Bookworm, no. 50
Alexander Sallas reviews “Dictionary of Fine Distinctions.” Abhya Adlakha on “The Red One.” Original poetry by Anne Swannell. Inside the July/August issue.
Critique or Analysis?
Dictionary of Fine Distinctions: Nuances, Niceties, and Subtle Shades of Meaning
Eli Burnstein
Union Square
208 pages, hardcover and ebook
This piece of furniture I’m sitting on: Is it a couch or sofa? The drink I’m sipping: Club soda or sparkling water? These letters you’re reading: Typeface or font? In Dictionary of Fine Distinctions, the humour writer Eli Burnstein spells out the differences between routinely confused terms. A blend of jaunty prose and rigorous research, his first book charms while it educates.
Never again will I mistake a crumble for a crisp. (The former is a baked fruit dish topped with butter, flour, and sugar; the latter adds oats to the mix.) Nor will I confuse snitches and rats. (A snitch squeals on outsiders; a rat gives up their own.) How does one tell a catapult from a trebuchet? The first hurls objects through a sudden release of tension, the second via a counterweight and sling. Robbery versus burglary? Stealing from a person; stealing from a building. Swamp, bog, or marsh? Depends whether the wetland in question is woody, grassy, or mossy. All told, Burnstein details 100-odd hairsplits.
Dictionary of Fine Distinctions has several applications: an option for bathroom readers, a stocking stuffer for wordsmiths, a whetstone for writers and orators eager to sharpen their skills. Along the way, playful illustrations by the New Yorker regular Liana Finck contribute to the whimsy. There is room for structural improvement, however: Burnstein doesn’t alphabetize the entries (nor arrange them in any other discernible way), so finding specific entries requires a trip to the index. That aside, his funny yet informative debut succeeds. Perhaps I’ve convinced you of the book’s merit and persuaded you to buy a copy. (One convinces a person to believe something, while one persuades them to do something. See? It’s coming in handy already.)
—Alexander Sallas
The Antidote
The Red One
Safia Fazlul
Mawenzi House
226 pages, softcover and ebook
Safia Fazlul’s The Red One delves into the complexities of marriage, sexual abuse, and gender expectations within a close-knit South Asian community in southern Ontario. It’s a sensitive read and a potent testament to survivors’ strength.
Everything appears perfect in Nisha’s life. She’s beautiful, as is her rich husband, Azar, and they live in an upper-middle-class neighbourhood outside Toronto. But inside their marriage lurks a different reality: he’s having an affair, and she’s haunted by the sexual abuse she faced as a child from a family friend. So she escapes through mindless shopping sprees and a narcotic known as Red Powder. One afternoon, while high and on a mission at a dodgy pharmacy, Nisha—“a fresh coat of shiny paint on a piece of rotting wood”—runs into an attractive, mysterious stranger, whom she calls the Red One. When this dangerous man promises redemption for her pain, she seeks revenge against those who have wronged her.
Fazlul replicates the complicated relationship between abuser and abused: the long-term conditioning, the shame, the enduring attachment. While Red Powder represents escapism and addiction, the Red One promises liberation and hope. Fazlul also weaves in the entrenched double standards for South Asian men and women. The community believes that Nisha’s anger and eccentric behaviour stem from her depression rather than Azar’s dishonesty. He’s excused from any accountability, while she’s expected to suffer quietly, especially about the violence committed against her as a child. (In an all-too-real moment, Nisha’s mother urges her to keep quiet about the assault to maintain respectability.) This novel is an authentic and enriching read about a delicate topic.
—Abhya Adlakha
Poet’s Corner
Hippopotamus Observed
In the tangled slope that’s full of laurel, rhododendrons,
I came upon a mud-encrusted hippo! Now, as you know—
they normally hang about in African rivers
like the great green Limpopo, or some moist meadow.
Although, apparently, he’d been hanging about in my garden
covered in greyish-brown sludge from head to toe
for quite a long time, hiding that mucky carcass
beneath a big-leaf rhodo.
But at least there were no crocodiles
snapping their jaws and being generally annoying, so
I decided to leave him there, relaxing in the leafy shadow
exactly where some little fellow—
called to come in for supper maybe—
forgot him forty, fifty years ago.
—Anne Swannell is the author of several poetry collections, including Shifting. Find more of her work in a physical copy of the latest Literary Review of Canada, on newsstands now.
Inside the July/August Issue
Murray Campbell reviews Matthew R. Anderson’s The Good Walk: Creating New Paths on Traditional Prairie Trails.
“A story of petty jealousies.” Graham Fraser considers Catherine Dorion’s Les têtes brûlées: Carnets d’espoir punk.
Elaine Coburn critiques Mandi Gray’s Suing for Silence: Sexual Violence and Defamation Law.
And much more!