David Gilmour, past winner of the
Governor General’s award for fiction, has written a new book, a semi-fictional
account of his life entitled “
The Perfect Order of Things.”
It’s a new book, but it’s the same book.
Before I say more, let me say this: I like
David Gilmour.
I liked him from way
back, when he was the film critic for CBC’s The Journal.
I really liked him when I read “How Boys See
Girls,” (the first novel of his I read).
I’ve been reading all of his books since.
That said, Gilmour tends to write the same
book over and over.
Cancel that.
Gilmour does write the same book over and
over.
Here is the good news, he seems to
be getting better at it.
Nobody writes
about the loss of a lover, the pain, the tearing of a heart into pieces, the
way Gilmour does.
If you have ever had
your heart torn out and stepped on, Gilmour manages to capture it perfectly.
As much as I like David Gilmour,
he comes across often as a man-child, needy for attention, unsure of himself as
both a lover and writer, and often afraid of his own shadow.
Why would someone write about themselves like
that?
Not only in this latest book, but
in all of his books.
I think this answer
is this: David Gilmour is honest to a fault.
It’s what simultaneously draws me to him and pushes me away.
He writes honestly about his failings, his
insecurities, and his own vanity.
There
is a very funny scene in “
The Perfect Order of Things” where he bumps into
Robert De Niro outside a bathroom at a TIFF party.
It makes me like Gilmour, but at the same
time there is a part of me that wants to say, “David, come on man, don’t be
such a baby.”
David Gilmour is taking stock of
his life, putting it order, getting ready to die (well I certainly hope not
anytime soon).
He does so by revisiting
the places and people of his past.
For
the reader, it’s like going through all his books once again.
The childhood of “Lost Between Houses,” the
obsessive love of “Sparrow Nights,” and even his last book, a non-fiction book
about the relationship with his son, “The Film Club.”
I would imagine the narrative comes across a
tad convoluted, unless you were familiar with Gilmour’s other books.
One chapter is dedicated to why he likes to
read, Leo Tolstoy.
I thought it would be
horrible.
I loved it.
When my kids are older and I have more free
time, I will pick up a copy of “War and Peace” and read it because of David
Gilmour.
One of my favourite sections of
the book is when the protagonist gets a bad book review for the new novel he
has written.
He stews about it, loses
sleep over it.
Months later he runs into
the reviewer on the street and slaps him across the face.
It is every writer’s fantasy comes true.
I cheered.
“
The Perfect Order of Things”
isn’t perfect, but it’s a Gilmour book, and I like David Gilmour.
Maybe one day he will slap me in the
face?
I’m hoping for a hug.
Or just a handshake and a conversation over a
beer.
When
As much as I like David Gilmour,
he comes across often as a man-child, needy for attention, unsure of himself as
both a lover and writer, and often afraid of his own shadow. Why would someone write about themselves like
that? Not only in this latest book, but
in all of his books. I think this answer
is this: David Gilmour is honest to a fault.
It’s what simultaneously draws me to him and pushes me away. He writes honestly about his failings, his
insecurities, and his own vanity. There
is a very funny scene in “The Perfect Order of Things” where he bumps into
Robert De Niro outside a bathroom at a TIFF party. It makes me like Gilmour, but at the same
time there is a part of me that wants to say, “David, come on man, don’t be
such a baby.”
