Quite accidentally, I met Mr. Lacoursière at Pointe-à-Callière Museum’s 18th century New France Public Market event, in which he was playing the role of an “historien.” Dressed in a wide-collared frock, waistcoat, breeches, and a smart tricorne hat, he stood close to a group of raucous fishermen from Gaspé who were quarreling with three soldiers of the Montréal regiment of His Majesty King Louis XV.

His colonial appearance inspired me to read his newly-published book, whose title, A People’s History of Quebec, hinted at an English version of his seminal and much-acclaimed Histoire populaire du Québec.

But the title is misleading.

The book certainly is the English version of one of Mr. Lacoursière’s works, but not his five-volume People’s beast. It’s a translation of his gift-sized Une histoire du Québec racontée par Jacques Lacoursière, published in 2002. Perhaps it is the aforementioned gift appeal that influenced the editors’ decision to choose a prestigious title for a light book. But the fact that this title sounds like a translation of the title of one work, while it actually presides over the translation of another by the same author, is not the only reason this title seems inappropriate.

Like the New France Public Market, Lacoursière’s English-language expedition is brimming with action; grouping political, economic, cultural, and social developments, it sweeps across centuries, but it is nevertheless not comprehensive. The historical material appears unbiased and enlightening, but is often glossy rather than substantial, and feels hurried.

A 200-page undertaking, it’s less ambitious than its title proclaims; it is more of an overview. The original French-language work that this title represents spans five 250-page volumes; if they really had to hint at this famously comprehensive history, they should have added the word “short.” Often, topics mentioned in one place are not referred to again, and in places the reader is left wondering.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a riveting read. For many, caught in the swirl of postmodern life, a quick, informative read that you can finish in a single day will sound inviting.

The book is thus certainly an example of mass history, a tale for busy people and enthusiasts. As such, it can deservedly be called People’s, but I sense that was not the original intent of that title. Traditional histories favor elite protagonists, focusing on political events and military feats, usually neglecting ordinary people. People’s suggests the opposite: a focus on the social, the everyday. While this work does offer some good information on Québec’s society and culture, these references are not nearly as numerous as the word “people’s” caused me to expect; its main focus remains political and economic.

This book makes a valuable contribution, however, in its very appearance. English-language history books focusing solely on Quebec are not common; this is a serious, well-informed, general work that makes an honest attempt at objectivity. It joins works like Short History of Quebec by Young and Dickinson (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1988) and Quebec, a History, 1867-1929 by Linteau, Durocher, and Robert. Lacoursière’s work improves on these in its refreshing flow and witty tone, but falls short in being overly brief, slightly inconclusive, and somewhat mis-titled. A more literal translation of the title’s French-language counterpart, using the word “popular” (with all it connotes in English) would have captured the book’s essence much better.

Danijel Matijevic leads the history section of The Panoptique Review, a multi-disciplinary journal based in Montreal. He received his MA in history from McGill University and is currently working on a project focusing on memories of the Holocaust.

In the words of the organizers, Expozine, Montreal’s Annual Small Press, Comic and Zine Fair, “was created to help the small press community and local writers and artists meet each other and reach new readers.” Sounds simple and tame. But these tidy descriptions don’t really cut it. Expozine is raw.

The fair, which ran last weekend, is a messy, hectic, and overwhelmingly colourful affair. It’s underground — commercially, culturally, and literally — crammed into a basement that, upon entering, greets you with the smell of sweat and a cozy, incessant clamor. There’s movement in all directions, a sea of people in ebb and flow, streaming around long rows of tables littered with, it seems, everything a true word lover would want.

Expozine was held in an imposing church that, beyond a solemn hallway of echoing steps and yellowish light, concealed an eye-opening paradise of alternative art and independent publication. In retrospect, the event resembles a complex knot of numerous threads of creativity. Just consider titles such as: Time Management for Anarchists; Front d’action stupide pour un quotidien délirant (Fighting Stupidity with Stupidity); Cubec libre, (Cuban-style communism for Quebec); The Yellow Book (sporting a nude female crotch on the cover); We Were Writers for Disastrous Love Affairs Magazines; Fish Piss; and Truth and Beauty Bombs.

Of course, you’ll also find more conventional offerings: Concordia Co-op Bookstore; Matrix Magazine; Canada Council for the Arts; Quebec Writing Competition – 2010; Vallum contemporary poetry; and Montreal Review of Books.

It is a no-cover, non-commercial, uncensored paradise, providing exposure and contacts. Harley Smart, of Anteism Publishing, explains that Expozine is tight for sales, but that’s not what they come for. Expozine allows them to meet artists, distributors, and the community. Chris, a long-haired, black-clad youth presenting a scientific zine on ways of recognizing insects, agrees, stating that he doesn’t expect to make a killing, but hopes his work will be useful to others sharing his passion, “at an unbelievably low price.”

Tyson Bodnarchuk of “Headquarters, Galerie+Boutique” sees the event growing every year, providing excellent exposure and content, “xeroxed zines to pro books — people get really creative.” Celeste of Datapromo, an accordion-playing silk screen artist originally from Alberta, sounded a slightly negative note, stating that tables were becoming more expensive, disadvantaging the participants who have less support, goods, or experience.

