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Bear
‘A strange and wonderful book, plausible as kitchens, but shapely as a folktale, and with the same disturbing resonance.’ – Margaret Atwood
Lou is a shy and diligent librarian at the local Heritage Institute. She works monotonous and dusty hours long into the night but she has found nothing – and no one – to go home to. She has resigned herself to passionless sex on her desk with the Director of the Institute.
When she is summoned to a remote island to inventory the estate of Colonel Cary, she takes it as an opportunity to get out of the city, hoping for an industrious summer of cataloguing.
Colonel Cary left many possessions behind, but she didn’t expect the bear. She soon begins to anticipate the bear’s needs for food and company. But as summer blossoms across the island and Lou shakes off the city, she realises the bear might satisfy some needs of her own.
Lou is a shy and diligent librarian at the local Heritage Institute. She works monotonous and dusty hours long into the night but she has found nothing – and no one – to go home to. She has resigned herself to passionless sex on her desk with the Director of the Institute.
When she is summoned to a remote island to inventory the estate of Colonel Cary, she takes it as an opportunity to get out of the city, hoping for an industrious summer of cataloguing.
Colonel Cary left many possessions behind, but she didn’t expect the bear. She soon begins to anticipate the bear’s needs for food and company. But as summer blossoms across the island and Lou shakes off the city, she realises the bear might satisfy some needs of her own.
176 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1976
About the author
Marian Engel
20 books67 followersCanadian novelist, short-story and children's fiction writer, Marian Engel was a passionate activist for the national and international writer’s cause.
She was the first chair of the Writer’s Union of Canada (1973–74) and helped found the Public Lending Right Commission. From 1975-1977, she served on the City of Toronto Book Award Committee (an award she won in 1981 for Lunatic Villas) and the Canadian Book and Periodical Development Council.
In 1982 she was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.
She married Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) radio producer Howard Engel in 1962 and, upon their return to Toronto from England in 1964, began to raise a family--twins William Lucas Passmore and Charlotte Helen Arabella--and to pursue a writing career. Marian and Howard separated in 1975 and divorced in 1977.
Engel was writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta (1977–1978) and at the University of Toronto (1980–1982).
Her first novel, No Clouds of Glory, was published in 1968. She wrote two children's books: Adventures of Moon Bay Towers (1974) and My name is not Odessa Yarker (1977). Her most famous and controversial novel was Bear(1976), a tale of erotic love between a librarian and a bear, for which she won the Governor General's Literary Award for Fiction in 1976.
From 1965 to her death in 1985 she corresponded with literary peers and friends such as Hugh MacLennan, Robertson Davies, Dennis Lee, Margaret Atwood, Timothy Findley, Alice Munro, Margaret Laurence, Matt Cohen, Robert Weaver, Graeme Gibson and more. Some of this correspondence can be found in Dear Hugh, Dear Marian: The MacLennan-Engel Correspondence (1995) and Marian Engel: Life in Letters (2004).
After her death in 1985, the Writer's Development Trust of Canada instituted the Marian Engel Award, which was presented annually to a woman writer in mid-career. The Engel and Findley Awards are no longer awarded separately, but were combined into the new Writers’ Trust Notable Author Award as of 2008.
She was the first chair of the Writer’s Union of Canada (1973–74) and helped found the Public Lending Right Commission. From 1975-1977, she served on the City of Toronto Book Award Committee (an award she won in 1981 for Lunatic Villas) and the Canadian Book and Periodical Development Council.
In 1982 she was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.
She married Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) radio producer Howard Engel in 1962 and, upon their return to Toronto from England in 1964, began to raise a family--twins William Lucas Passmore and Charlotte Helen Arabella--and to pursue a writing career. Marian and Howard separated in 1975 and divorced in 1977.
Engel was writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta (1977–1978) and at the University of Toronto (1980–1982).
Her first novel, No Clouds of Glory, was published in 1968. She wrote two children's books: Adventures of Moon Bay Towers (1974) and My name is not Odessa Yarker (1977). Her most famous and controversial novel was Bear(1976), a tale of erotic love between a librarian and a bear, for which she won the Governor General's Literary Award for Fiction in 1976.
From 1965 to her death in 1985 she corresponded with literary peers and friends such as Hugh MacLennan, Robertson Davies, Dennis Lee, Margaret Atwood, Timothy Findley, Alice Munro, Margaret Laurence, Matt Cohen, Robert Weaver, Graeme Gibson and more. Some of this correspondence can be found in Dear Hugh, Dear Marian: The MacLennan-Engel Correspondence (1995) and Marian Engel: Life in Letters (2004).
After her death in 1985, the Writer's Development Trust of Canada instituted the Marian Engel Award, which was presented annually to a woman writer in mid-career. The Engel and Findley Awards are no longer awarded separately, but were combined into the new Writers’ Trust Notable Author Award as of 2008.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,797 reviews
December 10, 2020
She f*cked a bear.
She literally f*cked a bear.
No. This isn't some euphemism for a beefy gay man.
She motherf*cking literally f*cked a literal bear.
What. The. Hell.
Okay. So. I'm not a cultured reader. I read mostly YA and...well...that's about it. BUT, I am a reader. A layman reader. So, here is the review from a casual just-for-fun reader:
She f*cked a bear.
For the record: did I pick up this book knowing there will be bear-f*ckery? No.
I picked it because I wanted (for once) to read a novel. I wanted one of those fancy English-students-read-this sort of novels.
I found this 120ish page book on the "suggested reads" table of my local library. Here's the blurb from the back:
The book started off okay. It's a bit pretentious but it was manageable. There's an isolated, island house donated to a historical society and it's filled with old books.
At this point, the book wasn't too bad. It wasn't particularly gripping but hey. Not bad. Then we get to the "First Look":
At one point Lou walks the bear on his chain to the island's edge and as the bear swims, she jumps in naked.
Yes, it was a bit odd - it was odd that she thinks of the bear with so many human emotions, that she goes skinny-dipping with him, that she notices his very "male-ness" when she first meets him....but I maintain that at this point, there wasn't any indication that things were going to go so far south.
I remember thinking, "Oh jeez. That's those fancy-novels. Free spirits. Wouldn't it be funny if..."
Turns out, that was not funny.
To summarize the rest of the book: (And note, I'm summarizing this in the blandest way possible but I'm still putting it as a spoiler - so you have been warned):
To use one of the side character's words:
Honestly, from pg 80 on I skipped every page that involved genitalia and stimulation thus reading maybe 20 of the 40 remaining pages. It was just too much.
I didn't get the plot but I am not going back for it.
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She literally f*cked a bear.
No. This isn't some euphemism for a beefy gay man.
She motherf*cking literally f*cked a literal bear.
What. The. Hell.
Okay. So. I'm not a cultured reader. I read mostly YA and...well...that's about it. BUT, I am a reader. A layman reader. So, here is the review from a casual just-for-fun reader:
She f*cked a bear.
For the record: did I pick up this book knowing there will be bear-f*ckery? No.
I picked it because I wanted (for once) to read a novel. I wanted one of those fancy English-students-read-this sort of novels.
I found this 120ish page book on the "suggested reads" table of my local library. Here's the blurb from the back:
Marian Engel, one of Canada's most celebrated and provocative novelest, died...The short and controversal novel "Bear," her last and best-known work...It sounded good - it had all the hallmarks for cultured reading, right? It won prizes, it's by a treasured national author, it was controversial. I was pumped - watch out world, I'm gonna get cultured.
The book started off okay. It's a bit pretentious but it was manageable. There's an isolated, island house donated to a historical society and it's filled with old books.
For once, instead of Sunday school attendance certificates, old emigration documents, envelopes of unidentified farmer's Sunday photographs and withered love letters, something of read value had been left to them.A librarian (Lou) is sent there for the summer to categorize and catalog the collection. There's an old bear chained up that was the family pet that our Lou needs to care for.
At this point, the book wasn't too bad. It wasn't particularly gripping but hey. Not bad. Then we get to the "First Look":
As she sat down, she realized the bear was standing in his doorway staring at her.Again, not bad. She starts to befriend the bear, bringing him food, petting his fur, giving him anthropomorphic characteristics....essentially all the things that even a five year old knows NOT to do with a wild animal.
Bear. There. Staring.
She stared back.
At one point Lou walks the bear on his chain to the island's edge and as the bear swims, she jumps in naked.
Yes, it was a bit odd - it was odd that she thinks of the bear with so many human emotions, that she goes skinny-dipping with him, that she notices his very "male-ness" when she first meets him....but I maintain that at this point, there wasn't any indication that things were going to go so far south.
I remember thinking, "Oh jeez. That's those fancy-novels. Free spirits. Wouldn't it be funny if..."
Turns out, that was not funny.
To summarize the rest of the book: (And note, I'm summarizing this in the blandest way possible but I'm still putting it as a spoiler - so you have been warned):
To use one of the side character's words:
"People get funny when they're too much alone."Did the side character know? Did anyone find out? What was the plot?
Honestly, from pg 80 on I skipped every page that involved genitalia and stimulation thus reading maybe 20 of the 40 remaining pages. It was just too much.
I didn't get the plot but I am not going back for it.
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This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 7, 2018
floating because the comments in this thread: http://imgur.com/gallery/uf3YE are killing me. ded.
first of all, i want to thank bill thompson, for sending me this book from canada. i also want to thank him specifically for sending me this cover, because it is totally hot and i got to upload it onto goodreads.com myself.
i am now prepared for the customer/patron question: "do y'all have any books where a bear goes down on a lady??" yes. yes i do. but that's pretty reductive, even though the book is only 167 pages long.
it is on my "icky-sex" shelf only because that is my catch-all shelf for incest, necrophilia, pedophilia, and bestiality(guess which one this book has! the bear turns out to actually be her brother!! oh, taboo!!) no, but, i'm not censuring the way she writes the sex scenes by calling them icky, is the point. she writes a sex scene better than stephen king, and better than most of the romance novels i had to read for school.
she writes better than a lot of authors in general:
"Yet, when the weather turned and the sun filtered into even her basement windows, when the sunbeams were laden with spring dust and the old tin ashtrays began to stink of a winter of nicotine and contemplation, the flaws in her plodding private world were made public, even to her, for although she loved old shabby things, things that already had a past, when she saw that her arms were slug-pale and her fingerprints grained with old, old ink, that the detritus with which she bedizened her bulletin boards was curled and valueless, when she found that her eyes would no longer focus in the light, she was always ashamed, for the image of the Good Life long ago stamped on her soul was quite different from this, and she suffered in contrast".
such marvelous yearning! and shame! such a wonderfully long sentence!so even if, at its core, it is a novel about a woman's love for a bear, and the fulfillment she finds from their union, there is still some killer writing in here, because the canadians find it very difficult to write poorly. come for the animal sex scenes, stay for the commentary on loneliness and communication.
i have very little else to say about this book because it is so short. it is lovely writing, and while the character isn't someone you are going to fall in love with, she is at least not ever boring. to fill our time together, here is a series of images of my earliest crushes, which is relevant because some of them are not human. enjoy!
come to my blog!
first of all, i want to thank bill thompson, for sending me this book from canada. i also want to thank him specifically for sending me this cover, because it is totally hot and i got to upload it onto goodreads.com myself.
i am now prepared for the customer/patron question: "do y'all have any books where a bear goes down on a lady??" yes. yes i do. but that's pretty reductive, even though the book is only 167 pages long.
it is on my "icky-sex" shelf only because that is my catch-all shelf for incest, necrophilia, pedophilia, and bestiality(guess which one this book has! the bear turns out to actually be her brother!! oh, taboo!!) no, but, i'm not censuring the way she writes the sex scenes by calling them icky, is the point. she writes a sex scene better than stephen king, and better than most of the romance novels i had to read for school.
she writes better than a lot of authors in general:
"Yet, when the weather turned and the sun filtered into even her basement windows, when the sunbeams were laden with spring dust and the old tin ashtrays began to stink of a winter of nicotine and contemplation, the flaws in her plodding private world were made public, even to her, for although she loved old shabby things, things that already had a past, when she saw that her arms were slug-pale and her fingerprints grained with old, old ink, that the detritus with which she bedizened her bulletin boards was curled and valueless, when she found that her eyes would no longer focus in the light, she was always ashamed, for the image of the Good Life long ago stamped on her soul was quite different from this, and she suffered in contrast".
such marvelous yearning! and shame! such a wonderfully long sentence!so even if, at its core, it is a novel about a woman's love for a bear, and the fulfillment she finds from their union, there is still some killer writing in here, because the canadians find it very difficult to write poorly. come for the animal sex scenes, stay for the commentary on loneliness and communication.
i have very little else to say about this book because it is so short. it is lovely writing, and while the character isn't someone you are going to fall in love with, she is at least not ever boring. to fill our time together, here is a series of images of my earliest crushes, which is relevant because some of them are not human. enjoy!
come to my blog!
