As promised: a blog.
Naturally, this means no more impersonal e-mails sent out to groups of friends who were expecting personal correspondence. This begins a string of impersonal blog entries that no one ever has to read if they don’t want to.
You can, as always, thank me in cash and/or naked photos.
The first thing my friends may notice is that the name at the head of this page is my pen name rather than my real name. Of course, calling it a “pen name” is unfair to clever and thoughtful individuals who went to some effort in selecting their nom de plume—like Mark Twain. This is merely an inversion of my initials—from D. J. to J. D.
The purpose of the inversion is twofold:
First, I am told that one who entertains notions of becoming an even moderately public figure must be prepared to have his or her name Googled.
Reasonable enough—so go ahead and Google “David Buston”.
It’s okay, I’ll wait.
See? I would like to avoid being confused with a prairie-dwelling photographer. I should note here, too, that I have no idea who this man is or if I am in any way related to him. I’m told my last name is none too common so I suppose it is possible. Maybe one day I’ll trouble myself to find out.
But probably not.
The second reason for the flip-flopping of my initials is that I wish to give a nod to one of the greatest (and certainly craziest) writers of the twentieth century. I refer, of course, to J. D. Salinger. I don’t entertain any notions of being a writer of any caliber similar to Mr. Salinger—however, I think I could out-hermit him if pressed to do so.
And my, how the daily news does press…
Naturally, this means no more impersonal e-mails sent out to groups of friends who were expecting personal correspondence. This begins a string of impersonal blog entries that no one ever has to read if they don’t want to.
You can, as always, thank me in cash and/or naked photos.
The first thing my friends may notice is that the name at the head of this page is my pen name rather than my real name. Of course, calling it a “pen name” is unfair to clever and thoughtful individuals who went to some effort in selecting their nom de plume—like Mark Twain. This is merely an inversion of my initials—from D. J. to J. D.
The purpose of the inversion is twofold:
First, I am told that one who entertains notions of becoming an even moderately public figure must be prepared to have his or her name Googled.
Reasonable enough—so go ahead and Google “David Buston”.
It’s okay, I’ll wait.
See? I would like to avoid being confused with a prairie-dwelling photographer. I should note here, too, that I have no idea who this man is or if I am in any way related to him. I’m told my last name is none too common so I suppose it is possible. Maybe one day I’ll trouble myself to find out.
But probably not.
The second reason for the flip-flopping of my initials is that I wish to give a nod to one of the greatest (and certainly craziest) writers of the twentieth century. I refer, of course, to J. D. Salinger. I don’t entertain any notions of being a writer of any caliber similar to Mr. Salinger—however, I think I could out-hermit him if pressed to do so.
And my, how the daily news does press…
But as novelists go I don’t think I want to kick this blog off with a perplexing recluse. We have, after all, lost a genius recently.
And I swear, I won’t say, “So it goes” or “Kurt’s up in heaven now”.
Kurt Vonnegut died on the eleventh of April. A lot has been said about him since and it’s still nowhere near enough. I’d like to think that what I perceive as a lack of interest is merely a mourning culture struggling to find the words.
Still, I know better.
I realise that Anna Nicole Smith’s death deserves more coverage.
I also know that the people who care about Vonnegut’s death have already thought all the things there are to think. And the people who don’t care—well, nothing I can say now will persuade them to care. I’ve coerced, persuaded and campaigned for Vonnegut’s books to be more widely read. I give up.
I will only say this on the subject:
Kurt Vonnegut inspired me to write when I had given up on the art form. He showed me how to be funny when everything in the world is pitifully bleak. Through his novels and essays he taught me more about the art of fiction than any other writer ever has. And certainly more than any instructor or teacher could hope to.
I have learned from one of his final interviews that he claims to have reached what Nietzsche called “the melancholia of everything completed”. I know he was done writing and that there would be no more novels to inspire, entertain or inform me. I know he envied his dead friends like Joseph Heller. Still, one cannot escape a sense of loss.
Like Hunter S. Thompson before him—he has left when we need him most. Vonnegut’s ironic humour has gone a long way toward making a lot of people feel just a little bit better about what seems to be imminent political, economic and ecological collapse.
I have begun to realise how few people know Vonnegut’s works. How one escapes the genius of the greatest satirist of the twentieth century (easily on par with Twain and Swift before him) is beyond me.
Which brings me to my next point…
Another recent death worth mentioning is June Callwood—and I won’t be surprised to learn that even fewer people recognize that name.
June was a Canadian journalist and social activist. She was referred to, at times, as “Canada’s Conscience”—which I think is a terribly wonderful thing to be known as. She was actually born in a city very familiar to me—Chatham, Ontario—and was raised in a community I am equally comfortable in—Belle River.
