#ian orti

[theerrantbookshelf-blog]

Life is a city where time has given up on itself so there are no beginnings and no end. His life is the same dry verse of a broken record spinning endlessly between a needle. The same lines over and over. A bad habit. Wine is poured into the glass of the only other woman at the table. She arrived late, after Henry, and is the only other person there who hears the music the way he does, who understands it not as a sound, but as a place beyond language. They are two solitary notes of the same score and come from a place where one plus one is one. But only one of them knows this.

L (and things come apart) by Ian Orti

[sumlitsem-blog]

Please enjoy the fiction of the inimitable Ian Orti, as well as the poetry of Nat Sufrin (Montreal '11 participant), in the latest issue of TriQuarterly Online. Congratulations to both!

[sumlitsem-blog]

Schedule: Monday June 13

10:00 - 12:30 Morning workshop sessions

14:00 - 16:30 Afternoon workshop sessions

19:30 - 21:30 Reading: Welcome to Montreal

Gillian Sze, Ian Orti, Carolyn Marie Souaid, Thomas Heise, John Goldbach, and Katrina Best. Local writers read from their own recent works as well as a selection from another Montreal writer of their choosing.

Full schedule here.

[iambikaudio-blog]

Congrats to Invisible Publishing's Bookie:

Or rather, ON your Bookie:

Ian Orti’s much-loved debut novel L (and things come apart) has won a CBC Bookclub Bookie award for Best Relationship!

From the Ceeb:

Not much happens between Henry and L. And yet, everything happens. Their relationship changes the apartment she lives in, Henry’s cafe, the surrounding city, and both their lives forever. No wonder it captured the hearts of readers everywhere.The only question that remains is where Henry and L should display their Bookie for Best Relationship.

A little more on Invisible Publishing's blog... (and ps: an Invisible title, Anna Quon's Migration Songs, coming soon to Iambik!)

[theerrantbookshelf-blog]

Life is a city where time has given up on itself so there are no beginnings and no end. His life is the same dry verse of a broken record spinning endlessly between a needle. The same lines over and over. A bad habit. Wine is poured into the glass of the only other woman at the table. She arrived late, after Henry, and is the only other person there who hears the music the way he does, who understands it not as a sound, but as a place beyond language. They are two solitary notes of the same score and come from a place where one plus one is one. But only one of them knows this.

L (and things come apart) by Ian Orti