February 26, 2023
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BEAR falls into a genre of fiction called "scatlit," which is my name for authors who clearly would rather be writing erotica but decided to write literary fiction for the $$$, and instead of being lambasted for being gross or smutty, they are instead praised for being "brave" and "daring," and win awards and even get their books blurbed by Margaret Atwood.
I have a weekly challenge called "What the Actual F*** Wednesday" where I let my readers pick something that's really weird for me to read and review. The rules of the challenge clearly state "please pick something under $5" but my friends and followers are evil people and they kept telling me to read "the bear book," AKA "Canada's Secret Shame." So I ended up spending $10 on this dumb book, and it wasn't even the version from the 70s that looks like a bodice-ripper.
I don't even know how to describe this book. It's like the pretentious meanderings of a hipster with some smut thrown in. Like, did I really need to know about how the author-- oops, I mean the main character-- ranks certain classic works of fiction, or that she considers morels superior to truffles? I mean, we've all got to soapbox and this book was published before blogs, so I get it. But on the other hand, you just wrote a book about bear smut, so was there any cognitive dissonance at all when penning this treatise criticizing other peoples' taste?
Speaking of bear smut, it takes forEVER to get to the "mane event" (pun intended). Like halfway through. And it's gross. First of all, we're told how ugly the bear is for most of the beginning of the book, and there's lengthy descriptions of pooping, peeing and farting. The heroine pees in the freshly fallen snow, the bear and the heroine take dumps together in the morning, the bear farts when he walks away. We're told that he has piggish eyes and looks kind of pathetic. He also lives in a shed on a chain. And the previous owner of the cabin has all these weird notes that he's been leaving in his books that suggest that he might have secretly been a furry.
The sex scenes are gross, and the heroine also has an affair with a married man who's also a sexist jerk. The bear doesn't like it when he smells the man on her, and when she and the bear actually try to do it, the bear gets over-excited and claws up her back so badly that she gets a fever and has to lie down in her blood-soaked shirt. I'm not sure if this is supposed to be some sort of allegory for a woman's sexual awakening, but if that's what it was, it was stupid. This book was stupid. No shade to the people who enjoyed it... but WHY did you enjoy it??
If a bear dumps in the woods, I don't want to know about it, Marian Engel, you big weirdo.
1 star
July 29, 2022
Hmmm. . . what happens in Canada stays in Canada, eh?
What is it with you guys up there? Is it the solitude? The aurora borealis? The cold?
If I were to take Margaret Atwood seriously (and I do, oh, I do, I do, I do), y'all are transmuting into amoebas up there, giving birth in lakes to half-formed human/beavers.
So, amoebas and whatnot, and now there's this Lou in my life. Lou, the world's most boring librarian, sent up to a place called “Cary's Island” in Canada, to catalogue a library for her Institute.
In case it's unclear, Lou's a lady, and in case you're worried about a spoiler here, the back of the book reads, “By page twenty, our librarian had met the bear and 'wondered if the bear would be good company.' The bear is indeed good company. Intimate company. Shocking company.”
AND the cover of the book depicts a bear, a naked arm wrapped intimately around it.
Okay, let's get this out of the way: Lou takes up with a chained bear that's become a “pet” on the island and appears to have been pleasuring men and women for years.
But, before Lou takes up with the bear. . . she has the most boring job EVER in the history of jobs, and, in contrast to other readers who have reviewed this before me. . .
I was so bored, I was like. . .WHEN IS SHE GOING TO FUCK THE GODDAMNED BEAR??
My God, I've almost never been so bored by a narrative. I don't want to do MY paperwork, let alone read about LOU'S paperwork for her boring ass job. (Or the most boring rendition EVER of Canadian lake history).
Let's break this down: Lou wants to be left alone with her work, but she's stuck on an island near a chained, filthy bear and a boring married man who's flirting with her, but in her desperation, she decides to take up with a bear?
Granted, the bear has “a tongue that was muscular but also capable of lengthening itself like an eel [finding] all her secret places” (All humans reading this review, take heed: This is IMPORTANT information).
But, the man, Homer, has “a good long prick and he used it.” (Not to be discounted, big picture).
CLEARLY Lou's not one for clever conversation. . . still, why does she choose the bear that smells like “shit and musk. . . its hindquarters. . . matted with dirt?”
The man at least bathes. Well, occasionally.
Also, to take a moment to connect text-to-self, I'd like to point out here that I was more disturbed by the fact that the bear was filthy than that the bear was becoming her sexual partner. (I'll explore this disturbing notion by myself later).
To be honest, if someone wants to sell this to me as a “feminist manifesto” I'd like to argue: feminist? How so?
Fuck a bear and. . . girl power?
Fuck a Homer and. . . discover your inner prick?
Fuck your Director and. . . see what it feels like to be on top?
It's all a bunch of nonsense. There's no feminist ANYTHING as far as I can see, and I thought Lou was a boring nut job.
I do have one takeaway here, though. . .
That tongue. That bear's tongue. . .
Three stars for the bear's tongue.
What is it with you guys up there? Is it the solitude? The aurora borealis? The cold?
If I were to take Margaret Atwood seriously (and I do, oh, I do, I do, I do), y'all are transmuting into amoebas up there, giving birth in lakes to half-formed human/beavers.
So, amoebas and whatnot, and now there's this Lou in my life. Lou, the world's most boring librarian, sent up to a place called “Cary's Island” in Canada, to catalogue a library for her Institute.
In case it's unclear, Lou's a lady, and in case you're worried about a spoiler here, the back of the book reads, “By page twenty, our librarian had met the bear and 'wondered if the bear would be good company.' The bear is indeed good company. Intimate company. Shocking company.”
AND the cover of the book depicts a bear, a naked arm wrapped intimately around it.
Okay, let's get this out of the way: Lou takes up with a chained bear that's become a “pet” on the island and appears to have been pleasuring men and women for years.
But, before Lou takes up with the bear. . . she has the most boring job EVER in the history of jobs, and, in contrast to other readers who have reviewed this before me. . .
I was so bored, I was like. . .WHEN IS SHE GOING TO FUCK THE GODDAMNED BEAR??
My God, I've almost never been so bored by a narrative. I don't want to do MY paperwork, let alone read about LOU'S paperwork for her boring ass job. (Or the most boring rendition EVER of Canadian lake history).
Let's break this down: Lou wants to be left alone with her work, but she's stuck on an island near a chained, filthy bear and a boring married man who's flirting with her, but in her desperation, she decides to take up with a bear?
Granted, the bear has “a tongue that was muscular but also capable of lengthening itself like an eel [finding] all her secret places” (All humans reading this review, take heed: This is IMPORTANT information).
But, the man, Homer, has “a good long prick and he used it.” (Not to be discounted, big picture).
CLEARLY Lou's not one for clever conversation. . . still, why does she choose the bear that smells like “shit and musk. . . its hindquarters. . . matted with dirt?”
The man at least bathes. Well, occasionally.
Also, to take a moment to connect text-to-self, I'd like to point out here that I was more disturbed by the fact that the bear was filthy than that the bear was becoming her sexual partner. (I'll explore this disturbing notion by myself later).
To be honest, if someone wants to sell this to me as a “feminist manifesto” I'd like to argue: feminist? How so?
Fuck a bear and. . . girl power?
Fuck a Homer and. . . discover your inner prick?
Fuck your Director and. . . see what it feels like to be on top?
It's all a bunch of nonsense. There's no feminist ANYTHING as far as I can see, and I thought Lou was a boring nut job.
I do have one takeaway here, though. . .
That tongue. That bear's tongue. . .
Three stars for the bear's tongue.
September 1, 2018
O, 1976. O, Canada. O, living in the wilderness. O, sex with a bear.
Did I just say that? Lemme just re-read the line above. Yep, there it is. Sex with a bear.
God bless 1976, when a book about a lonely, bookish woman who, sent up to the northern Ontario wilderness for work, has sexy-times with a bear, wins the Governor General's Award. For those who don't know, this is Canada's most prestigious literary prize. It's like winning the Pulitzer, or Man Booker, in my country. Apparently, that year, Bear was selected by a jury that included none less than Margaret Laurence, Alice Munro and Mordecai Richler. What the wha?
It's a weird little book, to say the least. Especially for one in the Canadian Lit Canon. Aren't we all supposed to be polite, respectable folks? Not a people who have sex with actual animals, or celebrate stories about people who do this by bestowing literary awards thereupon. Maybe that's why I'd never heard of the book until just recently. We've kinda put it by the wayside, in favour of The Handmaid's Tale or The English Patient, which are, let's face it, a little more respectable, eh.
I finished reading it, perplexed. What to make of it? Is it a humorous piece? There are parts that are funny, with bear-farts, et al. Is it feminist? The protagonist doesn't need a man to satisfy her sexuality. Is it environmental, the ultimate commune with nature? Is it an out-of-the-box story about two painfully lonely creatures who find each other? What the hell IS IT.
Whatever it is, it had the strange power to lure me in, in that seductive way that only literature has. I found myself turning the pages, wondering, is this going to be the day she gets effed by the bear? And then I would chastise myself, am I actually rooting for this to happen???
I'm still not sure how to categorise this. It's beyond classification, a witch's brew. It is fascinating and strange, a true original. The writing is elegant. The subject matter provides a rebellious contrast to "Canadiana", a much needed foil to our goody-goody reputation. That alone merits its place on the bookshelf.
Did I just say that? Lemme just re-read the line above. Yep, there it is. Sex with a bear.
God bless 1976, when a book about a lonely, bookish woman who, sent up to the northern Ontario wilderness for work, has sexy-times with a bear, wins the Governor General's Award. For those who don't know, this is Canada's most prestigious literary prize. It's like winning the Pulitzer, or Man Booker, in my country. Apparently, that year, Bear was selected by a jury that included none less than Margaret Laurence, Alice Munro and Mordecai Richler. What the wha?
It's a weird little book, to say the least. Especially for one in the Canadian Lit Canon. Aren't we all supposed to be polite, respectable folks? Not a people who have sex with actual animals, or celebrate stories about people who do this by bestowing literary awards thereupon. Maybe that's why I'd never heard of the book until just recently. We've kinda put it by the wayside, in favour of The Handmaid's Tale or The English Patient, which are, let's face it, a little more respectable, eh.
I finished reading it, perplexed. What to make of it? Is it a humorous piece? There are parts that are funny, with bear-farts, et al. Is it feminist? The protagonist doesn't need a man to satisfy her sexuality. Is it environmental, the ultimate commune with nature? Is it an out-of-the-box story about two painfully lonely creatures who find each other? What the hell IS IT.
Whatever it is, it had the strange power to lure me in, in that seductive way that only literature has. I found myself turning the pages, wondering, is this going to be the day she gets effed by the bear? And then I would chastise myself, am I actually rooting for this to happen???
I'm still not sure how to categorise this. It's beyond classification, a witch's brew. It is fascinating and strange, a true original. The writing is elegant. The subject matter provides a rebellious contrast to "Canadiana", a much needed foil to our goody-goody reputation. That alone merits its place on the bookshelf.
May 7, 2021
good to know Canadians can be fucked up too
December 6, 2020
Creo que este es uno de los libros más extraños que he leído en mi vida, en serio. Y es que hasta la mismísima Margaret Atwood (con la que Marian Engel, la autora de esta historia, se carteaba) lo describió así: «Extraño y maravilloso». Marian nació en 1933 en Toronto, Canadá. Se licenció en Estudios Lingüísticos y se especializó en Literatura Canadiense. Divorciada y con dos gemelos a los que criar, publicó Oso, que le valió el Governor General's Literary Award for Fiction en 1976.
El libro habla de Lou, una joven introvertida que abandona su trabajo como bibliotecaria cuando se le encarga hacer inventario de los libros de una mansión victoriana situada en una remota isla canadiense, propiedad de un enigmático coronel, ya fallecido. Pero mientras intenta reconstruir la historia de aquella casa descubre que la isla tiene otro habitante: un oso. A partir de ahí se establece entre ellos una extrañísima conexión, una relación íntima. De esta relación con el oso (o el oso en sí mismo) se ha hablado mucho. ¿Es una metáfora? ¿Quizás un retorno a la naturaleza? ¿A nuestra esencia básica? ¿Un despertar sexual? ¿Una liberación? La novela es tan extraña que da pie a cualquier teoría.
