Rideau Hall, Wednesday, November 23, 2005

As far back as I can remember, books have always been a part of my life. I think that perhaps because books were scarce in my country of origin, I learned to see and cherish them as something very precious indeed. For my parents, books became a path to freedom in a world otherwise in turmoil; I learned early on to immerse myself in books with abandon, feverishly, glancing up every now and then as the images brought to life by the rippling words, thundering rhythms, and—most especially—surging ideas washed over me.

Whether you read quickly or take your time, devouring each page or lingering over each word, books have an incredible power—a beneficial one at that—to substitute the imagined into everyday life. In so doing, they show us everything that life has to offer, boundless and free. I believe that to be denied books is to be oppressed. I also believe that to deny yourself books is to limit your own freedom.

A book is a constant companion. We are free to climb inside and imprint ourselves on its pages. A book can follow you anywhere—on land, at sea, or to the highest mountain top; it is with you in times of joy, sorrow, or trouble, speaking softly all the while. A book can speak to the very core of who you are, to that part that is your truest self, seeking a kindred voice. A kind voice born of silence that suddenly resonates within you as strong as your own heartbeat.

A book is a call to dream. When we are children, a book can throw wide the doors to fantasy. Every fairy tale begins with “Once upon a time.” As we grow older, it can take us outside ourselves to new places: to old Shanghai with Hergé, to the Moon with Jules Verne, to look upon a Stone Angel with Margaret Lawrence, or to the Main with Michel Tremblay. It can even speak to us as a poem, bringing us ever closer to the realm of dreams. A book is not bound by the limitations of time and space—the world opened up before us is limited only by our imagination.

A book is an instrument of knowledge. Through books, ideas move freely, unknown places are discovered, women and men are engaged, intuitions become clear and can sometimes change the world. Such is the power of books to push back the unknown and expand our horizons. Words help us to explore every facet of life and enrich our knowledge of the universe and those around us. A book is a guide along uncharted roads and celebrates the endurance of all living things.

A book is a source of pleasure. It can stem the tide of boredom and fill our sleepless nights. The very existence of a book holds the promise of adventure. We can leave ourselves behind, see the world, live another life, hunt for buried treasure, solve crime, unravel mysteries, uncover secrets, triumph over evil, be consumed by passion, rethink life, and listen to the wind in the trees. A book can run the gamut of emotions, emotions that simmer below the surface, that we may keep to ourselves, and shares them with us. It is truly an offering. A book can cut right through you like an arctic blast through an open window.

But what we must remember most of all is that a book is forever an expression of freedom. And so I say to all of the writers here today, and to you in particular, that your craft as writers, as Marie-Claire Blais so poignantly noted, allows you to [translation] “work freely at the very heart of life.” But the freedom of which I speak, your freedom, comes through tremendous effort. That is worth remembering. I cannot begin to imagine the courage and passion it takes to divide and magnify your lives, to the delight of your readers. The courage and passion it takes to reach across the selfless solitude in which you work to touch us through your books—books that are always with us—with each turn of the page. As Camus put it, “To create is to live twice.” To this I would add that to read a book, ten books, one hundred books, is to live once, ten times, one hundred times or more.

Tonight, we celebrate books. To Pamela Porter and Camille Bouchard, for their stories, to Isabelle Arsenault and Rob Gonsalves, for their delightful illustrations, I again say, “Thank you,” as they received the Governor General’s Literary Awards for Children’s Literature yesterday before an enthusiastic crowd of children and teens. To Aki Shimazaki and David Gilmour, for your novels, I thank you. To Anne Campton and Jean‑Marc Desgent, for your poetry, I thank you. To Michel Bock and John Vaillant, for your works of non-fiction, I thank you. To Geneviève Billette and John Mighton, for your plays, I thank you. And to Rachel Martinez and Fred A. Reed, for your translations, I thank you.

I salute our authors and warmly congratulate the laureates of the 2005 Governor General’s Literary Awards. I salute these authors and offer my thanks. I hope with all my heart that your books will come to be known far and wide, spreading like wildfire.

For this is what you do, dazzling us each time with your fireworks.

Thank you.