Canadians

Even now, despite everything, W. dreams of Canada. Everything would be okay if he got there, W. says. He could start again in Canada, turn over a new leaf. Imagine it! W. in Canada, close to the wilderness, as everyone in Canada is close to the wilderness, W. peaceable and calm, as everyone in Canada is peaceable and calm. He would be a different kind of man, says W., a better one.

Every year, I write long and elaborate letters to places of employment in Canada on behalf of W. I write of him as the finest thinker of his generation, or as the thinker surest to mark the age with his name. I take dictation from W., who speaks of his commanding presence and his extreme intelligence. He is a man-God, says W., no don't write that down. He is the best of the best of the best, says W., don't write that down either.

But we hear nothing from the Canadians. They remain silent and distant, as remote as Mars. To console ourselves, we imagine the endless plains of the Yukon. The Canadians are busy in the wilderness, we decide. They're boating on their many lakes or hiking through their many woods. They're an outdoor people, we decide, and not given to replying to letters of absurd overpraise.