Oso me ha llevado al viaje de autodescubrimiento de Lou (acompañada siempre de la naturaleza). Pero esa ha sido solo mi experiencia personal. Para mí es un despertar, porque ella misma dice: «¿Dónde he estado?, se preguntó. ¿En una vida ahora podría considerarse una ausencia de vida?». A esto hay que sumarle que Lou se siente insatisfecha con su trabajo y con sus relaciones personales (especialmente con los hombres). «Oso, haz que por fin me sienta cómoda en el mundo. Dame tu piel» le dice. Y creo que lo consigue: «Limpia, sencilla y orgullosa».
Oso me ha gustado, porque todo lo rarito es bienvenido para mí, como buena Acuario.
El libro habla de Lou, una joven introvertida que abandona su trabajo como bibliotecaria cuando se le encarga hacer inventario de los libros de una mansión victoriana situada en una remota isla canadiense, propiedad de un enigmático coronel, ya fallecido. Pero mientras intenta reconstruir la historia de aquella casa descubre que la isla tiene otro habitante: un oso. A partir de ahí se establece entre ellos una extrañísima conexión, una relación íntima. De esta relación con el oso (o el oso en sí mismo) se ha hablado mucho. ¿Es una metáfora? ¿Quizás un retorno a la naturaleza? ¿A nuestra esencia básica? ¿Un despertar sexual? ¿Una liberación? La novela es tan extraña que da pie a cualquier teoría.
Oso me ha llevado al viaje de autodescubrimiento de Lou (acompañada siempre de la naturaleza). Pero esa ha sido solo mi experiencia personal. Para mí es un despertar, porque ella misma dice: «¿Dónde he estado?, se preguntó. ¿En una vida ahora podría considerarse una ausencia de vida?». A esto hay que sumarle que Lou se siente insatisfecha con su trabajo y con sus relaciones personales (especialmente con los hombres). «Oso, haz que por fin me sienta cómoda en el mundo. Dame tu piel» le dice. Y creo que lo consigue: «Limpia, sencilla y orgullosa».
Oso me ha gustado, porque todo lo rarito es bienvenido para mí, como buena Acuario.
June 1, 2023
There is something so formal and restrained and lovely and lonely about this novella. Startling things happen, sure, but in such a matter-of-fact way that it hardly seems to be out of the ordinary when a human woman, somewhat late in the novella, begins to find passionate fulfillment in an erotic and increasingly risky relationship with a bear.
I'm overcome with delight at how Marian Engel portrayed these scenes. And I'm overcome with gratefulness at the way Engel refuses to anthropomorphize this animal: the bear remains a bear, musty and uncivilized, farting and shitting on occasion, as animals do; and the animal seems neither exploited nor surprised by his explorations of the woman's body; and the woman in turn seems to need nothing from a bear than that it be a bear.
And I come back again in my thoughts about the novella to this idea: that this is a restrained, almost genteel story. The eroticism is presented in such a matter-of-fact way that there was no discomfort or prurient revulsion or anything at all in my head as I read, except a fascination at the way this restrained writing about a bestial relationship allowed all kinds of mythological and sociological implications weave into and out of my thoughts as I read. I remembered Pasiphaë having sex with a bull, for instance. But deeper than any of these connections with mythological stories I felt a connection with bear and woman as the meeting of two extremely lonely creatures, who find solace in one another, and even, yes, love. Remarkable.
I'm overcome with delight at how Marian Engel portrayed these scenes. And I'm overcome with gratefulness at the way Engel refuses to anthropomorphize this animal: the bear remains a bear, musty and uncivilized, farting and shitting on occasion, as animals do; and the animal seems neither exploited nor surprised by his explorations of the woman's body; and the woman in turn seems to need nothing from a bear than that it be a bear.
And I come back again in my thoughts about the novella to this idea: that this is a restrained, almost genteel story. The eroticism is presented in such a matter-of-fact way that there was no discomfort or prurient revulsion or anything at all in my head as I read, except a fascination at the way this restrained writing about a bestial relationship allowed all kinds of mythological and sociological implications weave into and out of my thoughts as I read. I remembered Pasiphaë having sex with a bull, for instance. But deeper than any of these connections with mythological stories I felt a connection with bear and woman as the meeting of two extremely lonely creatures, who find solace in one another, and even, yes, love. Remarkable.
September 10, 2019
I found this in one of those little free libraries. I knew nothing about it as I started to read it, which was quite a good thing because I would have chucked it back in the bin. “Bear” was completely outside of my comfort zone, but I am glad that I have read it. The writing is beautiful, and it illustrates a specific time in history but still feels contemporary today.
If you want to read this book, going in blind is the best approach. Otherwise, keep reading this review.
Spoilers ahead...
The most important thing you need to know about “Bear” is that it’s about a woman who has sex with a bear. Not a metaphorical, figurative, concept-within-a-creature bear --a real, furry, huge, brown bear. There’s more to it than that, but why bury the lead?
“Bear” is set on a remote island in Ontario where a librarian, named Lou, is trying to find items of historical significance in a unique house. Her other task is to take care of the pet bear that resides in a cabin behind the house. Lou's train of thought shifts between dreamy and pragmatic. She is a woman whose life revolves around order and classification, but battles with the ideas of desire and longing. Why does she impose such loneliness upon herself? It's not a question that Marian Engel answers outright, but one that we ponder as Lou's relationship with the bear develops.
Engel gives us just pieces of Lou's romantic history, called upon like streams of memory feeding into a sea. She has only ever coupled with men who are emotionally unavailable and who treat her as disposable. There is no desire, no lust, no passion. She has never been attracted to the right man, but the bear allows her to construct an ideal, one that sadly evades her. Her passion and lust for this bear is so all-consuming that she wants nothing more than to see and feel her emotions translated physically. Her demands are metaphorical -- she longs for the sexual act to release her from the ache of desire.
The thing about “Bear” though, is how trivial the actual bestial fornication is in the grander scheme of the story. Not only is there more to it than the sex -- which itself is delicately and very well-handled -- but even just regarding Lou and the bear, it's the relationship that develops between the two -- cautious, halting, each remaining an enigma to the other -- that is far more interesting than the sexual encounters. In making it what is essentially an impossible love, and in portraying sex as the awkward, mystifying, lone experience it remains, regardless of partner -- Engel's presentation of carnality and human longing is exceptional.
Ultimately, Lou finds some closure -- a better understanding of what her solitude means, and who she truly is. And while it doesn't erase the pain and the persistence of memory, she finds a separate wholeness at the end of her desperate journey, embracing who she is, even if who she is leaves something to be desired.
Engel’s art is in the simple descriptions that prove to have great depth -- beautifully balanced between the mundane, the realistic, and the unusual. “Bear” is a parable, of course, but it persuades through the details of the place and the feelings it inspires. This is not a gimmicky erotica, this is a literary masterpiece.
If you want to read this book, going in blind is the best approach. Otherwise, keep reading this review.
Spoilers ahead...
The most important thing you need to know about “Bear” is that it’s about a woman who has sex with a bear. Not a metaphorical, figurative, concept-within-a-creature bear --a real, furry, huge, brown bear. There’s more to it than that, but why bury the lead?
“Bear” is set on a remote island in Ontario where a librarian, named Lou, is trying to find items of historical significance in a unique house. Her other task is to take care of the pet bear that resides in a cabin behind the house. Lou's train of thought shifts between dreamy and pragmatic. She is a woman whose life revolves around order and classification, but battles with the ideas of desire and longing. Why does she impose such loneliness upon herself? It's not a question that Marian Engel answers outright, but one that we ponder as Lou's relationship with the bear develops.
Engel gives us just pieces of Lou's romantic history, called upon like streams of memory feeding into a sea. She has only ever coupled with men who are emotionally unavailable and who treat her as disposable. There is no desire, no lust, no passion. She has never been attracted to the right man, but the bear allows her to construct an ideal, one that sadly evades her. Her passion and lust for this bear is so all-consuming that she wants nothing more than to see and feel her emotions translated physically. Her demands are metaphorical -- she longs for the sexual act to release her from the ache of desire.
The thing about “Bear” though, is how trivial the actual bestial fornication is in the grander scheme of the story. Not only is there more to it than the sex -- which itself is delicately and very well-handled -- but even just regarding Lou and the bear, it's the relationship that develops between the two -- cautious, halting, each remaining an enigma to the other -- that is far more interesting than the sexual encounters. In making it what is essentially an impossible love, and in portraying sex as the awkward, mystifying, lone experience it remains, regardless of partner -- Engel's presentation of carnality and human longing is exceptional.
Ultimately, Lou finds some closure -- a better understanding of what her solitude means, and who she truly is. And while it doesn't erase the pain and the persistence of memory, she finds a separate wholeness at the end of her desperate journey, embracing who she is, even if who she is leaves something to be desired.
Engel’s art is in the simple descriptions that prove to have great depth -- beautifully balanced between the mundane, the realistic, and the unusual. “Bear” is a parable, of course, but it persuades through the details of the place and the feelings it inspires. This is not a gimmicky erotica, this is a literary masterpiece.
August 10, 2022
I’ve just started job-hunting. I’m looking for something similar to what I’ve always done, but also yearning to try something different, if only I knew what. Going alone to a quiet and quirky house, stocked with books, on an island on a lake, and surrounded by woods, might be conducive to concentration and re-evaluation.
Lou gets such an opportunity. It’s mid 1970s Ontario, she is in her late twenties, and single after a few failed relationships, one of them toxic. She’s somewhat depressed, lacking confidence, directionless, and ready for change.
“The image of the Good Life long ago stamped on her soul was quite different from this, and she suffered from the contrast.”
An octagon house, its contents, and its small island are bequeathed to the historical institute where she is an archivist. She goes to catalogue what’s there and the book segues from the grey winter of the opening pages in Toronto to the promise of spring.
“The land was hectic with new green” in the shadow of the “bald stone mountains of Algoma”.
Image: Fushimi Lake in Algoma County (Source)
She is in awe of the natural beauty, and is told:
“Nobody ever left this place that didn’t have to.”
(The) bear
Homer, who takes her to the island and shows her round, leaves with the words:
“Did anyone tell you… about the bear?”
No one had, but rather than be alarmed, Lou thinks it sounds “joyfully Elizabethan and exotic” to have a bear in an outhouse.
In the text, it’s always “the bear”, as people would naturally say, but the title is merely “Bear”, which is more like a name, and humanises him. That’s relevant. There is no magical realism here, even though the story is incredible.
Image: A black bear, sitting - and the bear in the book is black, despite the cover of my copy showing mid brown fur (Source)
Immersion, not plot
Lou settles into a routine of working in the morning, eating outside, talking to the bear, walking in the woods, and swimming in the lake.
“She… entered the forest solemnly, as if she were trespassing in a foreign church.”
When she’s going through the books and documents about the house and family, occasionally a handwritten note falls out. It’s always something to do with bears (mythology, physiology, habitats, diet etc), and is invariably relevant to her thoughts and mood. She also ponders the difference between anthropomorphised fictional and teddy bears and the wild animal in the outhouse. Freud is mentioned.
“A bear is more an island than a man, she thought. To a human.”
As her confidence grows (in herself generally, and the bear), she starts unhooking his chain and taking him to the lake.
“In the water [he] sat like a near-sighted baby placidly enjoying the return to liquid existence.”
I enjoyed it more when she was immersed in nature than going through endless family, house, and Canadian history.
Shocked - and not
The blurb, and especially the covers of some editions, leave no doubt as to what happens: Lou lets (encourages?) the bear to satisfy her sexually, though it doesn’t happen till two thirds of the way through. It’s not a metaphor, or rather, it's not just a metaphor. Nor is it a man who’s been magically transformed into a bear. It’s a real bear: big, strong, and stinky; the sex is wet, messy, and sometimes bloody. It's a very small part of the narrative, but central to it.
“What she disliked about men was not their eroticism, but their assumption that women had none.”
An ursine lover has no such baggage, and the writing focuses on Lou’s feelings and pleasure. It’s very different from her previous relationships, and thus transformative, rejuvenating, and empowering - for her. (But still weird.) As for the bear...?
“She remembered the claw that had healed guilt. She felt strong and pure.”
