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326 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1944
But it was not to be changed; the pattern had already been designed and laid out, and none of them could change it.
"You see, the trouble with me is that I'm just like everybody else—I don't realize what something really means until it suddenly walks up and hits me between the eyes. I can be quite convinced intellectually that a situation is wrong, but it's still an academic question which doesn't really affect me personally, until, for some reason or other, it starts corning at me through my emotions as well. It isn't enough to think, you have to feel. . . ."
Now it occurred to her that her chief problem was not her opinions, which were conscious and had already changed considerably, but the way in which she thought and by which she had arrived at those opinions, which was still largely unconscious. There is nothing in the education of the average non-scientific human being to discourage him from the habit of generalizing from little or no evidence, and worse still and far more important, nothing to discourage him from the habit of starting with a generalization and ending up with the individual, instead of the other way round. That was precisely what she herself had done when she had tried to visualize David Reiser through a miasma of vague impressions associated with the word "Jewish" even though his religion or his race or whatever it was that the adjective actually meant, happened to be entirely irrelevant.
Earth and High Heaven was popular with more than just the wartime Canadian literati, though: it was the first Canadian book to become a massive, crossover hit in America, topping the NYT bestsellers list and staying on it for a year or so, eventually selling over a hundred thousand copies. For a Canadian novel in 1944, that was a Big Deal (and still would be today). It also, apparently, nearly got made into a Hollywood blockbuster with Katharine Hepburn in the lead role. It was, essentially, The Notebook of 1944. I’d like to think that it won the hearts of the public through its candid exposure of anti-Semitism in Montreal’s upper class or its subtle critique of patriarchy, but I know the truth is that it was all about the love story. It’s always about the love story.
However, the love story is… not great, nor is the rest of the novel much better. I can’t make fun of the book as much as I would like, because it’s also a social reform novel with clear eyes and a good (if not full) heart, but there’s a lot to dislike. Graham’s got one of those moderately elegant, excessively polite styles that is entirely devoid of character; I can actually feel the composition courses at her Swiss boarding school emanating from her prose. And though Graham is a feminist, she loves, unironically, to have men address women with such delightful epithets as “dear child.” Even Nora in A Doll’s House knew that was fucked up, and that was in 1879. Similarly, though the novel’s main theme is that generalizations cannot help us understand individuals, Graham has no problem offering such pithy assessments as “he was unshakably decent, honest, hard-working, and unimaginative. He was a typical Canadian” (172). And when she says that “small towns are more democratic than big cities,” it’s pretty clear that she hasn’t spent much time in small towns.
Mostly, though, the issue with Earth and High Heaven is that it’s less a novel than a platform for ideas. The novel’s protagonist, Erica Drake, is—like Vicky from Swiss Sonata—a headstrong, critical-minded, Unconventional Woman (though, weirdly, her only real goal in life is to get married). At the beginning of the novel, we’re told that, after taking a job as a journalist, she “dropped, overnight, from the class which is written about to the class which does the writing” and that, after becoming the editor of the Woman’s Section of the Montreal Post, she “ceased to be one of the Drakes of Westmount and was simply Erica Drake of the Post” (12). Thus detached from the values and prejudices of Montreal’s jet set yet possessed of its inherent privileges (mobility, economic freedom, education), Erica becomes the vehicle for Graham’s progressive social philosophy. She meets Marc Reiser, a Jewish lawyer from Ontario, at a party at her parents’ house early in the novel, and the two quickly fall in love. The problem: her parents disapprove of the match because it would be decidedly awkward having to introduce their Jewish son-in-law to their friends at the club. From the beginning, then, Erica and Marc’s love affair seems star-crossed, and Graham uses the familial conflict to espouse her theories on the silliness of prejudice. While I’m definitely sympathetic to her aims, she tends to get so wrapped up in explaining why stereotypes are dumb that she loses sight of story and character. Between Erica’s interior monologue and dialogue, there must be at least forty-seven different versions of this: “That human beings, regardless of their own merit, should take upon themselves the right to judge a whole group of men, women and children, arbitrarily assembled according to a meaningless set of definitions, was evil enough; that there should not even be a judgment, was intolerable” (32). (Also, see that unnecessary comma between the noun phrase and its verb? It happens all the time in this book and it drives me fucking crazy.)