Nevertheless, inexperience was evident: more than half of exhibits didn’t clearly advertize what exactly they were presenting. Moreover, it felt that most of these interesting projects would eventually either fade away or commercialize. Not for lack of creativity or greed, but those crude realities of life: the appeal of money and the heavy hand of time. Oscar Yazedjian, Comic-Con promoter, summarized it plainly: “If Marvel or DC offer to publish your book, everybody in this room is going to do it.” France Cantin, an artist agent, added a dose of hope: “I think many want to stay in that freedom they have and [even if you commercialize] you can stay true to what you’re doing anyway.”

People milling about complemented the colourful content. I saw mohawks, ties, décoltés, poppy pins, red stars, bike-messenger bags, long beards, gray hairs, yellow ski pants, smart coats, torn All Stars and brand new Skechers, sleeping babies wrapped in warm embraces next to Gogol Bordello patches, then two curious toddlers, behind them a shirt reading “government sponsored terrorism.”

And they all seem to love it. Dave, a first-time visitor, said it “demonstrates what Montreal really has to offer,” describing it as homey, adding that “the one in Toronto is in a really nice building… [and] maybe a little bit more pretentious, [but] sweet either way.” Tracy, a regular, said it’s similarly varied, noting better contents on the tables.

A scream of creativity, ambition, and energy, Expozine opens minds, celebrates originalities, reconciles differences: a large arrow looming overhead in the centre of the room fit in quite well with everything else: “TOILETTE HOMMES.” It fuses, diffuses, surprises, amazes and, most importantly, fulfills expectations. I’ll certainly return next year.

This year’s Expozine took place at Église Saint-Enfant Jésus, Nov 14 and 15.

The flutter of butterfly wings upsetting the air can eventually cause a hurricane. The flutter of thoughts, desires, and impressions, peer dynamics and adolescent insecurities upsetting the norm of the everyday can eventually cause disasters, in a way that scars us for life. Set in a prestigious Ottawa boarding school, Colin McAdam’s second novel delves into the lives of two roommates: Noel, son of Canadian diplomats living in Australia, and Julius, son of the American ambassador to Canada (living in Ottawa).

Both love the belle of the school, Fall; Julius, however, is her boyfriend, and Noel but a secret worshipper.

Julius is at the center of the story, even though Noel’s perspective is more frequently presented. Julius is the loved one: by Fall, by the school, by throngs of friends. Noel, on the other hand, is marginalized, away from parents since grade eight, unpopular, hiding his lazy eye and burying his loneliness under loads of books and weight training. Noel’s love for Fall is the axis of the first half of the book, but in the second part it starts to seem like a side effect. When Fall disappears about halfway through the story, Noel’s reaction is surprisingly mild. That’s because Julius is still there. It turns out that Noel loves Fall in order to approach his true object, Julius—to be with him, to be like him, to be him. Sensing this development, we remember Noel’s habits of wearing Julius’s clothing, polishing his shoes. At a café, we hear the server announce “Hot chocolate for Julius!” when it is Noel who ordered the drink for himself.

But why? To be Julius is to be loved, something Noel has been denied. His parents are aloof, preoccupied with themselves; his lazy eye and serious air turn his peers off. Noel is not really in love with Julius; Noel is in love with love.

Noel doesn’t understand any of this, and lets events unfold spontaneously, led by impulses of the moment. He isn’t conscious of the effect his actions are having, unintentionally setting the stage for a disaster.

McAdam’s storytelling is talented, brisk, with an edge; sometimes dreary in its thought-following approach, but with undeniable purpose, fine language, and skill. He wields an amazing gift for observing and imagining things and situations. Places and people seem close, familiar. Emotions are real, very human. He embraces sadness, an emotion often shunned as inappropriate in our culture (or wrongly euphemized as “depression”); he even mentions the word frequently, weaves the feeling into the narrative, into the characters, reintroducing its beauty—and humanity—to the reader. Expect to be left with a touch of sweet sadness every time you close the book.

The boarding school atmosphere is captured well and the characters are well developed. There’s a prince, a beauty, and a beast, a classical twist, but the resolution and the explicit content are no fairy-tale material; the ending is logical, real, but not what many will hope for. It lets kids become grownups—with little of grownups’ guidance, love, and comfort—and leaves them with inevitable scars.

Danijel Matijević is a member of the editorial board of The Panoptique, a multi-disciplinary journal based in Montreal. He received his MA from McGill University and is currently working on a project focusing on memories of the Holocaust.

HIRED GUNS, KOOKS, AND COMMUNIST SPIES join hands with pious nuns, royal-blooded natives, and Irish invaders in this overview of the seldom mentioned and unusual in the close to 400 years of our beloved Montreal. This Island’s tales are informative, captivating, often exciting, every bit of the city’s history, every one of its street corners seeming to have a marvel of its own. However, John Kalbfleisch is not a historian, and he doesn’t hide it. He purposely disobeys the rules of academic history, like chronology and footnoting, and explicitly cloaks his book with popular rather than academic appeal.