Image: Black bear paw and claws (Source)
Bestiality should be shocking, but somehow, amazingly, it’s so delicately but plainly written (though not “nicely” so), that I was surprised that I recoiled more when Lou went outside and shat next to where the bear had done the same. Even a couple of human-to-human sexual encounters felt more taboo than sex with a bear.
That’s the puzzle and power of this book for me. I can’t fully process my own reactions. Perhaps the slight dislocation of time (recognisable, but not fully familiar, as I was a child back then), coupled with being set in a region I visited briefly, is part of it. But it does make me wary of escaping to a cabin in the woods if there might be an over-familiar bear there!
Quotes
• “The morning light was dappled, fallow, green, a moving presence at the windows. The kitchen swam in an underwater gloom.”
• “It was as if men knew that her soul was gangrenous.”
• “An unprepossessing creature… Not at all menacing. Not a creature of the world, but a middle-aged woman defeated to the point of being daft.”
• “Now she wanted to listen to the riverworld shaking rain off its wings.”
• “She justified herself by saying that she was of service, she ordered other people’s lives.”
• “It was as if the bear, like the books, knew generations of secrets; but he had no need to reveal them.���
See also
• I read this as a follow-up to Claire Oshetsky’s Chouette, which I enjoyed far more and reviewed HERE. Bear was somewhat in the author’s mind when she wrote Chouette (see comment 10 here).
• I didn't put this on my (tiny) erotica shelf, because it's really not. If fantastical bestiality is your thing, there are whole genres of alien and monster erotica that I never knew of till GR, and have not read. I believe many hail from, or nod to, Japan. Perhaps Hokusai's famous 1814 print, The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife, is an inspiration - or maybe the monster subgenre of shunga precedes Hukasai.
Lou gets such an opportunity. It’s mid 1970s Ontario, she is in her late twenties, and single after a few failed relationships, one of them toxic. She’s somewhat depressed, lacking confidence, directionless, and ready for change.
“The image of the Good Life long ago stamped on her soul was quite different from this, and she suffered from the contrast.”
An octagon house, its contents, and its small island are bequeathed to the historical institute where she is an archivist. She goes to catalogue what’s there and the book segues from the grey winter of the opening pages in Toronto to the promise of spring.
“The land was hectic with new green” in the shadow of the “bald stone mountains of Algoma”.
Image: Fushimi Lake in Algoma County (Source)
She is in awe of the natural beauty, and is told:
“Nobody ever left this place that didn’t have to.”
(The) bear
Homer, who takes her to the island and shows her round, leaves with the words:
“Did anyone tell you… about the bear?”
No one had, but rather than be alarmed, Lou thinks it sounds “joyfully Elizabethan and exotic” to have a bear in an outhouse.
In the text, it’s always “the bear”, as people would naturally say, but the title is merely “Bear”, which is more like a name, and humanises him. That’s relevant. There is no magical realism here, even though the story is incredible.
Image: A black bear, sitting - and the bear in the book is black, despite the cover of my copy showing mid brown fur (Source)
Immersion, not plot
Lou settles into a routine of working in the morning, eating outside, talking to the bear, walking in the woods, and swimming in the lake.
“She… entered the forest solemnly, as if she were trespassing in a foreign church.”
When she’s going through the books and documents about the house and family, occasionally a handwritten note falls out. It’s always something to do with bears (mythology, physiology, habitats, diet etc), and is invariably relevant to her thoughts and mood. She also ponders the difference between anthropomorphised fictional and teddy bears and the wild animal in the outhouse. Freud is mentioned.
“A bear is more an island than a man, she thought. To a human.”
As her confidence grows (in herself generally, and the bear), she starts unhooking his chain and taking him to the lake.
“In the water [he] sat like a near-sighted baby placidly enjoying the return to liquid existence.”
I enjoyed it more when she was immersed in nature than going through endless family, house, and Canadian history.
Shocked - and not
The blurb, and especially the covers of some editions, leave no doubt as to what happens: Lou lets (encourages?) the bear to satisfy her sexually, though it doesn’t happen till two thirds of the way through. It’s not a metaphor, or rather, it's not just a metaphor. Nor is it a man who’s been magically transformed into a bear. It’s a real bear: big, strong, and stinky; the sex is wet, messy, and sometimes bloody. It's a very small part of the narrative, but central to it.
“What she disliked about men was not their eroticism, but their assumption that women had none.”
An ursine lover has no such baggage, and the writing focuses on Lou’s feelings and pleasure. It’s very different from her previous relationships, and thus transformative, rejuvenating, and empowering - for her. (But still weird.) As for the bear...?
“She remembered the claw that had healed guilt. She felt strong and pure.”
Image: Black bear paw and claws (Source)
Bestiality should be shocking, but somehow, amazingly, it’s so delicately but plainly written (though not “nicely” so), that I was surprised that I recoiled more when Lou went outside and shat next to where the bear had done the same. Even a couple of human-to-human sexual encounters felt more taboo than sex with a bear.
That’s the puzzle and power of this book for me. I can’t fully process my own reactions. Perhaps the slight dislocation of time (recognisable, but not fully familiar, as I was a child back then), coupled with being set in a region I visited briefly, is part of it. But it does make me wary of escaping to a cabin in the woods if there might be an over-familiar bear there!
Quotes
• “The morning light was dappled, fallow, green, a moving presence at the windows. The kitchen swam in an underwater gloom.”
• “It was as if men knew that her soul was gangrenous.”
• “An unprepossessing creature… Not at all menacing. Not a creature of the world, but a middle-aged woman defeated to the point of being daft.”
• “Now she wanted to listen to the riverworld shaking rain off its wings.”
• “She justified herself by saying that she was of service, she ordered other people’s lives.”
• “It was as if the bear, like the books, knew generations of secrets; but he had no need to reveal them.���
See also
• I read this as a follow-up to Claire Oshetsky’s Chouette, which I enjoyed far more and reviewed HERE. Bear was somewhat in the author’s mind when she wrote Chouette (see comment 10 here).
• I didn't put this on my (tiny) erotica shelf, because it's really not. If fantastical bestiality is your thing, there are whole genres of alien and monster erotica that I never knew of till GR, and have not read. I believe many hail from, or nod to, Japan. Perhaps Hokusai's famous 1814 print, The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife, is an inspiration - or maybe the monster subgenre of shunga precedes Hukasai.
March 20, 2012
Is this a book where a Canadian woman called Lou smears honey on her labia minora and has a black bear lick it off? Yes.
Is this a book where Lou kneads the bear’s testicles and tries to mount the bear’s penis? Yes.
Is this a book where Lou falls in love with a bear? Yes.
Did Marian Engel win the Governor’s General Award for this book? Yes
Is this book about gratuitous bestiality? No.
Is this book about general bestiality, then? No. (Although clearly, ........).
So, what IS this book about, then?
Lou is Theresa Dunn’s (Looking for Mr Goodbarr)’s doppelganger, except theres no faithful James waiting in the side wings.
Negotiating the treacherous waters of the 1970s emancipation experiment, Lou is a a middle aged, educated, intelligent woman whose life is dissipating in an ennui-nous para-state of extreme loneliness and unfullfilment, whose platitudes of evenness are rippled only by brief sexual encounters which leave her even more hallowed out than before. Why does she do it?
Because she is so alone. The need to touch another human being, really, (not necessarily a man), becomes so intense she succumbs to the Dark Side periodically. Even when she tries her hardest to ‘settle’ (you know, where square pegs needs must be forced into round holes to simulate ‘wholeness’), the men find her too educated, too professional, not domesticated enough.
So Lou ends up on a remote island (Cary) in Northern Ontario where she is meant to catalogue the library of an estate bequeathed to the Institute she works in. Helpless, (literally: this is some massive Canadian outback: its survival of the fittest out there), she soon finds herself exchanging favours for the local Man Friday’s help (in getting her supplies, etc). Which is even more heartbreaking considering she thought he was a decent human being to begin with.
Is it any wonder, that disillusioned with men, unable to understand how she fits in the complicated matrix of male-female relationship paradigm, morbidly despairing and disenchanted with her ‘daily bread’, she first falls in love with the remoteness, purity and innocence of Cary Island, and one brief step later: the bear.
This bear, then, is the only living creature in Lou’s life which gives unconditionally, loves unequivocally, has as its narrative innocence, kindness and truth, and hey: makes no domestic demands.
Clearly, Lou has to go back to Toronto eventually. (But not before she is practically flayed alive in an attempt to copulate). (not that thats important, I just had to squeeze it in though). And whilst there are no promises that her existenz will transform in any meaningful way, at the very least Lou goes back with replenished belief in the validity of life: because, for the first time ever, she has been touched by the redeeming nurture of Love.
Even if it was a bear, and not a Canadian Man who showed her the way.
Is this a book where Lou kneads the bear’s testicles and tries to mount the bear’s penis? Yes.
Is this a book where Lou falls in love with a bear? Yes.
Did Marian Engel win the Governor’s General Award for this book? Yes
Is this book about gratuitous bestiality? No.
Is this book about general bestiality, then? No. (Although clearly, ........).
So, what IS this book about, then?
Lou is Theresa Dunn’s (Looking for Mr Goodbarr)’s doppelganger, except theres no faithful James waiting in the side wings.
Negotiating the treacherous waters of the 1970s emancipation experiment, Lou is a a middle aged, educated, intelligent woman whose life is dissipating in an ennui-nous para-state of extreme loneliness and unfullfilment, whose platitudes of evenness are rippled only by brief sexual encounters which leave her even more hallowed out than before. Why does she do it?
Because she is so alone. The need to touch another human being, really, (not necessarily a man), becomes so intense she succumbs to the Dark Side periodically. Even when she tries her hardest to ‘settle’ (you know, where square pegs needs must be forced into round holes to simulate ‘wholeness’), the men find her too educated, too professional, not domesticated enough.
So Lou ends up on a remote island (Cary) in Northern Ontario where she is meant to catalogue the library of an estate bequeathed to the Institute she works in. Helpless, (literally: this is some massive Canadian outback: its survival of the fittest out there), she soon finds herself exchanging favours for the local Man Friday’s help (in getting her supplies, etc). Which is even more heartbreaking considering she thought he was a decent human being to begin with.
Is it any wonder, that disillusioned with men, unable to understand how she fits in the complicated matrix of male-female relationship paradigm, morbidly despairing and disenchanted with her ‘daily bread’, she first falls in love with the remoteness, purity and innocence of Cary Island, and one brief step later: the bear.
This bear, then, is the only living creature in Lou’s life which gives unconditionally, loves unequivocally, has as its narrative innocence, kindness and truth, and hey: makes no domestic demands.
Clearly, Lou has to go back to Toronto eventually. (But not before she is practically flayed alive in an attempt to copulate). (not that thats important, I just had to squeeze it in though). And whilst there are no promises that her existenz will transform in any meaningful way, at the very least Lou goes back with replenished belief in the validity of life: because, for the first time ever, she has been touched by the redeeming nurture of Love.
Even if it was a bear, and not a Canadian Man who showed her the way.
May 23, 2022
Okay, so this is an award-winning Canadian classic in which a woman has sex with a bear to say things about feminism and settler colonialism. Really. The plot: Lonely archivist Lou moves to a remote house on a Canadian river island to research the documents and catalogue the books of a recently deceased 19th century Colonel after whom the island was named. A tame old bear lives in a shed in the back of the house, Lou falls in love and has sex with the bear.
While there are very realistic descriptions of nature and the bear isn't anthropomorphized, the tale remains (intentionally) illogical and ultimately fable-like with lots of references to myth and literature. Lou, the Colonel and their respective ancestors are depicted as those protecting the heritage of settler colonialism, while the chained, neglected bear, nature, and an indigenous women point to Canadian indigenous history. Plus there is a feminist layer: In flashbacks, we learn that Lou was assaulted by several dangerous men - now she falls for a dangerous animal that was chained and alienated from its natural state: The bear is a victim (which is conveniently overlooked in several interpretations of the book). Aaaand then there are the links to Edward John Trelawny, an apparently rather ruthless man who wrote Recollections Of The Last Days Of Shelley And Byron, portraying the life stories of people for his own gain - and Lou doesn't seem to realize that this man does not only relate to the animalistic nature of the bear, but to herself, the protector of the legacy of settler colonialism (the Colonel was a benefactor of the museum she works for).
So all in all, there is a lot to unpack in this shortish text, but the metaphors remain rather muddled.