Though it’s not Atlas Shrugged, it does feel, at times, as though the novel’s characters exist more as embodiments of particular social values and positions rather than as authentic human beings, and this problem is exacerbated by the fact that Graham seems incapable of writing distinct voices for different characters. Everyone talks the same way, and the dialogue also sounds exactly like the narration, and things sometimes get really confusing because Graham writes in third-person omniscient, sporadically shifting from Erica’s POV, through which about ninety percent of the novel is focalized, to other characters’ POVs. Several times, I thought something like “why the hell is Erica thinking about Marc as though she doesn’t know him” only to realize that Graham had suddenly narrative-incepted Erica’s sister, Mimi, or her father, Charles, without making any changes to her voice or style to mark the shift in POV. This is not some kind of late-modernist commentary on the homogenizing effects of wartime capitalism; it’s just shitty writing. So, too, are the moments where characters seem to be providing exposition of the scenes they are currently involved in, as in this delightful exclamation from Marc: “What a weird conversation for two people sitting on a park bench who’ve only met once before for half an hour!” (83) Thanks, Marc. I totally wouldn’t have picked up on that otherwise. Sometimes, the characters themselves seem to lose sight of the plot, as in my personal favourite moment, a beautiful non sequitur where Marc and Erica are having a heated discussion about her racist family, their crumbling love, and the general doom that seems to be hanging over their future, when Graham abruptly decides, in the middle of a heartfelt explanation of what it’s like to experience anti-Semitism, that it’s time for Marc to offer Erica a biscuit. It’s a hell of a juxtaposition: “Maybe it’s just because they’ve been brought up to regard Jews as different. Do you want a biscuit?” She accepts: “Yes, please. … One of the chocolate ones.” He hands her two, and he immediately resumes his impassioned discourse on racism, as though the biscuits didn’t happen. Truly wonderful stuff, like the flower shop scene in The Room.
The novel does do some good things. There are a couple memorable lines, such as when Miriam, arguing with her petulant father, Charles, admonishes him, “If you choose to turn your back, Charles, you can hardly complain about what goes on behind it” (220). I also like Graham’s metaphor for an unhappy marriage, which she represents as ending up “on the wrong side of the living room” (246)—as in, two people sitting on opposing sides of the room in their domestic space because they don’t want to have anything to so with one another. Graham was also ahead of her time when it comes to thinking about how things like microaggressions make some people’s daily reality a grind. Erica and Marc’s first conversation, for instance, results in what might be the earliest example of a satirical “but where are you really from??” as Marc makes fun of Erica for immediately prying into his ancestry (“Where were your parents born?”) after he tells her he was born in Manchester, Ontario: “You remind me of the man named Cohen who changed his name to O’Brien and then wanted to change it to Smith, and when the judge asked him why, he said, ‘Because people are always wanting to know what my name was before’” (26). This is not the only time Erica is forced to confront implicit biases; after feeling cognitive dissonance when Marc’s brother, David, doesn’t fit her preconceived notions, she scolds herself: “Evidently it was not going to be anything like as easy as she had thought; you could not rid yourself of layer upon layer of prejudice and preconceived ideas all in one moment and by one overwhelming effort of will. During the past three weeks she had become conscious of her own reactions, but that was as far as she had got. The reactions themselves remained to be dealt with” (81). Graham’s social philosophizing is also fairly insightful, particularly by the literary standards of the time. While many of her contemporaries couldn’t get much further than “racism is bad” or “poverty is hard” (thinking of you, Little Man), Graham actually delves more deeply into where racism comes from and how it impacts the people on all sides of it.
Still, the novel’s thoughtfulness about racism is not nearly enough to save it from its various flaws, including an ending that is, frankly, bafflingly conventional, hinging upon a deus ex machina whose consequences completely undermine all of the character work Graham has done to that point. It’s depressing to think that, in 1944 in the U.S., Tennessee Williams was writing The Glass Menagerie, and Earth and High Heaven was the thing making Canadian critics swoon. I haven’t looked ahead to the rest of the Governor General list, so, for all I know, there’s another Gwethalyn Graham waiting for me somewhere around 1950, but, for now, I’m just going to jam my fingers into my ears, yelling “no no no no no nono,” and pretend that Hugh MacLennan’s Two Solitudes is going to kick off the era of high art in Canadian lit.