I wrote a long explanation of my existence this morning, only to find I'd lost the lot when I tried to post it. I'm hoping I'll have better luck this time.

I think it's something in my blood - I seem to attract, or at the very least find myself attracted to - writers festivals. Went to "Metropolis Bleu" on Saturday night to see and hear Kathryn Harrison speak, which was fascinating - also nice that she was in conversation with Ramona Koval, who I said a brief hello to after the session. (Which apparently be heard on Radio National sometime later this year). I've only read one of Kathryn Harrison's book - I somehow didn't hear about it when there was all the controversy when it was first published, but I picked up The Kiss after reading Jill Ker Conway's book on autobiography. She's written many other books - essays and novels, but it is always The Kiss people seem to remember. It is her memoir, the story of a four year "affair" she had with her father beginning at the age of twenty.

I reread the book after the session, because I was interested - I remembered it being beautifully written, and wanted to see if that was the case. Besides, I only borrowed it from the library last time, and it was cheap to buy - and now I have a signed copy! On rereading, it was still beautiful: the prose has both a real crispness and an underlying stillness - as though she has written straight through the subject matter, looking beyond it. Like Annie Dillard's anecdote about learning to chop wood - you only learn when you are no longer aiming for the block, but through it. As well as being very well written, I liked it because she had the courage to write a very grey book - nothing was simplified, and she refused the easy position of the "victim", because, no matter how appalling the situation was, things were of course more complicated than simple black and white. She gave an account of some of the reactions at the time of its publication - some very vitriolic attacks, not only in the book review pages, but also often straying to the opinion pages. A strange storm to be at the centre of. She said part of the reason she wrote the book was almost political - the notion that this was still something so unspeakable, that people wouldn't acknowledge it unless forced to. And then to be attacked - have her morals questioned because she dared to publish this book when she had children of her own to "protect" - she was even criticised as a bad mother in the pages of major newspapers. And now, several years later, the book is still beautiful, still disturbing.

On Sunday I went to St Joseph's Oratory - which turned out to be a two hour walk, with snow underfoot, nearly all uphill. When I finally reached the Oratory I was exhausted, and entertained vague notions that as it was a place of piety and charity, I'd find some nice person to drive me back downtown - no such luck, unfortunately. But before I had to walk all the way back to the hostel I looked around the Oratory a little.

The main reason I decided to go was because they have in the museum the heart of Brother Andre, the founder of the Oratory, on permanent display - something I thought was quite strange. He died in 1937, and after many cures etc have been attributed to him, he was beatified in 1982. Now there's an ongoing campaign for his canonisation, with invitations throughout the oratory to sign one of the books they have dedicated to this campaign. There were Brother Andre medallions for sale in the gift shop for 0.35 cents, so I thought I bought one - I felt I should do something after I'd looked at the man's heart.

There was another display - another campaign they have going for the canonisation of a Frenchman, Moreau. They had little cards there, with his portrait on one side, and then, pasted on the other side, pieces of cloth that had touched his bones. Such a weird system of external objects of worship, so fascinating. I think I found the whole experience a little overwhelming - after I got back I fell asleep for 17 hours. I must admit that I think this had more to do with a headcold than a religious experience.

I finished reading Vanity Fair last night, which, after 800 pages of following the fortunes of Becky, Amelia, and the lovely Dobbin (I have to admit his honesty and upstandingness won me over very early) feels worthy of mention. I feel that I have vanquished Thackeray. Well, that's an exaggeration - but I'm very glad to have read it. I'm left with poetry and essay for the next few days - am still trying to decide what I'll buy to read next when I get to the UK. I'm considering more Carson McCullers (The Member of the Wedding is a must, I think) and perhaps more Henry James, or else something swashbuckling by Dumas, or perhaps plunge into the Russians, who I've been waiting to have time for since I was sixteen.

I also finished reading Anne Carson's Glass, Irony and God. In his introduction to it, Guy Davenport stated that Carson is "a fancier of volcanoes" - a description I love. Her essay on the gender of sound, jumping all over the place, from Ancient Greece to the 20th century,and Hemingway's dislike of Gertrude Stein's voice was strange, leading me in new directions - as her work always does.

I still haven't written any of my own poetry - although I've written a small mountain of postcards today - but I've been slowly, gently taking notes, and am sure the poems will follow later, when I have time to spread out and think slowly. My "gentle, slow-paced" stay in Montreal is already close to finished. I'm hoping to go to McGill tomorrow and find Anne Carson's office - even just to see the door! Also, to the art gallery, to look at their permanent collection, as well as to the post office! The next day I fly out to the UK, where I'll meet up with Felicity in Cambridge.

Montreal