While there are very realistic descriptions of nature and the bear isn't anthropomorphized, the tale remains (intentionally) illogical and ultimately fable-like with lots of references to myth and literature. Lou, the Colonel and their respective ancestors are depicted as those protecting the heritage of settler colonialism, while the chained, neglected bear, nature, and an indigenous women point to Canadian indigenous history. Plus there is a feminist layer: In flashbacks, we learn that Lou was assaulted by several dangerous men - now she falls for a dangerous animal that was chained and alienated from its natural state: The bear is a victim (which is conveniently overlooked in several interpretations of the book). Aaaand then there are the links to Edward John Trelawny, an apparently rather ruthless man who wrote Recollections Of The Last Days Of Shelley And Byron, portraying the life stories of people for his own gain - and Lou doesn't seem to realize that this man does not only relate to the animalistic nature of the bear, but to herself, the protector of the legacy of settler colonialism (the Colonel was a benefactor of the museum she works for).
So all in all, there is a lot to unpack in this shortish text, but the metaphors remain rather muddled.
February 1, 2023
Soy una de esas personas que si lee una reseña que dice "me dio asco" inmediatamente siento curiosidad. No es algo que me dé orgullo, la verdad, pero si eso me ayuda a encontrar más libros como este (y películas como The Void), tampoco me voy a quejar.
Oso es sobre una bibliotecaria a la que le encargan hacer el inventario de los libros que encuentre en la vieja casa de una isla, allí descubre que hay un oso al que debe atender y con el que formará una extraña relación.
Se podría decir que este es un libro moralmente cuestionable y hasta perturbador, pero también es un libro escrito de forma exquisita. La manera en que la protagonista se cuestiona a sí misma y al mundo que la rodea es, como mínimo, intrigante. ¿Que hay escenas donde sentirás asco? Puede ser. En lo personal no llegué a sentir asco, pero sí cierta incomodidad y extrañeza; las escenas donde sucede lo previsible son breves y poco descriptivas, no resaltan tanto en comparación al monólogo interno de la protagonista y cómo reacciona a las experiencias que acumula en la isla. La protagonista es una mujer que ha vivido toda su vida sintiéndose insatisfecha: con su trabajo, con sus parejas, con su tiempo libre y consigo misma. El oso, y lo que tiene que hacer para que éste la acepte como su nueva cuidadora, son cosas que la llevan a reconectar con su "yo" salvaje, sin limitaciones morales. Me ha gustado que, pese a lo perverso de su relación, no se siente forzado ni fantasioso, el animal nunca deja de ser un animal y poco le importa si la protagonista se queda o se va; no es humanizado por la autora.
En otra cara del libro: el personaje de Lou crítica la manera en que la historia se trasmite a las futuras generaciones, los cambios que sufren los hechos y la censura que intenta eliminar todo rastro de algo que pueda arruinar la imagen de alguna figura importante. En la actualidad, muchas personas ya no tememos admitir que los héroes de nuestra historia fueron los villanos de la historia de otros, pero algunas personas chapadas a la antigua aún necesitan el recordatorio de vez en cuando.
No hay mucho más que pueda decir sobre esta lectura: es un libro cortito con una prosa sencilla que se lee en cuestión de horas.
En resumen, no me siento capaz de recomendar este libro, es asqueroso y al mismo tiempo bonito (en la escritura), de esos libros que te dejan pensando. Léanlo sabiendo que sí, sí hay zoofilia y no es nada ambigua.
Oso es sobre una bibliotecaria a la que le encargan hacer el inventario de los libros que encuentre en la vieja casa de una isla, allí descubre que hay un oso al que debe atender y con el que formará una extraña relación.
Se podría decir que este es un libro moralmente cuestionable y hasta perturbador, pero también es un libro escrito de forma exquisita. La manera en que la protagonista se cuestiona a sí misma y al mundo que la rodea es, como mínimo, intrigante. ¿Que hay escenas donde sentirás asco? Puede ser. En lo personal no llegué a sentir asco, pero sí cierta incomodidad y extrañeza; las escenas donde sucede lo previsible son breves y poco descriptivas, no resaltan tanto en comparación al monólogo interno de la protagonista y cómo reacciona a las experiencias que acumula en la isla. La protagonista es una mujer que ha vivido toda su vida sintiéndose insatisfecha: con su trabajo, con sus parejas, con su tiempo libre y consigo misma. El oso, y lo que tiene que hacer para que éste la acepte como su nueva cuidadora, son cosas que la llevan a reconectar con su "yo" salvaje, sin limitaciones morales. Me ha gustado que, pese a lo perverso de su relación, no se siente forzado ni fantasioso, el animal nunca deja de ser un animal y poco le importa si la protagonista se queda o se va; no es humanizado por la autora.
En otra cara del libro: el personaje de Lou crítica la manera en que la historia se trasmite a las futuras generaciones, los cambios que sufren los hechos y la censura que intenta eliminar todo rastro de algo que pueda arruinar la imagen de alguna figura importante. En la actualidad, muchas personas ya no tememos admitir que los héroes de nuestra historia fueron los villanos de la historia de otros, pero algunas personas chapadas a la antigua aún necesitan el recordatorio de vez en cuando.
Había descubierto que la tradición canadiense era, por lo general, mojigata en este sentido. Cualquier prueba de que un antepasado hubiese hecho algo más que rezar y trabajar solía destruirse.
No hay mucho más que pueda decir sobre esta lectura: es un libro cortito con una prosa sencilla que se lee en cuestión de horas.
En resumen, no me siento capaz de recomendar este libro, es asqueroso y al mismo tiempo bonito (en la escritura), de esos libros que te dejan pensando. Léanlo sabiendo que sí, sí hay zoofilia y no es nada ambigua.
Want to read
July 9, 2014
After stumbling across this on imgur I feel like it's my duty to read this.
For research purposes.
I feel like I'm probably going to regret this decision.
Read
April 25, 2017This poor book! The 1970s sextastic cover promises bear erotica, which has caused many chuckles because it's a an award-winning Canadian book so hahaha those crazy Canucks. In reality, it's a story of a woman finding herself in the wilderness. So if you were here for the sex, leave now.
The summary: A quiet, young librarian gets an assignment to catalogue a collection on a remote island. On the island she finds a tame bear and she begins to question herself about life, relationships and her previous existence in the city. In the city she's not depressed, but she's not happy either, just going through the motions. The island and the bear change her. It's a feminist tale. That doesn't mean that there isn't some sexual stuff in here, but it's more depressing than titillating. You probably wouldn't wank to The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and so you won't wank to this.
A good, smart, slim read which reads very much Canadian with the capital C. If looking for more sexually charged material with less ponderous thoughts there's Chuck Tingle.
The summary: A quiet, young librarian gets an assignment to catalogue a collection on a remote island. On the island she finds a tame bear and she begins to question herself about life, relationships and her previous existence in the city. In the city she's not depressed, but she's not happy either, just going through the motions. The island and the bear change her. It's a feminist tale. That doesn't mean that there isn't some sexual stuff in here, but it's more depressing than titillating. You probably wouldn't wank to The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and so you won't wank to this.
A good, smart, slim read which reads very much Canadian with the capital C. If looking for more sexually charged material with less ponderous thoughts there's Chuck Tingle.
August 11, 2020
Es esta una novela en la que me cuesta trabajo llegar a la aparentemente sencilla conclusión de si me ha gustado o no. Le he dado dos estrellas porque la lectura en general me ha aburrido, y creo que habría funcionado mucho mejor como relato. Pero dejando esto de lado, Oso tiene virtudes nada desdeñables. Consigue algo muy complicado, y es hacer sutil lo explícito, darle a una historia que aparentemente no es otra que la aventura de una joven bibliotecaria, Lou, con un oso, una profundidad y un significado muy interesantes, sobre todo si tenemos en cuenta el año en el que fue escrita (momento en el que causó bastante escándalo en parte de la crítica... lo que me hace apreciarla mucho más).
Me pregunto si Engel buscaba el escándalo o si imaginaba e incluso esperaba el revuelo que provocaría la publicación de su novela. No me lo planteo como una crítica, pienso que a veces para que el mensaje se escuche no está de más exponerlo de manera planeadamente polémica e incluso brutal... aunque se corra el riesgo de que muchos se queden en esa polémica y no vean nada más.
Lou está perdida, harta, como todos en algún momento en este modo de vida nefasto que nos hemos montado: ¿Dónde he estado?, se preguntó. ¿En una vida que ahora podría considerarse una ausencia de vida?
...la imagen de la Buena Vida que tiempo atrás había grabado en su alma era muy distinta de esta, y el contraste le hacía sufrir.
...seguía sin satisfacerle que fuera así como debía vivirse la única vida que se le había brindado.
Lou tendrá la suerte de encontrarse a sí misma, o al menos de comenzar a buscar.
Me preguntaba también mientras leía por qué introducir un oso en ese camino de autoconocimiento (—Oso —susurró—, ¿quién y qué eres?), de cambio y exploración del estado natural, tan distinto, si es que no opuesto, a la forma en la que tan a menudo vivimos. La reivindicación del deseo, la insatisfacción a la que invariablemente nos llevan los “debe”, tantas veces alejados, enfrentados, a los “quiero”... y creo que precisamente para esto sirve el oso: el oso no deja en ningún momento de ser un oso, un animal, no se le intenta humanizar, no puede interferir en la transformación de Lou. Quizás en este caso no había posibilidad de narrar lo que aquí se narra de otro modo, ya que metiendo a un “otro” de la misma especie que la protagonista, estaríamos inevitablemente hablando de temas distintos, alejados de lo sencillo y natural, ...lo que le disgustaba de los hombres no era su erotismo, sino que dieran por supuesto que las mujeres no tenían. Lo que las confinaba al papel de amas de casa.
Me pregunto si Engel buscaba el escándalo o si imaginaba e incluso esperaba el revuelo que provocaría la publicación de su novela. No me lo planteo como una crítica, pienso que a veces para que el mensaje se escuche no está de más exponerlo de manera planeadamente polémica e incluso brutal... aunque se corra el riesgo de que muchos se queden en esa polémica y no vean nada más.
Lou está perdida, harta, como todos en algún momento en este modo de vida nefasto que nos hemos montado: ¿Dónde he estado?, se preguntó. ¿En una vida que ahora podría considerarse una ausencia de vida?
...la imagen de la Buena Vida que tiempo atrás había grabado en su alma era muy distinta de esta, y el contraste le hacía sufrir.
...seguía sin satisfacerle que fuera así como debía vivirse la única vida que se le había brindado.
Lou tendrá la suerte de encontrarse a sí misma, o al menos de comenzar a buscar.
Me preguntaba también mientras leía por qué introducir un oso en ese camino de autoconocimiento (—Oso —susurró—, ¿quién y qué eres?), de cambio y exploración del estado natural, tan distinto, si es que no opuesto, a la forma en la que tan a menudo vivimos. La reivindicación del deseo, la insatisfacción a la que invariablemente nos llevan los “debe”, tantas veces alejados, enfrentados, a los “quiero”... y creo que precisamente para esto sirve el oso: el oso no deja en ningún momento de ser un oso, un animal, no se le intenta humanizar, no puede interferir en la transformación de Lou. Quizás en este caso no había posibilidad de narrar lo que aquí se narra de otro modo, ya que metiendo a un “otro” de la misma especie que la protagonista, estaríamos inevitablemente hablando de temas distintos, alejados de lo sencillo y natural, ...lo que le disgustaba de los hombres no era su erotismo, sino que dieran por supuesto que las mujeres no tenían. Lo que las confinaba al papel de amas de casa.
May 5, 2020
Controversial and prize-winning, and a masterpiece. Is what I'm going to say now a spoiler? Maybe. This short novel is about a woman who has sex with a bear. There, it's said. Avoid it, or read it, now you know. But it's so much more than that - although these scenes are handled expertly. It's about nature, a woman working out who she is and what she wants, falling in love (yes), feminism, loneliness, connection. Lou goes to a remote Canadian island to catalogue the library in a house left to the institute she works for. In the shed behind the house is a tame bear. At first she is afraid of him (she knows nothing about animals), and then gradually over one summer gets to know him, swims with him, invites him into the house, and has a sexual relationship with him. Engel writes beautifully, plainly, elegantly. There is nothing lurid or salacious here; it is all part of whole.
January 31, 2018
I read this book in a day then had to spend two more days in an attempt to understand it. I knew something was up when I, innocent reader, bought a book on the recommendation of a reader friend who is Canadian and knows what is UP about Canadian lit. I read the description, about the mousy librarian and her assignment to a tiny island to catalog an estate that has been donated, and thought it sounded like something I would really love. I noted that it won the Governor General's Literary Prize, which is the top prize for literature in Canada.