Kalbfleisch’s book is an expansion on the column on Montreal history he writes for the Gazette. In essence, this is a collection of short tales that have little in common apart from Montreal. Some of them share one or two characters or tread the same cobblestones, but are still separate. It doesn’t feel like there is any particular order arranging the narration. There is some thematic grouping, with tales sharing a common point or topic hustled together. While never separated by title or break, Kalbfleisch finds a way to tie them together, and it seems these points of contact were the only determinant of sequence; it’s as if the method of scrapbooking has been brought to history.

Kalbfleisch tells stories, not histories: past events that caught his eye, and not those that give a comprehensive historical portrait of the city or an event. That statement saves the book from a historian’s criticism, but also brands it as light reading, an exercise in pop-lit history, a curious collection aimed at Montrealers interested in cutely packaged stories (even if they are often quite gruesome) or enthusiastic Canadian tourists for whom Montreal is the Medina of country’s history (Mecca being Quebec City, of course) looking for an unconventional souvenir.

Knowing some history before opening this book would be helpful, but it is not really necessary, since Kalbfleisch gives the essential data surrounding every event he narrates. His language is politically correct; his narration shuns elitism and bigotry. On occasion, some sensationalist possibilities are suggested, perhaps to tickle the notion that our city’s history might be even more fascinating than the available evidence allows.

In what seems to be the point of the whole book, the author states that Montreal is “the true capital of Canada, thanks to the weight of the city’s history.” That argument is well supported by the array of stories presented. Montreal does come out as exceedingly interesting and worthy of further reading.

If, despite its relaxed form, this book raises someone’s interest in the fascinating and edifying world of history, it was certainly not written in vain. Moreover, knowing the Montreal of today, there’s a lot to learn from its past, and popular histories are sometimes better at reviving memories than the academic ones. The Montreal of old inevitably grows ever more distant, puffing away like steam trains that, in one tale, navigate tracks laid on the icy surface of the St. Lawrence River, curving around a menacing hole — the site of the previous day’s accident.

Danijel Matijevic leads the History Section of The Panoptique Review, a multi-disciplinary journal based in Montreal. He received his MA in History from McGill University and is currently working on a project focusing on memories of the Holocaust.

ARGUABLY THE WORLD’S LATEST ISM, “Turntablism” is just one of the cutting-edge music terms you will pick up while flipping through Ambrosia: About a Culture. What is a sample? Track? Set? What is garage? Trance? What does a DJ really do? James Cummins’ Ambrosia answers all of these questions, and more. General but comprehensive, it’s a guide to one of the largest global cultural movements, electronica.

Cummins has produced a pertinent work. Its central topic is electronica music and rave-party culture, a movement that has been around for more than 20 years, though really began making itself heard in the last 10. Considering the presence of electronica in event listings, commercials, on radio and the shelves of music retailers, it’s clear that electronica culture should be taken seriously. Moreover, considering how well it fits with 21st century global technological, urban and multicultural developments, electronica may be here to stay, and might eventually hold sway.

Despite the years of its forceful presence, electronica inspired surprisingly little writing, unless we count hostile claims concerning the alleged threat this new culture presents to youth, mostly in connection to illegal drugs. Serious studies are lacking; so is scholarly interest. Ambrosia identifies this vacuum, but is less interested in filling the void than in giving the public a nudge, making a case that electronica deserves as much attention and respect as do other art forms.

Discussing the general unpopularity of electronica, Cummins tries to address its most likely cause: ignorance. By pinpointing its beginnings, indicating names and dates, he makes electronica traceable and knowable. By defining its vernacular, the business behind it, and details surrounding rave events, he clarifies its structure. By reviewing the history of human musical and festive spirit, he connects electronica to global cultural roots. By explaining attitudes of those involved, he reveals its inner logic. And, with a detailed exploration of the drug problem, he convincingly dispels the myth that has compromised electronica’s reputation since its inception.

Ambrosia is a good read, well-balanced and interesting, a fine general study. The specific arguments, however, need more detailed investigation. For example, Cummins attempts to give electronica a strong historical legacy; he roots it in phenomena of festival, dance and music, adorning the new art form with a musical and cultural “lineage” that makes its rise a natural step forward in human artistic expression. These conclusions might hold up to scholarly scrutiny, but in Cummins’ work, they amount to little more than interesting ideas.

Ambrosia is based mainly on dozens of interviews with DJs and producers as well as professionals and experts in other music genres. With its personal tone and relaxed referencing, Ambrosia reads best as a well-organized think-piece.

Cummins advances a forceful invitation to take the electronica culture seriously. Like a knight, he rides for artistic justice, his spear defending the noble maiden that the global village has mistakenly called a witch; her innovative spirit, beauty, and ability to entrance masses, he says, make her a genius.

Danijel Matijevic leads the History Section of The Panoptique Review, and lists history and creative writing as his favorite domains. A Serbian refugee from Croatia, he has made Montreal his home while attending a graduate program in History at McGill University.