It’d be interesting to see Hegele write something longform, closer to the tenor of HOME than the rest of the book, as the stories herein are always a bit withheld, asking questions about whether or not a character will survive, never investing in the well-being of a character beyond wondering what grisly, bucktoothed fate they’ll meet. That’s the risk with genre, I suppose, which is executed to great effect throughout. Aside from some motif redundancies, and my own suspicion about the endless Ontarian tales I hear about their ‘bad water’* and the like, and my frustration with how brisk (and thus superficial) the stories often feel, the writing is often quite beautiful, and scratched many an itch; I am nitpicking because the book is very fine, and I feel compelled to to do so while it continues to push its way into my focus.
Definitely worth reading. Exquisitely gothic, irreverent, damply queer and cynical. Childhood games like GROUNDERS offering the opportunity to escape terrible marriages, to end the lives of your enemies, this is the power of open ports of melodrama.
I’m really, really excited to read what Hegele writes next.
*In all the copy for “Chemical Valley,” David Huebert at least has the sense to name one (probably most important) version of it, “environmental racism,” a concept that better reflects the populations that suffer toxicity this way and more often than others (compounded by class and other vectors), though Hegele’s book is much more readable than Huebert’s (CV was dnf for me, though maybe I’ll give it a go again now that I’m back on this wavelength) as a literary object, bite-sized portions and tidy as I complain it is.
But where is the Fort Chipewyan literary treatment?Would that be gauche? I mean there’s got to be someone (Indigenous, obviously) out there who can tackle bile-duct cancer rates skyrocketing, doctors being disbarred for speaking out about it, etcetera; it’d be less fun to read about your loved ones suffering in hospital with a super-rare cancer for months on end, often times several people you know at once, than to do the genre thing (often helpful, when expression feels otherwise impossible): the condensation where someone walks into the swamp to be devoured by beavers instead of wasting away, the constellation and re-figuration of our fears instead of the literal report of what people are enduring. It just feels like every other Ontarian artist I meet goes on about chemical waste, but so many without firsthand experience, a kind of disaffected toying with the subject.
——> If Hegele nails it, re: what it’s like to feel both trapped and poisoned by the small town, I’m still not sure. But certainly they don’t seem to disrespect the materials at hand, just has a lot of fun with them. All these thoughts are very peripheral. I just use GR as a book diary, that’s why I’m writing thru these thoughts here. I’m just wondering what the borders of genre’s “usefulness” and “honesty” are, I guess.