So I wasn't expecting the book to take the turn it did. I was warned, by a private message in Instagram with all sorts of weird emoticons... I knew I was headed into a potentially strange territory. But still I didn't notice the arm on the bear on the cover. I only noticed that later.
Everything else I say will be a huge spoiler so if you prefer to read without knowing, don't click.
So I wasn't expecting the book to take the turn it did. I was warned, by a private message in Instagram with all sorts of weird emoticons... I knew I was headed into a potentially strange territory. But still I didn't notice the arm on the bear on the cover. I only noticed that later.
Everything else I say will be a huge spoiler so if you prefer to read without knowing, don't click.
January 12, 2022
Una maravilla.
November 4, 2018
Bear by Marian Engel
Lou, a cataloguer for a historical institute, is assigned to go live on an island in Northern Ontario where she will record all possessions in the estate of the late Colonel Jocelyn Cary, who has left her house and bear to the institute. Lou is a woman who, we are told, only feels purposeful and grounded by having instructions, but she ends up having sex with the bear, and through that, having unnamed guilt healed by having her back clawed, thereby experiencing a rebirth.
(I'll give you a short pause to digest that . . . Ready or not, here's the review:)
This is a short book (122 pages), and for the first 84 I was all in. I knew who this woman was—a loner like me who was out to have a personal epiphany or at least achieve self-knowledge. And I liked the bear a lot. He was slow, docile, and trapped. For the first 84 pages, I was rooting for the bear and I applauded when he had the first sensual relationship with the woman.
But then something awkward happened. (Don't laugh. The first part really wasn't awkward.) With the first use of the word “cunt” to describe the female anatomy, the book lost all sensuality. And it was not just because of the crass language. There was absolutely no heat, no smell, no organic motivation for this woman who thrives on cataloging to suddenly identify herself as a person who always goes too far, to have completely unsensual sex with the man who helps her out, to start yelling to the bear to tear her head off.
The first thing I associate with a bear is heat—body, breath. And it’s not there. Occasionally there is a mention of a smell, but you never experience it. So, for me, this story suddenly became the author’s personal exercise to write a kind of Jungian dream, and I felt nothing; it was Engel’s personal project that had nothing to do with the reader.
So ultimately my only strong feeling was sadness for the bear. He had been used by a self-involved character and I wanted better for him. (The cover picture is wonderful and illustrates my lingering dismay.)
Lou, a cataloguer for a historical institute, is assigned to go live on an island in Northern Ontario where she will record all possessions in the estate of the late Colonel Jocelyn Cary, who has left her house and bear to the institute. Lou is a woman who, we are told, only feels purposeful and grounded by having instructions, but she ends up having sex with the bear, and through that, having unnamed guilt healed by having her back clawed, thereby experiencing a rebirth.
(I'll give you a short pause to digest that . . . Ready or not, here's the review:)
This is a short book (122 pages), and for the first 84 I was all in. I knew who this woman was—a loner like me who was out to have a personal epiphany or at least achieve self-knowledge. And I liked the bear a lot. He was slow, docile, and trapped. For the first 84 pages, I was rooting for the bear and I applauded when he had the first sensual relationship with the woman.
But then something awkward happened. (Don't laugh. The first part really wasn't awkward.) With the first use of the word “cunt” to describe the female anatomy, the book lost all sensuality. And it was not just because of the crass language. There was absolutely no heat, no smell, no organic motivation for this woman who thrives on cataloging to suddenly identify herself as a person who always goes too far, to have completely unsensual sex with the man who helps her out, to start yelling to the bear to tear her head off.
The first thing I associate with a bear is heat—body, breath. And it’s not there. Occasionally there is a mention of a smell, but you never experience it. So, for me, this story suddenly became the author’s personal exercise to write a kind of Jungian dream, and I felt nothing; it was Engel’s personal project that had nothing to do with the reader.
So ultimately my only strong feeling was sadness for the bear. He had been used by a self-involved character and I wanted better for him. (The cover picture is wonderful and illustrates my lingering dismay.)
June 23, 2022
A controversial Canadian classic that caused quite a stir in the 1970s when it won the GG (a prestigious award).
The back cover blurbs are by quite the CanLit troika — Margaret Atwood, Robertson Davies, and Margaret Lawrence. Davies nails it best — this book is one big metaphor. On the surface the story is shocking and scandalous. On a higher metaphorical level this slim novel is about so much more, ultimately an exploration of settlers and colonists adjusting and adapting to a new world, perhaps even in shocking and unexpected ways.
The bear of course is timeless and mythological. The bear is everything.
The back cover blurbs are by quite the CanLit troika — Margaret Atwood, Robertson Davies, and Margaret Lawrence. Davies nails it best — this book is one big metaphor. On the surface the story is shocking and scandalous. On a higher metaphorical level this slim novel is about so much more, ultimately an exploration of settlers and colonists adjusting and adapting to a new world, perhaps even in shocking and unexpected ways.
The bear of course is timeless and mythological. The bear is everything.
March 13, 2013
Marian Engel's Governor General's Award winning novel, BEAR, is a unique little masterpiece.
Unfortunately, this novel seems to have been forgotten.
It opens when Lou, the main character, a librarian, is commissioned to catalog and research the life of an eccentric nineteenth century colonel in the wilds of Ontario. At first, Lou is uncertain she wants to be in such an isolated environment. But once she reaches the remote island house, and begins her cataloging and research, a peace falls upon her. What she doesn't quite understand yet is that a bear lives in a shack behind the house. Lives might be a stretch of the word, for the bear is chained to a wall in the shack.
In the beginning, Lou steers clear of the bear. Who wouldn't? But as time passes, Lou's bravery increases. Even when the local groundskeeper warns Lou of getting too close to the bear, she extends her bravery to the point of ultimately releasing the bear, breaking the bonds of the chains. This action of Lou is more than a plot technique for advancement. It is also a symbolic metaphor. Messages and symbols like this are not rare. Scattered throughout the pages, Engel ingeniously sends unspoken messages about such themes as: bondage, love, loneliness, mental health, individuality, and sexuality. The brilliance of these messages comes in the way that Engel doesn't need to bash the reader over the head but can be gentle, crafty, and artistic.
As time passes, Lou begins to think of the bear, dream of the bear, even interact with the bear. This sounds silly. I mean why in the world would a person want to interact with a bear? But, again, Engel is so deft with her writing that the relationship between the bear and Lou never comes across as cartoonish. But then something happens. Lou engages the bear. No, that is not exactly right. Lou tricks the bear into pleasing her orally. When I read this part of the novel I almost choked on my drink. The picture of the bear pleasing Lou orally was so clear in my mind I had to stop and take a break from reading the novel. Strangely though, I wasn't disturbed by this. In fact, this sequence of events made sense. Lou is alone, separated from humanity. In the bear she finds companionship; a solace that drips with romanticism.
To say more of this would only spoil the read.
But there is so much more to this novel. As a previous review stated: "There's an economy of elements to the book...no character is present who isn't necessary to Lou's psychological development...there are no filler scenes"...everything in the novel is intended to show Lou's psychological, physical, and, in some regards, spiritual transformation.
Do yourself a favor and find this novel. At under 200 pages it is well worth your time.
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
Unfortunately, this novel seems to have been forgotten.
It opens when Lou, the main character, a librarian, is commissioned to catalog and research the life of an eccentric nineteenth century colonel in the wilds of Ontario. At first, Lou is uncertain she wants to be in such an isolated environment. But once she reaches the remote island house, and begins her cataloging and research, a peace falls upon her. What she doesn't quite understand yet is that a bear lives in a shack behind the house. Lives might be a stretch of the word, for the bear is chained to a wall in the shack.
In the beginning, Lou steers clear of the bear. Who wouldn't? But as time passes, Lou's bravery increases. Even when the local groundskeeper warns Lou of getting too close to the bear, she extends her bravery to the point of ultimately releasing the bear, breaking the bonds of the chains. This action of Lou is more than a plot technique for advancement. It is also a symbolic metaphor. Messages and symbols like this are not rare. Scattered throughout the pages, Engel ingeniously sends unspoken messages about such themes as: bondage, love, loneliness, mental health, individuality, and sexuality. The brilliance of these messages comes in the way that Engel doesn't need to bash the reader over the head but can be gentle, crafty, and artistic.
As time passes, Lou begins to think of the bear, dream of the bear, even interact with the bear. This sounds silly. I mean why in the world would a person want to interact with a bear? But, again, Engel is so deft with her writing that the relationship between the bear and Lou never comes across as cartoonish. But then something happens. Lou engages the bear. No, that is not exactly right. Lou tricks the bear into pleasing her orally. When I read this part of the novel I almost choked on my drink. The picture of the bear pleasing Lou orally was so clear in my mind I had to stop and take a break from reading the novel. Strangely though, I wasn't disturbed by this. In fact, this sequence of events made sense. Lou is alone, separated from humanity. In the bear she finds companionship; a solace that drips with romanticism.
To say more of this would only spoil the read.
But there is so much more to this novel. As a previous review stated: "There's an economy of elements to the book...no character is present who isn't necessary to Lou's psychological development...there are no filler scenes"...everything in the novel is intended to show Lou's psychological, physical, and, in some regards, spiritual transformation.
Do yourself a favor and find this novel. At under 200 pages it is well worth your time.
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
August 23, 2012
Unconventional sex and sexuality interests me, as a general rule. What interests me most about novels that deal with taboo sex is not the taboo per se, although there is something to be said about reading descriptions of the forbidden that is erotic in and of itself. What I’m chiefly interested in is how taboo sex can answer questions about ourselves, and when we examine depictions of these forbidden encounters, strange intimacies, and abject eroticisms, there are things to be discovered that can be discovered in no other way.
Structurally, Bear is a short read, but the length is appropriate to reflect the laziness of summer and the urgency of the cataloguing that Lou, an archivist, is sent to undertake when she ventures to a nineteenth-century Northern Ontario home, a potential trove of local historical artefacts. As if to parallel Lou’s search for materials and meaning, both for local history and for herself, the novel is a treasure hunt of carefully arranged congruencies: civilization and animality, history and narratives of everyday life, sex and love.
The development of Lou’s relationship with the bear is beautiful, but incredibly sad. I never doubted for a moment that the love that Lou comes to have for the bear was genuine, passionate, and incredibly deep. Yet there were moments when I was struck by a great melancholy, realizing that the humanity that Lou inscribes upon the bear is a fiction she is composing and one that will inevitably come to an end. The narrative that she tells herself saves her from a life and sense of worth that she would have grown not to hate, but to resign herself to. Her growth at the end of the novel is empowering: at the beginning of the novel, she is a mole among manuscripts and maps, digging and dreading the feel of the outside world. At the end of the novel, she is surrounded by stars and bear-lore and self-knowledge.
For me, Lou’s relationship with the bear is also unquestionably queer. Lou cannot come to know herself with men, fearing that “[they know] that her soul is gangrenous.” Her affair with her boss, if briefly rooted in a kind of love, is “only habit and convenience . . . something [is] was doing to herself,” a part of her work as an archivist that is an empty gesture towards healing her vast loneliness. Women leave her wanting, and inanimate objects leave her cold. The bear is male, yes, but not a human male, and Lou’s descriptions lend it a plurality of genders, ages, species, and substances: it is a manikin, a doll used for educational purposes; a near-sighted baby, to be nurtured and pitied; a God, to be worshipped and warmed by the light of its mercy and acceptance; a lump, amorphous and harmless; a fat and dignified old woman, accepting of her fate; a man, a lover, and a mystery. Lou’s masculine name, and the changes in her body that alter her perception of her own age and gender, also suggest that Engels is toying with more than just fluidity in the species of the novel’s two main characters.
I also identified with Lou. Having just finished a project that I dedicated the better part of my summer to, feeling as if I’ve been chained to my desk and experiencing days in a row where I do not leave my house for fear of losing an hour, a minute, a second of work, I appreciated her methodical habits and the moment when she realizes it has been too long since she’s read for pleasure. Bear was the first book I’d read in a month that was not somehow related to my project, and I felt Lou’s gratitude for the joy of simply reading a book reaching out through the pages. I’d like to leave you with the section that spoke to me the most on this particular night, in which Lou’s work and sense of self collide and collapse with devastating results.
