By Scott Maniquet
For a generation of writers, Paul Quarrington beat the drum, and we followed. For myself, and countless others, Paul made it possible to write about what we loved, whatever we loved, the longstanding traditions of Canadian literature be damned.
His books — as well as his plays, films, and songs — found the strange in the normal, and the normal in the strange, whether he was writing about infirm and salt-tongued hockey players, drug-addled rock stars, baseball playing circus freaks, or lost Hollywood misfits. Even better than that, he was a gentle lion who strolled about the artscape belying whatever impetuousness or ill-humour one expects in a genius.
Like Al Purdy or Joe Strummer, he was unfailingly generous in his encouragement and support, treating everyone who ever beat a guitar or twirled a pen as his spiritual equal. He was the kind of modern artist that we now take for granted: someone who laboured to explore the complicated and emotional grist of life while wringing humour and exultant joy from his sources. He was also my friend, and among the finest people I have ever, and will ever, know.
It’s hard for me to explain Paul Quarrington’s legacy without explaining my own. If it weren’t for the discovery of three works -- Home Game, King Leary and Whale Music -- I never would have known what kind of writer I wanted to be. They were the kinds of books that proper Canadian writers weren’t supposed to write, using common bar-and-grill subjects (he was big on fishing, the movies and magic, too) on which to base compelling and soulful stories.
Later on, Paul gave as good as his prose. My first published writing came as the result of Paul suggesting that I be included in a collection of hockey stories, and my first literary agent found me because of Paul. I was invited to read at my first literary festival at his insistence, and my former band’s only notable hit record -- and one of our best known songs, Claire-- was the result of Paul hectoring the film-makers to consider us for the soundtrack.
My story is but one among many others across this country who were also pushed forward by his guiding hand and careful, yet forthright, advice. That he could give so much of himself while continuing to produce brilliant and longstanding books, plays, poems, films and songs -- to say nothing of his active post-diagnosis touring schedule -- is perhaps his greatest achievement in a 56-year-old life anchored by a consistent creative output.
Lest he demur all of this weighty praise from on high, it should be noted that Paul was a larf, too, however noble and eminent these words might make him seem. He was easy-going and hilarious, yet commited and, in a quiet way, very intense.
Some of my finest memories of him are in the small moments spent travelling down one road or another, just hanging and talking and goofing around, listening to the radio or singing songs or watching hockey.
At a recent literary event on the Sunshine Coast, someone asked him if he’d always been a hockey fan. Paul told them, “The truth is, I’m not a hockey fan; I’m a Leafs fan.” As if he wasn’t perfect enough.
Unlike your typical hero, Paul had the ability to immediately disable whatever adulation might have affected a relationship.
Countless students under his watch at the Humber School of Writers can attest to this, and countless readers and fans with whom he had a correspondence or kinship were amazed at how real and genuine he was as a person and as an artist.
To many of us, he was the finest mentor anyone could have hoped for. And while I never told him as much, the truth is, my old friend wouldn’t have stood for it. But I loved him, too, and I think that’s okay to say.
National Post