughtful lips, rolling eyes, bawdiness, erudition.
They forget what time it is. They forget where they are -- that they’re sitting in a taproom on Sixty-second in the city of Chicago in the fall of the year in the twentieth century. They’re too busy talking, thinking, defining terms, revising history, plotting their term papers, their theses, and their lives so that no matter what happens they’ll keep barrelling along that lucent dotted line they’ve decided must lead to the future.
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Product details
- Publisher : Vintage Canada; 3rd Printing edition (Oct. 22 1996)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 416 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0679307877
- ISBN-13 : 978-0679307877
- Item weight : 408 g
- Dimensions : 13.97 x 2.54 x 21.59 cm
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Best Sellers Rank:
#448,033 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #962 in Canadian Detectives
- #3,267 in TV, Movie & Game Tie-In Fiction
- #3,974 in Canadian Literature (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Carol Shields (1935–2003) was born in Oak Park, Illinois. She studied at Hanover College, the University of Exeter in England, and the University of Ottawa. In 1957, she married Donald Shields and moved to Canada permanently. She taught at the University of Ottawa, the University of British Columbia, and the University of Manitoba, and served as chancellor of the University of Winnipeg. She wrote ten novels and three short story collections, in addition to poetry, plays, criticism, and a biography of Jane Austen. Her novel The Stone Diaries won the Pulitzer Prize, the Governor General’s Award, and the National Book Critics Circle Award; it was also shortlisted for the Booker Prize. Shields was further recognized with a Canada Council Major Award, two Canadian National Magazine Awards, the Canadian Authors Association Award, and countless other prizes and honors.
Customer reviews
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Bev
In this early novel, Carol Shields shows the talent developed in later works, especially her penchant for using disparate literary styles to tell the story. Her characters are so beautifully formed; they leap from the page and demand you get to know them. Locations are so vividly described, you feel you could immediately find them, should you be transported to Chicago, Palo Alto, Nardeau or Kingston.
In 1965, within hours of submitting her body of work, written on scraps of paper and stored in a paper bag, to literary publisher and newspaper owner, Frederick Cruzzi, Mary Swann, a "primitive" poet from rural Canada, was hacked to pieces by her violent brute of a husband. The 125 poems were subsequently published in a small, stapled pamphlet with a limited run of 250 copies, most of which Cruzzi and his wife ended up giving away.
Many years after publication, Sarah Maloney, a feminist scholar of some note, found a copy in the limited selection or reading material in a remote cottage on a lake in Wisconsin, where she'd gone to have a good long, hard think about her life. Intrigued, she set out to find out more about Swann and her poetry, and soon was in correspondence with a select little group of assorted fans and scholars, including pretentious Morton Jimroy, self-appointed biographer, spinsterly Rose Hindmarch, librarian who lent books to Swann, worldwise Frederick Cuzzi, publisher to whom Swann entrusted her work.
The present time of the book is 1987, and the first ever Swann Symposium is about to take place. Strange things start happening with Swann memorabilia - Sarah's copy of "Swann's Songs" can't be found; Cruzzi's house is burgled and the only things missing are the four copies of the pamphlet he'd retained; one of the two known photographs of Mary Swann goes missing from the Nardeau library.
In this fascinating tale, it's intriguing how the threads of Mary Swann's life slowly pull together, even as she seems to be disappearing forever and how the works of an extremely little known poet, dead for more than 20 years, cause such bitter rivalries, jealousies and criminal behaviour. But even as she becomes more ephemeral, her effect on her admirers becomes more profound.
The first four chapters, almost novellas, of this book titled "Mary Swan" in the British edition I found in my library, each tell of a central character's encounter with Swann and/or her work. The Swan Symposium, the final chapter, is written as a play, which I thought at first was a little precious. Then I realised that since it all took place in a hotel and was mostly dialogue anyway, what better way of expressing it. Readers are spared all the words normally used to pad dialogue out into sentences. "Bit part" players are given beautifully descriptive names like Butter Mouth, Merry Eyes, Silver Cufflinks, Woman with Turban, Woman in Pale Suede Boots, Wistful Demeanour and Crinkled Forehead - that's all you need to picture them.
"Swann" has been described as a "literary mystery" but it's not a traditional mystery with a detective following up clues - in fact, I think to categorise it as a mystery is to sell this rich and intriguing work short. If you want to categorise it at all, it's a beautifully subtle satire aimed at the pretentiousness found in the literary world. If any of Ms Shields' novels were worthy of a Pulitzer Prize, this is the one.
I've read several of Carol Shields works and, with the exception of "Stone Diaries", each has usurped the last as my favourite. This is a little worrying, since I've been working my way backwards through the list. I guess I'll have to stop now.
But I think that the author's conception is more profound: the novel is a serious attempt of philosophical comprehension of human personality. Mary Swann, a rural Canadian poet, was murdered by her brutal husband only hours after submitting her poems to local newspaper editor and publisher Frederic Cruzzi. She became famous posthumously, and now four different people - a scholar Sarah Maloney, a writer Morton Jimroy, a librarian Rose Hindmarch and Frederic Cruzzi are trying to understand Mary Swann and her poems. With their semi-empty souls and aspirations for mandane success and promotion, in their endeavors to grasp the meaning of her poems, they fail. They start reconstruction not of the real Mary Swann but her artificial image apropos their intensions.
So genuine understanding is impossible: Swann's life was devoid of external events, nobody knew her thoughts and yearnings. But a miracle happens - unsolved spirit of poetess via her naive poems commences to alter her readers...