Structurally, Bear is a short read, but the length is appropriate to reflect the laziness of summer and the urgency of the cataloguing that Lou, an archivist, is sent to undertake when she ventures to a nineteenth-century Northern Ontario home, a potential trove of local historical artefacts. As if to parallel Lou’s search for materials and meaning, both for local history and for herself, the novel is a treasure hunt of carefully arranged congruencies: civilization and animality, history and narratives of everyday life, sex and love.
The development of Lou’s relationship with the bear is beautiful, but incredibly sad. I never doubted for a moment that the love that Lou comes to have for the bear was genuine, passionate, and incredibly deep. Yet there were moments when I was struck by a great melancholy, realizing that the humanity that Lou inscribes upon the bear is a fiction she is composing and one that will inevitably come to an end. The narrative that she tells herself saves her from a life and sense of worth that she would have grown not to hate, but to resign herself to. Her growth at the end of the novel is empowering: at the beginning of the novel, she is a mole among manuscripts and maps, digging and dreading the feel of the outside world. At the end of the novel, she is surrounded by stars and bear-lore and self-knowledge.
For me, Lou’s relationship with the bear is also unquestionably queer. Lou cannot come to know herself with men, fearing that “[they know] that her soul is gangrenous.” Her affair with her boss, if briefly rooted in a kind of love, is “only habit and convenience . . . something [is] was doing to herself,” a part of her work as an archivist that is an empty gesture towards healing her vast loneliness. Women leave her wanting, and inanimate objects leave her cold. The bear is male, yes, but not a human male, and Lou’s descriptions lend it a plurality of genders, ages, species, and substances: it is a manikin, a doll used for educational purposes; a near-sighted baby, to be nurtured and pitied; a God, to be worshipped and warmed by the light of its mercy and acceptance; a lump, amorphous and harmless; a fat and dignified old woman, accepting of her fate; a man, a lover, and a mystery. Lou’s masculine name, and the changes in her body that alter her perception of her own age and gender, also suggest that Engels is toying with more than just fluidity in the species of the novel’s two main characters.
I also identified with Lou. Having just finished a project that I dedicated the better part of my summer to, feeling as if I’ve been chained to my desk and experiencing days in a row where I do not leave my house for fear of losing an hour, a minute, a second of work, I appreciated her methodical habits and the moment when she realizes it has been too long since she’s read for pleasure. Bear was the first book I’d read in a month that was not somehow related to my project, and I felt Lou’s gratitude for the joy of simply reading a book reaching out through the pages. I’d like to leave you with the section that spoke to me the most on this particular night, in which Lou’s work and sense of self collide and collapse with devastating results.
October 15, 2020
Ognuno nella sua pelle
“Nel cuore della notte, udì i passi dell'orso: i suoi tonfi e il delicato stridio degli artigli sul pavimento della cucina. Rimase immobile, senza respirare, pensando alle punture che aveva sul collo e al fatto che si era dimenticata di dargli da mangiare. Si tirò su il saccopelo, restando rigida e all'erta. L'animale entrò in stanza col suo passo pesante e andò ad accucciarsi per un po' vicino a lei, l'annusava e la scrutava, gli occhi rossi quasi impercettibili nel buio. «Che cosa vuoi?» sussurrò, paralizzata dalla paura.
Marian Engel è stata una scrittrice importante per la letteratura canadese, attivista, impegnata nei diritti di autrici e autori e per la promozione del mondo del libro. Questo libro, infatti, fu in origine composto come racconto erotico in difesa della libertà di espressione: costruita poi come novella è la descrizione amorosa, tra le tante cose, dell'universo naturale del Nord del Canada e del mondo femminile, ed è stato intensamente apprezzato da talentuose lettrici come Margaret Atwood e Alice Munro. Il romanzo, tradotto in modo fertile da Veronica Raimo, venne pubblicato nel 1976, suscitando un delicato stordimento e una scandalosa controversia, per la tematica audace, inconsueta e stravagante. La protagonista del libro Lou, un'irriverente e volenterosa archivista e bibliotecaria dell'Ontario, riceve l'incarico di partire per un'isola solitaria, nel leggendario distretto del nord canadese, soggiornare presso la villa dei Cary, e studiare le storie costitutive, geografiche e genealogiche della famiglia, catalogando la biblioteca del luogo, donata al suo Istituto. La sua missione esplorativa si trasforma in avventura, quando inizia la relazione con un ospite della proprietà, un orso che vive da tempo in un capanno dietro l'edificio ottagonale, dove lei lavora, si nutre e trascorre le notti. Lou si avvicina all'animale con una apertura intima ed essenziale e dopo aver condiviso con l'orso qualche pasto, comincia a impegnarsi in diverse attività, come nuotare nel lago, passeggiare tra i monti, fare un fuoco, e infine impegnarsi in un reale contatto, lasciarsi vivere la passione, interpretando un bisogno di amore e un ritorno a uno stato selvaggio, nel quale fioriscono momenti estatici e rinascite erotiche. L'originalità del dettato ha conquistato i lettori, il pubblico e la critica, fino ai premi letterari più prestigiosi. Nell'ombra dell'amore, si racconta una sorta di metamorfosi, un rito iniziatico di scoperta della autentica forma naturale dell'essere vivente. Engel riesce a scomporre, con uno stile elegante e misterioso, le categorie predefinite di maschile e femminile e a attraversare con vulnerabile coraggio il confine tra specie umana e specie animale: costruendo un insieme di ibridazioni tra sfera sessuale e sfera psichica, tra biologia e scienza, tra l'atto del mangiare e il desiderio di godere e possedere. La finzione speculativa si accompagna all'erosione dei confini del reale, verso la creazione immaginaria di un eros eccitante che disturba, che percuote, che assedia la mente emotiva, trasgredendo le regole del non detto. "Non c'è niente di male nella bestialità, ma bisogna avere un certo stile”. La critica indaga dunque quali siano le domande che oggi questo testo ci pone, nella consapevolezza di una nuova fragilità che richiede quindi di pensare diversamente da quanto fatto finora, sulla frontiera che ancora non abbiamo ricercato, e che Engel racconta senza paure, senza conformismi né inibizioni, ma affondando invece in una realtà fortemente simbolica e fruibile; lei qui scrive per dare vita a una soggettività che esperisce ciò che è negato e rimosso e che risulta, per il suo personaggio, necessario a identità e appartenenza, a una doppia dimensione che non ricompone le possibilità, lasciandole invece dischiuse e in parte per sempre irrisolte. La donna di Orso resiste all'illusione e al conflitto, scoprendo con sorpresa di continuare a essere se stessa.
“La convivenza con l'orso era dolce e intensa. Lou sentiva che la pelle, i capelli, i denti e le unghie odoravano di orso, e le sembrava un odore delizioso. «Orso» gli diceva per tentarlo «sono soltanto una donna. Riducimi a brandelli con i tuoi artigli sonanti. Sono fragile. Non ci vuole niente. Strappami il cuore, non è che una larva in un tronco. Staccami la testa, orso mio». Ma lui era sempre buono con lei. Grugniva, le si andava a sedere di fronte e le sorrideva. Una volta le posò la zampa soffice sulla spalla nuda, quasi con tenerezza”.
“Nel cuore della notte, udì i passi dell'orso: i suoi tonfi e il delicato stridio degli artigli sul pavimento della cucina. Rimase immobile, senza respirare, pensando alle punture che aveva sul collo e al fatto che si era dimenticata di dargli da mangiare. Si tirò su il saccopelo, restando rigida e all'erta. L'animale entrò in stanza col suo passo pesante e andò ad accucciarsi per un po' vicino a lei, l'annusava e la scrutava, gli occhi rossi quasi impercettibili nel buio. «Che cosa vuoi?» sussurrò, paralizzata dalla paura.
Marian Engel è stata una scrittrice importante per la letteratura canadese, attivista, impegnata nei diritti di autrici e autori e per la promozione del mondo del libro. Questo libro, infatti, fu in origine composto come racconto erotico in difesa della libertà di espressione: costruita poi come novella è la descrizione amorosa, tra le tante cose, dell'universo naturale del Nord del Canada e del mondo femminile, ed è stato intensamente apprezzato da talentuose lettrici come Margaret Atwood e Alice Munro. Il romanzo, tradotto in modo fertile da Veronica Raimo, venne pubblicato nel 1976, suscitando un delicato stordimento e una scandalosa controversia, per la tematica audace, inconsueta e stravagante. La protagonista del libro Lou, un'irriverente e volenterosa archivista e bibliotecaria dell'Ontario, riceve l'incarico di partire per un'isola solitaria, nel leggendario distretto del nord canadese, soggiornare presso la villa dei Cary, e studiare le storie costitutive, geografiche e genealogiche della famiglia, catalogando la biblioteca del luogo, donata al suo Istituto. La sua missione esplorativa si trasforma in avventura, quando inizia la relazione con un ospite della proprietà, un orso che vive da tempo in un capanno dietro l'edificio ottagonale, dove lei lavora, si nutre e trascorre le notti. Lou si avvicina all'animale con una apertura intima ed essenziale e dopo aver condiviso con l'orso qualche pasto, comincia a impegnarsi in diverse attività, come nuotare nel lago, passeggiare tra i monti, fare un fuoco, e infine impegnarsi in un reale contatto, lasciarsi vivere la passione, interpretando un bisogno di amore e un ritorno a uno stato selvaggio, nel quale fioriscono momenti estatici e rinascite erotiche. L'originalità del dettato ha conquistato i lettori, il pubblico e la critica, fino ai premi letterari più prestigiosi. Nell'ombra dell'amore, si racconta una sorta di metamorfosi, un rito iniziatico di scoperta della autentica forma naturale dell'essere vivente. Engel riesce a scomporre, con uno stile elegante e misterioso, le categorie predefinite di maschile e femminile e a attraversare con vulnerabile coraggio il confine tra specie umana e specie animale: costruendo un insieme di ibridazioni tra sfera sessuale e sfera psichica, tra biologia e scienza, tra l'atto del mangiare e il desiderio di godere e possedere. La finzione speculativa si accompagna all'erosione dei confini del reale, verso la creazione immaginaria di un eros eccitante che disturba, che percuote, che assedia la mente emotiva, trasgredendo le regole del non detto. "Non c'è niente di male nella bestialità, ma bisogna avere un certo stile”. La critica indaga dunque quali siano le domande che oggi questo testo ci pone, nella consapevolezza di una nuova fragilità che richiede quindi di pensare diversamente da quanto fatto finora, sulla frontiera che ancora non abbiamo ricercato, e che Engel racconta senza paure, senza conformismi né inibizioni, ma affondando invece in una realtà fortemente simbolica e fruibile; lei qui scrive per dare vita a una soggettività che esperisce ciò che è negato e rimosso e che risulta, per il suo personaggio, necessario a identità e appartenenza, a una doppia dimensione che non ricompone le possibilità, lasciandole invece dischiuse e in parte per sempre irrisolte. La donna di Orso resiste all'illusione e al conflitto, scoprendo con sorpresa di continuare a essere se stessa.
“La convivenza con l'orso era dolce e intensa. Lou sentiva che la pelle, i capelli, i denti e le unghie odoravano di orso, e le sembrava un odore delizioso. «Orso» gli diceva per tentarlo «sono soltanto una donna. Riducimi a brandelli con i tuoi artigli sonanti. Sono fragile. Non ci vuole niente. Strappami il cuore, non è che una larva in un tronco. Staccami la testa, orso mio». Ma lui era sempre buono con lei. Grugniva, le si andava a sedere di fronte e le sorrideva. Una volta le posò la zampa soffice sulla spalla nuda, quasi con tenerezza”.
February 21, 2021
I have nothing to add to the mountain of words, both adulatory and damning, that have been written about this book, except that perhaps more than with any other book reviewed on this site, I wish that, freedom of speech be damned, I could delete other users' reviews.
For the love of reading, people, it's a novel.
For the love of reading, people, it's a novel.
November 28, 2023
Woman fucks a bear.
*Twiddles thumbs*
Yeah. Anyway.
*Twiddles thumbs*
Yeah. Anyway.
