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A review by rowanwatts_
Swamp Angel by George Bowering, Ethel Wilson
3.0
Full disclosure: I read this book for a university course (“Literature of British Columbia,” in case you were wondering). While this was not my favourite reading that was assigned in that class (my favourite was Deactivated West 100, in case you were wondering that, too), I ended up enjoying Ethel Wilson’s Swamp Angel far more than I was expecting to.
This book is about Maggie and British Columbia and fly fishing and British Columbia. Did you know there is a prize for fiction named after Wilson? I’m being facetious, but only because I am confident that the unassuming and unintimidating lenity that Maggie exudes will charm you as immediately and unexpectedly as it charmed me. Her husband, while perhaps less charismatic than Maggie, appears repeatedly, each entrance a shock because of his geographical distance from the protagonist; he appears in tiny chapters, some no more than half a page or less. These sections, let’s call them, are reminiscent of clips from a montage in a movie, and while this observation may engage in anachronism, they seem ahead of their time. I also feel compelled to mention another character, somebody’s mother (I forget her name) who reminds me of a certain calibre of middle-aged white person who is beyond generous and often voluble but takes no shit and remains steadfast in their down-to-earth perspective of the world even though this perspective provokes them to say things like “I don’t see race.” Anyways, this hyper-specific archetype incarnates in this book, and I enjoy it.
If you’re a citizen of British Columbia in some capacity, such as I am, I suggest that you read this book if for no other reason than simply it will subvert your expectations. This province has changed drastically and irrevocably since the period of time during which Wilson wrote Swamp Angel in some ways, and it has remained stoically untouched in others. This book reveals the plurality of facets that B.C. possesses with a delicate but self-assured and no-fuss voice. Perhaps this book will bore you, though; it’s a stroll, after all, and not a sprint. Then I say to you, “That’s okay; it’s short.”
This book is about Maggie and British Columbia and fly fishing and British Columbia. Did you know there is a prize for fiction named after Wilson? I’m being facetious, but only because I am confident that the unassuming and unintimidating lenity that Maggie exudes will charm you as immediately and unexpectedly as it charmed me. Her husband, while perhaps less charismatic than Maggie, appears repeatedly, each entrance a shock because of his geographical distance from the protagonist; he appears in tiny chapters, some no more than half a page or less. These sections, let’s call them, are reminiscent of clips from a montage in a movie, and while this observation may engage in anachronism, they seem ahead of their time. I also feel compelled to mention another character, somebody’s mother (I forget her name) who reminds me of a certain calibre of middle-aged white person who is beyond generous and often voluble but takes no shit and remains steadfast in their down-to-earth perspective of the world even though this perspective provokes them to say things like “I don’t see race.” Anyways, this hyper-specific archetype incarnates in this book, and I enjoy it.
If you’re a citizen of British Columbia in some capacity, such as I am, I suggest that you read this book if for no other reason than simply it will subvert your expectations. This province has changed drastically and irrevocably since the period of time during which Wilson wrote Swamp Angel in some ways, and it has remained stoically untouched in others. This book reveals the plurality of facets that B.C. possesses with a delicate but self-assured and no-fuss voice. Perhaps this book will bore you, though; it’s a stroll, after all, and not a sprint. Then I say to you, “That’s okay; it’s short.”