Last summer, having no idea that within a year I'd be moving to Toronto, I read Michael Ondaatje's ethereal novel, 'In the Skin of a Lion,' about the construction of Toronto's Prince Edward Viaduct, and the city's water works. Of course it isn't really about those things, or isn't only about them. It is also 'about' the city's immigrant communities in the early 20th century, and about political greed and convulsively warring ideologies, etc. I can't remember the exact details. But what stays with me is the vision of dreamlike, incomprehensible life. Loosely connected events, randomly beautiful, violent, hilarious, impossible. It's the kind of book which, no matter what time its subject matter is taking place, always seems to be happening at night. I wonder if any of it can possibly mean anything to the present-day city...
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