September 25, 2019
In Engel’s novel, Lou and Bear’s relationship is not consensual; many of their encounters are sexually abusive, verging on rape. As Margret Grebowicz argues in “When Species Meat: Confronting Bestiality Pornography,” “[h]ow might we begin to distinguish between the sexual agency we anthropomorphically project onto animals (in the production of porn, for instance) and their real sexual agency, the very thing which render them rapeable (at least in human legal terms) in the first place?” Because animals cannot verbally give informed consent, they are legally in line with humans who cannot — for instance, the severely mentally handicapped and underaged people — in this way, all sexual encounters with animals are rape. Bear cannot give informed consent because of the language barrier between his suitors and himself, which makes him rapeable; in Bear’s case, raped. Bear’s encounters with Lou are an example of this sexual abuse of power taken by a caregiver, made possible by Bear’s conditioned submissive nature.
Ethically, animals are not responsible — nor should they be — to uphold human laws, but humans are. Restricting animals such as Bear by human-invented constructs of sexual agency and the concept of informed consent is to measure them by standards outside of their species. This is not the case when a human commits a crime against an animal. Sex without informed consent with an animal — human or otherwise — is rape. As Jeremy Bentham argues, the line between “us” and “them” is not our intelligence or ability to communicate and understand one another, but our ability to suffer (Bentham). Therefore, if an animal suffers under abuse as a human does, they are no different in terms of rape victimhood.
Lou does not see herself as a bear, or Bear as a human, nor does she have any delusion that Bear could give informed consent. “She had no idea what animals were about. They were creatures. She supposed that they led flickering, inarticulate psychic lives as well” (Engel 46); Lou thinks of Bear as a thoughtless brute, yet still believes she is right in trying to have sex with him, knowing she cannot get informed consent. Lou’s forcing herself on Bear is especially abusive in the case of her attempted rape because she not only abuses his physically — sexually — she does not respect him on an emotional or mental level either.
Stockholm syndrome is a “psychological condition in which hostages or victims of kidnappings sometimes develop positive feelings towards their captors, on whom they depend for their survival” (Colman). Lou seems disinterested in understanding the Bear and his mind, more interested in his body.
In Greg Garrard’s “Being Zoo”, he cites an interview with a zoophile who expresses his distrust of condemning bestiality; “[i]t is unthinkable that any sexual act with an animal is punished without proof that the animal has come to any harm” (2). In Bear and Lou’s relationship, it is clear that manipulation and conditioning is at play.
Lou and Bear’s relationship is tenuous and unstable. Lou is only at the Cary house for a summer. Lou takes advantage of a bear that has been a captive of humans for many years, possibly sexually abused by Lucy, the Indigenous woman, and the Colonel. In this way, Bear could have developed Stockholm Syndrome himself, forced to be docile and submissive around his keepers, even when he could physically overwhelm them. Bear is described as “a middle-aged woman defeated to the point of being daft. . .I can manage him, she decided” (Engel 23). Here, Lou positions herself as the dominant in their relationship, both believing the bear to be “defeated” and “daft,” that is passive and stupid, and deciding that she can manage, control, abuse him, take advantage of her fiduciary position.
In the instances where the bear ‘initiates’ sexual contact, it is made clear by Engel that he is not visibly aroused, that is, not erect. Therefore, it is feasible to argue that he does not treat licking Lou as a sexual act, more as an act that simply makes her happy, and through her contentment, more likely to give him treats, take him to the water, and play with him. This is another sign of conditioned response; he has been trained to please his captors. Lou says, “I don’t care if I can’t turn you on, I just love you” (Engel 90). In that way, she does not care if he is attracted to her; that is not important. Lou has never needed consent to feel she has right to abuse Bear.
The only instance in which Bear becomes erect is at the climax of the novel; here, Lou notices his arousal and tries to have sex with him but is injured instead (Engel 106-107). There is no preamble, no attempt on his part to be submissive and please her;
[s]he looked at him. He did not move. She. . .went down on all fours in front of him, in the animal posture. He reached out one great paw and ripped the skin on her back. . .[she] [t]urned to face him. He had lost his erection and was sitting in the same posture. She could see nothing, nothing in his face to tell her what to do. (Engel 107)
While this wound inflicted on her back could be an accident or a part of regular bear mating, it is understood by the reader to be a violent act that drives Lou away, perhaps Bear’s intention. The one instance when penetrative rape is truly threatening him, he acts violently, never having shown a violent or aggressive side before in the novel. His sexual agency was encroached upon, and he responded in defense. As well, his erection is lost as soon as she assumes the “animal posture,” a sign that he does not wish to have sex with her. This moment is another attempted rape of Bear, and while he did not attack her the first time, he is ready to defend himself and his sexual agency in this instance. Garrard argues that Bear’s reasoning behind his act of harming Lou “remains unknowable, it can hardly be “‘neutral,’” and goes on to argue that it is the moment when Bear is no longer an object to Lou, the moment she is seeing his selfhood for the first time (Garrard 26). The moment when the bear’s agency and personhood is finally clear to Lou is his attack on her, ripping at her skin. Paul Barrett’s “Animal Tracks” cites Elspeth Cameron who argues that the protagonist’s “relationship with the bear is emblematic of her tentative exploration of, gradual immersion in, and full acceptance of the primitive forces in the world and herself” (Barrett 125). This is yet another critic who is content to see an anthropomorphized, allegorized bear rather than the person himself. If we interpret Bear as a symbol of Lou’s sexuality, or “the Wild, the Canadian North, the Romantic spirit, or masculinity” (Garrard 19), then his sexual agency is unimportant as he is not really a bear. Of course, if he is a bear, as the facts of the narrative point out clearly to us through its clear and frequent physical descriptions of Bear, he is grossly abused by the protagonist, his sexual agency disregarded as she attempts twice to rape him.
With Lou and Bear, the relationship is obviously manipulative and abusive. In Bear, Lou takes advantage of Bear’s dependency on her, his conditioned submissive nature to please her, regardless of his own awareness of his place in her sexuality. She leaves with no care for the bear’s future, showing her true disinterest in his mind and identity, only having used him as a way to explore her own sexual identity.
Ethically, animals are not responsible — nor should they be — to uphold human laws, but humans are. Restricting animals such as Bear by human-invented constructs of sexual agency and the concept of informed consent is to measure them by standards outside of their species. This is not the case when a human commits a crime against an animal. Sex without informed consent with an animal — human or otherwise — is rape. As Jeremy Bentham argues, the line between “us” and “them” is not our intelligence or ability to communicate and understand one another, but our ability to suffer (Bentham). Therefore, if an animal suffers under abuse as a human does, they are no different in terms of rape victimhood.
Lou does not see herself as a bear, or Bear as a human, nor does she have any delusion that Bear could give informed consent. “She had no idea what animals were about. They were creatures. She supposed that they led flickering, inarticulate psychic lives as well” (Engel 46); Lou thinks of Bear as a thoughtless brute, yet still believes she is right in trying to have sex with him, knowing she cannot get informed consent. Lou’s forcing herself on Bear is especially abusive in the case of her attempted rape because she not only abuses his physically — sexually — she does not respect him on an emotional or mental level either.
Stockholm syndrome is a “psychological condition in which hostages or victims of kidnappings sometimes develop positive feelings towards their captors, on whom they depend for their survival” (Colman). Lou seems disinterested in understanding the Bear and his mind, more interested in his body.
In Greg Garrard’s “Being Zoo”, he cites an interview with a zoophile who expresses his distrust of condemning bestiality; “[i]t is unthinkable that any sexual act with an animal is punished without proof that the animal has come to any harm” (2). In Bear and Lou’s relationship, it is clear that manipulation and conditioning is at play.
Lou and Bear’s relationship is tenuous and unstable. Lou is only at the Cary house for a summer. Lou takes advantage of a bear that has been a captive of humans for many years, possibly sexually abused by Lucy, the Indigenous woman, and the Colonel. In this way, Bear could have developed Stockholm Syndrome himself, forced to be docile and submissive around his keepers, even when he could physically overwhelm them. Bear is described as “a middle-aged woman defeated to the point of being daft. . .I can manage him, she decided” (Engel 23). Here, Lou positions herself as the dominant in their relationship, both believing the bear to be “defeated” and “daft,” that is passive and stupid, and deciding that she can manage, control, abuse him, take advantage of her fiduciary position.
In the instances where the bear ‘initiates’ sexual contact, it is made clear by Engel that he is not visibly aroused, that is, not erect. Therefore, it is feasible to argue that he does not treat licking Lou as a sexual act, more as an act that simply makes her happy, and through her contentment, more likely to give him treats, take him to the water, and play with him. This is another sign of conditioned response; he has been trained to please his captors. Lou says, “I don’t care if I can’t turn you on, I just love you” (Engel 90). In that way, she does not care if he is attracted to her; that is not important. Lou has never needed consent to feel she has right to abuse Bear.
The only instance in which Bear becomes erect is at the climax of the novel; here, Lou notices his arousal and tries to have sex with him but is injured instead (Engel 106-107). There is no preamble, no attempt on his part to be submissive and please her;
[s]he looked at him. He did not move. She. . .went down on all fours in front of him, in the animal posture. He reached out one great paw and ripped the skin on her back. . .[she] [t]urned to face him. He had lost his erection and was sitting in the same posture. She could see nothing, nothing in his face to tell her what to do. (Engel 107)
While this wound inflicted on her back could be an accident or a part of regular bear mating, it is understood by the reader to be a violent act that drives Lou away, perhaps Bear’s intention. The one instance when penetrative rape is truly threatening him, he acts violently, never having shown a violent or aggressive side before in the novel. His sexual agency was encroached upon, and he responded in defense. As well, his erection is lost as soon as she assumes the “animal posture,” a sign that he does not wish to have sex with her. This moment is another attempted rape of Bear, and while he did not attack her the first time, he is ready to defend himself and his sexual agency in this instance. Garrard argues that Bear’s reasoning behind his act of harming Lou “remains unknowable, it can hardly be “‘neutral,’” and goes on to argue that it is the moment when Bear is no longer an object to Lou, the moment she is seeing his selfhood for the first time (Garrard 26). The moment when the bear’s agency and personhood is finally clear to Lou is his attack on her, ripping at her skin. Paul Barrett’s “Animal Tracks” cites Elspeth Cameron who argues that the protagonist’s “relationship with the bear is emblematic of her tentative exploration of, gradual immersion in, and full acceptance of the primitive forces in the world and herself” (Barrett 125). This is yet another critic who is content to see an anthropomorphized, allegorized bear rather than the person himself. If we interpret Bear as a symbol of Lou’s sexuality, or “the Wild, the Canadian North, the Romantic spirit, or masculinity” (Garrard 19), then his sexual agency is unimportant as he is not really a bear. Of course, if he is a bear, as the facts of the narrative point out clearly to us through its clear and frequent physical descriptions of Bear, he is grossly abused by the protagonist, his sexual agency disregarded as she attempts twice to rape him.
With Lou and Bear, the relationship is obviously manipulative and abusive. In Bear, Lou takes advantage of Bear’s dependency on her, his conditioned submissive nature to please her, regardless of his own awareness of his place in her sexuality. She leaves with no care for the bear’s future, showing her true disinterest in his mind and identity, only having used him as a way to explore her own sexual identity.
February 1, 2023
In den vorher gesichteten Goodreads-Rezensionen gab es viele Beschwerden darüber, dass das Buch von Sex mit einem Bären handelt. Die habe ich ignoriert, denn z.B. bei "Salvage the Bones" klagen alle darüber, dass es nebenbei auch um Hundekämpfe geht, "die armen lieben Hundis", und das fand ich kein Argument. Die Beschreibungen waren aber vollkommen korrekt. Dieses Buch handelt von Sex mit einem Bären. Sonst passiert nicht viel. Die Bärengeschichte ist außerdem völliger Unfug und hat nichts mit realen Bären zu tun, vielleicht eine Art Metapher, was weiß ich. Ich habe es trotzdem gern gelesen, weil ich Stil und Erzählweise mochte und am Ende auch die Dreistigkeit, einen Roman zu schreiben, der einfach nur von Sex mit einem Bären handelt.
December 31, 2022
3,5 estrellas 🤔🤔🤔😱😱😱😱🤯🤯🤯 Y así todo el rato con este libro. A esta novela hay que llegar con la mente abierta y sin prejuicios. Puede gustarte o no, dejarte con sentimientos encontrados, pero indiferente nunca, pues su trama es una de las más originales y llamativas que he leído en mucho tiempo. Y una excusa para hablar sobre feminidad y feminismo pero también sobre la necesidad de contacto y afecto como algo intrínseco al ser humano.
#popsugar22 Reto 43: Un libro con un palíndromo como título.
#popsugar22 Reto 43: Un libro con un palíndromo como título.
June 27, 2022
'bear,' she cried. 'i love you. pull my head off.'
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