Thanks for bringing back a fond memory. I knew Ivon when I was an editor at Books in Canada, and remember him coming in to pick up review copies. He was a superb critic and a fine man, with, as you say, an aura of irreparable loss. He never stayed long, just took his book and left as quietly as he’d come. I think literature appealed to him because it makes something beautiful from unanswered questions.
By absolute fluke, I had lunch with Ken and his father in Stratford on Avon, on a cool autumn day immediately prior to his disappearance. My friend Victor, who was also a friend of Ken's had invited me to see a play (a matinee) and to have lunch at a pub first, with some people I'd never met but whom he knew from Toronto: namely Ken, Ivon and a young woman friend of Ken's from UofT who was bicycling her way around the English countryside. Ken arrived full of energy, youth and poetry, throwing off his long wool scarf as he greeted everyone. A few months later, Victor told me about Ken's disappearance and that our lunch had been the last time Ken's father ever saw him. It's a story that's always haunted me.
Mmmm. One could write a novel about this....
Thanks for bringing back a fond memory. I knew Ivon when I was an editor at Books in Canada, and remember him coming in to pick up review copies. He was a superb critic and a fine man, with, as you say, an aura of irreparable loss. He never stayed long, just took his book and left as quietly as he’d come. I think literature appealed to him because it makes something beautiful from unanswered questions.
A fascinating story. How does one ever let go of wondering what happened?
By absolute fluke, I had lunch with Ken and his father in Stratford on Avon, on a cool autumn day immediately prior to his disappearance. My friend Victor, who was also a friend of Ken's had invited me to see a play (a matinee) and to have lunch at a pub first, with some people I'd never met but whom he knew from Toronto: namely Ken, Ivon and a young woman friend of Ken's from UofT who was bicycling her way around the English countryside. Ken arrived full of energy, youth and poetry, throwing off his long wool scarf as he greeted everyone. A few months later, Victor told me about Ken's disappearance and that our lunch had been the last time Ken's father ever saw him. It's a story that's always haunted me.
Wow. That is crazy.