You could call it an adventure thriller set in the wilds of northern Quebec. You could call it a detective story centering on the search for the main character's missing father. You could call it a psychological novel, a study of madness both individual and social. You could call it a religious novel which examines the origin and nature of the human lust to kill and destroy. You could call it any of these and I wouldn't quarrel. But you'd better call it a novel to be reckoned with, a step in the direction of that mythic creature, the Great Canadian Novel, whose siren song echoes mockingly in the ears of our writers. (p. 99)
[Margaret Atwood] said that it took a stay in Boston to make her realize she was a Canadian. This is interesting, in connection with a motif in [Surfacing] which might appear as anti-American until one examines it more closely. Americans tend to destroy what they can't eat or take home. Americans prefer powerboats to canoes, and build dams at the cost of flooding and killing the land. Come now, murmurs the voice of reason and fair play, Americans aren't the only ones who do these things. But it's okay, Atwood knows this too.
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