LONGLISTED FOR THE 2022 SCOTIABANK GILLER PRIZE “An achingly gorgeous debut novel of Indigenous survival.... This is a breathtaking and hypnotic achievement.” -- An urgent first novel about breaching the prisons we live inside from one of Canada’s most daring literary talents. An unnamed narrator abandons his unfinished thesis and returns to northern Alberta in search of what eludes him: the shape of the novel he yearns to write, an autobiography of his rural hometown, the answers to existential questions about family, love, and happiness. What ensues is a series of conversations, connections, and disconnections that reveals the texture of life in a town literature has left unexplored, where the friction between possibility and constraint provides an insistent background score. Whether he’s meeting with an auntie distraught over the imprisonment of her grandson, engaging in rez gossip with his cousin at a pow wow, or lingering in bed with a married man after a hotel room hookup, the narrator makes space for those in his orbit to divulge their private joys and miseries, testing the theory that storytelling can make us feel less lonely. Populated by characters as alive and vast as the boreal forest, and culminating in a breathtaking crescendo, <A Minor Chorus< is a novel about how deeply entangled the sayable and unsayable can become--and about how ordinary life, when pressed, can produce hauntingly beautiful music.

Autorentext

BILLY-RAY BELCOURT (he/him) is a writer from the Driftpile Cree Nation. He won the 2018 Griffin Poetry Prize for his debut collection, This Wound Is a World, which was also a finalist for the Governor General's Literary Award. His bestselling memoir, A History of My Brief Body, won the Hubert Evans Non-Fiction Prize and was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award and the Governor General's Literary Award. A recipient of the prestigious Rhodes Scholarship and an Indspire Award, Belcourt is Assistant Professor of Indigenous Creative Writing at UBC.

Klappentext

**LONGLISTED FOR THE 2022 SCOTIABANK GILLER PRIZE • NATIONAL BESTSELLER • NAMED A BEST BOOK OF 2022 BY THE GLOBE AND MAIL, CBC, ELLE CANADA, LITERARY HUB, NATIONAL POST, AND DAILY HIVE

“An achingly gorgeous debut novel of Indigenous survival.... This is a breathtaking and hypnotic achievement.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

An urgent first novel about breaching the prisons we live inside from one of Canada’s most daring literary talents.**

An unnamed narrator abandons his unfinished thesis and returns to northern Alberta in search of what eludes him: the shape of the novel he yearns to write, an autobiography of his rural hometown, the answers to existential questions about family, love, and happiness.

What ensues is a series of conversations, connections, and disconnections that reveals the texture of life in a town literature has left unexplored, where the friction between possibility and constraint provides an insistent background score.

Whether he’s meeting with an auntie distraught over the imprisonment of her grandson, engaging in rez gossip with his cousin at a pow wow, or lingering in bed with a married man after a hotel room hookup, the narrator makes space for those in his orbit to divulge their private joys and miseries, testing the theory that storytelling can make us feel less lonely.

Populated by characters as alive and vast as the boreal forest, and culminating in a breathtaking crescendo, A Minor Chorus is a novel about how deeply entangled the sayable and unsayable can become—and about how ordinary life, when pressed, can produce hauntingly beautiful music.

Leseprobe
In the end, the idea came to me suddenly, as I was walking with River in a park near their neighbourhood. We were talking about the summer night I had sex with a man in the basement of a parking garage. I said it was the most alive I had ever been because I felt so close to death. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you,” the man said before he stripped naked. River said people didn’t naturally make the kinds of decisions I did when I was cruising. Once we stopped laughing, it occurred to me that I wanted to examine how we live under conditions of duress, both visible and invisible. My novel, then, would be a kind of literary ethnography of sadness and hope, of constraint and possibility. My informants would all come from the same place: the town in which I was raised, in a region heretofore unexplored in Canadian letters. I would write a book that reflected a community’s emotional lives rather than just my sensory experience of the present. I would drive into town with graffitied fists and make art that would matter. If I wanted to study what was and wasn’t worth living for, I told River, I had to make the trek to northern Alberta. They bought us a second round of coffees as a celebratory gesture.
 
Within hours, I had devised a methodology: I would collect the testimonies of those who were, in an existential sense, contortionists, people whose personal histories were marked by structural neglect, by cruel fate, by heavy silence, by a joy that pressurized sociological theories of deficiency. Why not do this in Edmonton? For starters, it represented a past life I disavowed, it stood for an embargo on creativity and revolution. It was true that history could fabricate a world anywhere, could become the contours of a body, a person, a house, a neighbourhood; I suspected, however, that in some places this fact was hidden. There was nothing new to say about the city and everything still to say about the outskirts of the modern, about the zones of existence where the present was always the past, or, more precisely, was always the past reverberating like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Rural Alberta was where I’d reacquaint myself with the preciousness and wildness of life. In talking to those who came from where I came from, I also hoped light would be shed on the person I was or the person I might become. Perhaps I was no longer repressing the fact that I was as determined as anyone else by the milieu into which I was born.
 
This is what I knew about where I come from: It’s a place where history begins and ends. Before it was part of Alberta, it was the District of Athabasca, and before that it didn’t have an English name. It’s the homeland of the Cree and Dene and Métis, and for centuries my ancestors lived in harmony with the land and water and forests and animals. At the close of one century and the start of another, those from whom I descend signed a treaty near the shores of the lake around which many reserves are now located, including my own. They signed in the spirit of communality and peace and in the name of future generations, though what followed was an era defined by a systematic assault on Indigenous livability: death schools, open-air prisons, child abductions. Many sick experiments were carried out by the federal government and its henchmen from which we’re still recovering, though recovery isn’t always an option. All the while people resisted, loudly and quietly, but always creatively. This was one way to tell a story about northern Alberta. There was another way, one that was embodied and consequential for the living, one that zoomed in on emotion and intimacy. It was this more corporeal mode of storytelling that enticed me.
 
What I knew about being queer and Indigenous and in my twenties was desperation. It is we who experience aliveness as both inescapable and a shimmering impossibility. We improvise life outside the frame of futurity while also being ensnared by it. We don’t die. We proliferate life as if machines engineered to do so; that’s it. I would return to my hometown and go ab…