Toronto Western, Baddeley tried to reason himself away from his need for inspiration.
â Iâm only writing fiction, he thought. I should be able to do this on my own.
It seemed to him that, having been a reviewer, he was familiar with âliterature,â familiar with its rules, variations, and tropes. He could push a character through memories and places as well as anyone else, surely. Davidoff had been doing it for years, and a less inspired writer there could not be. But five chapters into Over the Dark Hills , Baddeley no longer knew where to take the story. Should he kill off one of the elephants? Should his protagonist betray his fiancée? And to what terminal was this novel heading? He tried to think his way through his questions, but he simply did not trust his own instincts and reasons. So, he was left with a choice: he could go on writing and re-writing scenes until one of them felt right or he could return to the Toronto Western.
He returned to the hospital and, for the last time in his life, Baddeley found the room he was looking for at once. Anxious that âGodâ would overtake him before he could speak, Baddeley cried out as he entered the ward.
â Please, he asked, what are you?
â I am, said God, what you cannot imagine that imagines you.
â But are you God?
â That word has a trillion meanings, Alexander. I am and I am not what you mean by it.
â But why use me ? asked Baddeley. What am I?
â Youâre the peace I seek endlessly, said God.
â But I donât think Iâm as strong as Avery. I donât think I can ... The Lord interrupted him.
â Youâre not Avery Andrews, Alexander. Your voyage is different.
â Do all writers go through this?
â Almost none of them do. Priests are much better at it.
â Did Avery see the kind of things I saw last time?
â Much worse, said God.
And took him to a terrifying place where he witnessed or, more exactly, participated in the murder of a family. Here, he was each of the three men who entered the familyâs home just before dawn. He could smell the last of the previous eveningâs supper. He experienced the killersâ sense of righteousness, their exhilaration, their fear, their contempt for the ones they slaughtered. But he was also the three members of the family: father, mother, and twelve-year-old boy. His mind was as if partitioned in six and every moment experienced by each of his six selves was inescapable. He could not cry out, neither in righteousness nor fear. He experienced death three times and then found himself in an empty room in Radiography.
For a very long time after this, it did not matter to Alexander Baddeley what or who was at the heart of his ritual at Toronto Western: God, his own imagination, the devil, or the errant fumes of anaesthetic and soap. It did not matter whether the places he went were inside of him or not, whether the things he experienced were taking place, had taken place, or would take place. It did not seem to him that the words he dispersed over the pages of his Hilroy notebooks were any sort of compensation for this traumatic empathy.
Although his inspiration waned again towards the end of Over the Dark Hills , Baddeley chose one of the many endings that suggested itself, wrote it as plainly as he could and sent it off to his publisher, more or less unconcerned about the workâs fate. Moreover, his lack of concern went unpunished. It seemed he alone noticed the flaws in the novelâs ending. Those reviewers who actually finished the book assumed that the shift in tone towards the end was part of the novelâs point. And the novel did well, allowing Baddeley to buy a house on Augusta, a house that was a short walk from the Toronto Western, though he hadnât been mindful of the hospital when he bought the place.
With the success of his novels, Baddeley had the life he wanted, a life of reading and reviewing, a
â Iâm only writing fiction, he thought. I should be able to do this on my own.
It seemed to him that, having been a reviewer, he was familiar with âliterature,â familiar with its rules, variations, and tropes. He could push a character through memories and places as well as anyone else, surely. Davidoff had been doing it for years, and a less inspired writer there could not be. But five chapters into Over the Dark Hills , Baddeley no longer knew where to take the story. Should he kill off one of the elephants? Should his protagonist betray his fiancée? And to what terminal was this novel heading? He tried to think his way through his questions, but he simply did not trust his own instincts and reasons. So, he was left with a choice: he could go on writing and re-writing scenes until one of them felt right or he could return to the Toronto Western.
He returned to the hospital and, for the last time in his life, Baddeley found the room he was looking for at once. Anxious that âGodâ would overtake him before he could speak, Baddeley cried out as he entered the ward.
â Please, he asked, what are you?
â I am, said God, what you cannot imagine that imagines you.
â But are you God?
â That word has a trillion meanings, Alexander. I am and I am not what you mean by it.
â But why use me ? asked Baddeley. What am I?
â Youâre the peace I seek endlessly, said God.
â But I donât think Iâm as strong as Avery. I donât think I can ... The Lord interrupted him.
â Youâre not Avery Andrews, Alexander. Your voyage is different.
â Do all writers go through this?
â Almost none of them do. Priests are much better at it.
â Did Avery see the kind of things I saw last time?
â Much worse, said God.
And took him to a terrifying place where he witnessed or, more exactly, participated in the murder of a family. Here, he was each of the three men who entered the familyâs home just before dawn. He could smell the last of the previous eveningâs supper. He experienced the killersâ sense of righteousness, their exhilaration, their fear, their contempt for the ones they slaughtered. But he was also the three members of the family: father, mother, and twelve-year-old boy. His mind was as if partitioned in six and every moment experienced by each of his six selves was inescapable. He could not cry out, neither in righteousness nor fear. He experienced death three times and then found himself in an empty room in Radiography.
For a very long time after this, it did not matter to Alexander Baddeley what or who was at the heart of his ritual at Toronto Western: God, his own imagination, the devil, or the errant fumes of anaesthetic and soap. It did not matter whether the places he went were inside of him or not, whether the things he experienced were taking place, had taken place, or would take place. It did not seem to him that the words he dispersed over the pages of his Hilroy notebooks were any sort of compensation for this traumatic empathy.
Although his inspiration waned again towards the end of Over the Dark Hills , Baddeley chose one of the many endings that suggested itself, wrote it as plainly as he could and sent it off to his publisher, more or less unconcerned about the workâs fate. Moreover, his lack of concern went unpunished. It seemed he alone noticed the flaws in the novelâs ending. Those reviewers who actually finished the book assumed that the shift in tone towards the end was part of the novelâs point. And the novel did well, allowing Baddeley to buy a house on Augusta, a house that was a short walk from the Toronto Western, though he hadnât been mindful of the hospital when he bought the place.
With the success of his novels, Baddeley had the life he wanted, a life of reading and reviewing, a
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