Wendell Coldtart got me into it actually, even though he wasn’t such a close friend of mine. He didn’t live in our end of Khartoum or go to Haig School with me and Fat and Hodder and Rin and Peanuts and Mate and Ike. Quite often though he would be in our part of town to visit his aunt who taught us in Grade 4.By W. O. MITCHELL9 min
There were still three weeks remaining before budget day when Finance Minister Paul Martin sat down one afternoon for a strategy session in his fifth-floor office in the Centre Block of the Parliament Buildings. For more than a month, Martin had known—since receiving government revenue totals at the end of December—that the first balanced budget in 29 years was now within reach.By Anthony Wilson-Smith11 min
William Ormond Mitchell, who in his first novel penned perhaps the most-quoted opening line in Canadian literature, died last week in his Calgary home after a long struggle with prostate cancer. Over his 60-plus years of writing, teaching and storytelling, he had become so familiar to Canadians that he was known across the country simply as “W.O.”By SHARON BUTALA7 min
A raunchy, high-decibel arrangement of Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze is its standard encore. The four members of the Kronos Quartet—three men and one very blond woman—stare out from promotional photos sullen as rock stars, and they travel with a sound man and a lighting designer.By ELISSA POOLE4 min
The inevitable soul-searching in the wake of two national hockey disasters at the Olympics brought a flood of irrelevant verbiage directed at Canadian and American managers, coaches and players (“Hockey meltdown,” Cover, March 2). Let’s face it: what we have seen is a well-deserved defeat of NHL hockey by European hockey.
The Canadian Olympic athletes returned home last week, some victorious, others not. The men’s hockey team—which came a disappointing fourth—landed in Vancouver, where only 40 fans were waiting. But for the longand short-track speed skaters, it was a different story.By TANYA DAVIES5 min
There is still remarkable beauty in Joanna Chan’s face: the almond eyes highlighted by the stroke of eyeliner, the sculpted cheekbones, the rosebud mouth. But when she looks in the mirror, Chan sees a horrible parody of herself, a wraith with skin stretched taut across a bony face, a sallow complexion and parched lips.
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