2 August 2014
My Teacher Paul St. Pierre
Learned Paul St. Pierre died this week. Among Canadian writers I would rank only the late George Woodcock ahead of him. If you have not read all his books you really ought to. My favourite is "In the Navel of the Moon," a poetic story about Mexico and its and our place in the ongoing war crime we know as the war on drugs.
St. Pierre was the best story teller I have ever come across. Better, even, than Bukowski, if only because he, unlike Bukowski, got the fuck out of America and chose Canada as his home. We have lots to write about up here and my country is so much more than the cesspool Bukowski inhabited although we are sure as fuck headed in that very direction.
It would not be an understatement to say the Dope City Free Press would never have existed if I had not enrolled in a creative writing class, one of many he put on out here in the motherfucking sticks, St. Pierre put on near my home after he retired from Dope City's slowly dying newspaper of record. I have only ever taken two writing classes since I turned my life over to the great sawmills of my land. His was the second.
I wrote him a few years back to thank him for helping me and letting him know what I was doing. He seemed pleased.
Now I think I will go drink that scotch that helps me when people I like die.