Friday, Jun. 21, 2002 - 12:33 p.m.
Famous Last Laugh
Most of gay Canadian writer Timothy Findley’s books—some even autographed—sit on my shelves. Having actually read only two of them, I must say I haven’t yet gotten what all the fuss is about. His most celebrated novel The Wars (1977) was, I thought, not all that interesting; his penultimate work Pilgrim (1999) was so awful I could barely finish it. (Everyone’s been telling me, however, that I must read Pianoman’s Daughter (1995), apparently, one of his best.) More than as a writer, I will miss Findley—who died last night, aged 71—as a personality, a cultural force. 
He took on many of literature’s grand themes—madness, man’s inhumanity to man, dystopian nightmares, eros—and spoke out about politics and human rights and Canadian culture with such vital, childlike curiosity. (It was the infectious whimsy and wonder that came through so powerfully in his speech and mannerisms which—although others, many others, have—I do not find in his prose.)
A couple years ago, CBC’s Life & Times made a fascinating documentary about Findley’s life and writing, especially the collaborative relationship with his lover Bill Whitehead. (2002 marked their 40th year together; they were Canada’s most well-known gay couple.) By all accounts, Findley—tormented by personal demons, seriously beset by alcoholism—would have been unable to write without Whitehead’s constant encouragement, editing, stenography and love. The relationship dynamics did not particularly appeal to me, but ‘Tiff’ and Bill obviously had a good thing going.
One wintery day in Toronto back in the mid-90s I was browsing in a bookstore on Church Street with my deaf friend Lorraine. On my way in, I noticed the store’s window display was devoted to whichever of Findley’s books had just come out, so he was on my mind. But I was completely unprepared, moments later, for the sight of Timothy Findley himself, peering through the window with the curious smiling eyes of a child! At times like these, hanging out with lip-reading Lorraine is a bonus; I was able to mouth my excitement to her without sounding like a starfucker to everyone else. Findley walked on moments later, and I thought that would be the end of it.
But no. Lorraine and I went for lunch at a restaurant down the street—the bistro is prominently featured as a backdrop in Queer as Folk—and there he and Whitehead were, dining with a woman I did not recognize. Sure enough, the waiter sat Lorraine and I at the table right next to theirs; I couldn’t believe my luck.
So I basically overheard their entire conversation. Giddily, I mouthed what they said to Lorraine. And afterwards I rushed home to write everything down in my journal; I don’t remember all the details, now, and I guess it wouldn’t feel right to gossip about what I heard anyway. (The woman Bill and Tiff dined with seemed to be well-connected to the literary establishment; I imagined she might even be Findley’s agent.) I heard the dirt on how they all really felt about the likes of Mordecai Richler and Margaret Atwood, about the Governor-General’s awards, etc. etc. Then Findley left the restaurant for a minute to go plug the parking meter; while he was gone, Whitehead and the woman talked about him, intimately, with concern. I couldn’t believe I was overhearing all this.
In my opening sentence above, I termed Findley a “gay writer”; that is probably a misnomer. He would certainly object—and did, often—to the label. I only ever heard him refer to himself as ‘homosexual’, not ‘gay’ (and certainly never ‘queer’); his sense of himself and how homosexuality fit into his life was shaped by a different set of experiences than mine, a different era. He was often criticized by capital-G gays for not addressing homosexuality more in his writing, for not speaking out on our issues. I once agreed with that view, but for the most part I now defend his—or anyone else’s—prerogative to express and advocate whatever their passions happen to be. It would be another matter if Findley had been a closet-case; he most certainly was not. Aside from his unapologetic relationship with Whitehead, though, homosexuality seemed to be of little interest to him. Fair enough, I say.
In listening to Findley over the years—eavesdropping over lunch, hearing him at Harbourfront, on radio and TV—I have always been struck by his laugh. It’s such a big-bellied sound, smokey and hearty and fierce; it’s really the gayest thing about him. And when he laughed—which was often—there was always some beautiful wounded tinge to it.
Others will mourn the loss of a Canadian literary giant, the books that won’t be written; while I probably wouldn’t have read the books, I shall miss the wise laugh.