June began her career in journalism working for the Brantford Expositor at the age of sixteen—imagine that! She would eventually move on to work for the Globe and Mail where she met (and married) Trent Frayne.
Callwood left journalism for a time to raise a family but returned as a freelancer and ghostwriter for more than a few biographies detailing the lives of some rather prominent Americans. June eventually landed a job hosting In Touch on the CBC.
June’s career was marked by a strong personal desire to see social justice done, founding or co-founding a myriad of social action organizations. She also founded Casey House, PEN Canada, the Canadian Civil Liberties Association and Feminists Against Censorship.
Callwood was a Companion of the Order of Canada and was awarded the Order of Ontario.
She gave her final interview to George Stroumboulopoulos on CBC’s The Hour. Some have suggested this was a passing of the torch—I’m not prepared to make that statement. I am prepared to say, though, that if it was, George has some big-ass shoes to fill.
June finally succumbed to cancer on June 14th, 2007. Three days after Kurt Vonnegut died of injuries to his brain after a fall in his Manhattan home.
And here’s something to think about:
June Callwood was eighty-two years old when she died—two years younger than Kurt. I can find no information anywhere to suggest they knew one another. These two atheists who didn’t believe in heaven (just like myself) and who would get along so famously in the Everafter, will get no such opportunity.
That’s ironic.
I can’t speak for June, but I’m pretty confident that Kurt would find that funny.
And so do I.
Hope I didn’t bum you out. I hope you keep coming back.
And I swear, I won’t say, “So it goes” or “Kurt’s up in heaven now”.
Kurt Vonnegut died on the eleventh of April. A lot has been said about him since and it’s still nowhere near enough. I’d like to think that what I perceive as a lack of interest is merely a mourning culture struggling to find the words.
Still, I know better.
I realise that Anna Nicole Smith’s death deserves more coverage.
I also know that the people who care about Vonnegut’s death have already thought all the things there are to think. And the people who don’t care—well, nothing I can say now will persuade them to care. I’ve coerced, persuaded and campaigned for Vonnegut’s books to be more widely read. I give up.
I will only say this on the subject:
Kurt Vonnegut inspired me to write when I had given up on the art form. He showed me how to be funny when everything in the world is pitifully bleak. Through his novels and essays he taught me more about the art of fiction than any other writer ever has. And certainly more than any instructor or teacher could hope to.
I have learned from one of his final interviews that he claims to have reached what Nietzsche called “the melancholia of everything completed”. I know he was done writing and that there would be no more novels to inspire, entertain or inform me. I know he envied his dead friends like Joseph Heller. Still, one cannot escape a sense of loss.
Like Hunter S. Thompson before him—he has left when we need him most. Vonnegut’s ironic humour has gone a long way toward making a lot of people feel just a little bit better about what seems to be imminent political, economic and ecological collapse.
I have begun to realise how few people know Vonnegut’s works. How one escapes the genius of the greatest satirist of the twentieth century (easily on par with Twain and Swift before him) is beyond me.
Which brings me to my next point…
Another recent death worth mentioning is June Callwood—and I won’t be surprised to learn that even fewer people recognize that name.
June was a Canadian journalist and social activist. She was referred to, at times, as “Canada’s Conscience”—which I think is a terribly wonderful thing to be known as. She was actually born in a city very familiar to me—Chatham, Ontario—and was raised in a community I am equally comfortable in—Belle River.
June began her career in journalism working for the Brantford Expositor at the age of sixteen—imagine that! She would eventually move on to work for the Globe and Mail where she met (and married) Trent Frayne.
Callwood left journalism for a time to raise a family but returned as a freelancer and ghostwriter for more than a few biographies detailing the lives of some rather prominent Americans. June eventually landed a job hosting In Touch on the CBC.
June’s career was marked by a strong personal desire to see social justice done, founding or co-founding a myriad of social action organizations. She also founded Casey House, PEN Canada, the Canadian Civil Liberties Association and Feminists Against Censorship.
Callwood was a Companion of the Order of Canada and was awarded the Order of Ontario.
She gave her final interview to George Stroumboulopoulos on CBC’s The Hour. Some have suggested this was a passing of the torch—I’m not prepared to make that statement. I am prepared to say, though, that if it was, George has some big-ass shoes to fill.
June finally succumbed to cancer on June 14th, 2007. Three days after Kurt Vonnegut died of injuries to his brain after a fall in his Manhattan home.
And here’s something to think about:
June Callwood was eighty-two years old when she died—two years younger than Kurt. I can find no information anywhere to suggest they knew one another. These two atheists who didn’t believe in heaven (just like myself) and who would get along so famously in the Everafter, will get no such opportunity.
That’s ironic.
I can’t speak for June, but I’m pretty confident that Kurt would find that funny.
And so do I.
Hope I didn’t bum you out. I hope you keep coming back.
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