Farley Mowat

Language: English

Pages: 320

ISBN: 0771064896

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

A Canadian icon gives us his final book, a memoir of the events that shaped this beloved writer and activist.

Farley Mowat has been beguiling readers for fifty years now, creating a body of writing that has thrilled two generations, selling literally millions of copies in the process. In looking back over his accomplishments, we are reminded of his groundbreaking work: He single-handedly began the rehabilitation of the wolf with Never Cry Wolf. He was the first to bring advocacy activism on behalf of the Inuit and their northern lands with People of the Deer and The Desperate People. And his was the first populist voice raised in defense of the environment and of the creatures with whom we share our world, the ones he has always called The Others.

Otherwise is a memoir of the years between 1937 and the autumn of 1948 that tells the story of the events that forged the writer and activist. His was an innocent childhood, spent free of normal strictures, and largely in the company of an assortment of dogs, owls, squirrels, snakes, rabbits, and other wildlife. From this, he was catapulted into wartime service, as anxious as any other young man of his generation to get to Europe and the fighting. The carnage of the Italian campaign shattered his faith in humanity forever, and he returned home unable and unwilling to fit into post-war Canadian life. Desperate, he accepted a stint on a scientific collecting expedition to the Barrengrounds. There in the bleak but beautiful landscape he finds his purpose — first with the wolves and then with the indomitable but desperately starving Ihalmiut. Out of these experiences come his first pitched battles with an ignorant and uncaring federal bureaucracy as he tries to get aid for the famine-stricken Inuit. And out of these experiences, too, come his first books.

Otherwise goes to the heart of who and what Farley Mowat is, a wondrous final achievement from a true titan.

The Origin of Waves

Rilla of Ingleside (Anne's House of Dreams, Book 6)

Une jeune femme en guerre, Tome 3: Jacques ou les échos d'une voix

Les Larmes d'Adam

Chroniques du Nouvel-Ontario (édition intégrale)

La Fille du Pasteur Cullen (La Fille du Pasteur Cullen, Tome 1)














Franky was small like me but sported a bushy RAF-type moustache and a dashing manner, both of which I greatly envied. Franky used his swagger to get us a hotel suite normally reserved for generals, then he acquired tickets to some of the most popular London shows, including a box at the Windmill Theatre, famous for nude strippers so thickly coated with metallic bronze or silver dust that they resembled statues in a fountain. On our third night Franky met a ”smasher” in a Kensington bar and

peers. Time to settle yourself down. Then you could carry on to become a professional zoologist up to your elbows in bird shit for the rest of your life if that pleased you. Or become a librarian, like me. Or a garbage collector, so long as you became an effective one. Effective! That’s the key. ”You have to find your balance, before you stumble over the edge. You simply must regain a sense of purpose even if you have to manufacture one – as I expect you did with your war museum caper.” He was

met most of the few remaining Inuit people of the deer (Ihalmiut – People from Beyond – they called themselves) and visited some of the surviving Idthen Eldeli, the Chipewyan people of the deer. That summer was a transcendental experience during which I developed a consuming desire to learn more about the peoples of the deer and, if I was lucky, about their inner world. I also became deeply perturbed and angry at the way the indigenous peoples and the other natural denizens of tundra and taiga

rocky rubble), I returned to our outpost, but found little comfort there. Andy had just returned from a long trek across the plains to the north and gloomily reported having seen neither caribou nor recent signs of any. Ohoto was in a despondent mood from which he emerged only long enough to assure me he would not go near any more old encampments of his people. Tegpa alone seemed cheerful, and it was in his company that I continued my attempt to discover what I could about the empty camps – and

Ohoto offered no explanation. It was a momentous find for us since it indicated the existence of a travel route to the westward. When we climbed to the peak of the island and looked west, we saw the glitter of rapids marking the mouth of a river which Ohoto thought might be one he had heard about in his childhood but had never seen – one that could be followed to Dubawnt Lake. We headed for the river mouth with high expectations and found it clogged with boulders. Indeed, its lower reaches

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