ISBN 9781770863644 | 5.25″ x 8″ | TPB | $21.95
ISBN 9781770863651 | EBOOK | $12.99
Category: Literary Novels
Twenty-eight-year-old Will, a teacher living in Montreal, has spent the last few months recovering from a breakup with his first serious boyfriend, Max. He has resumed his search for companionship, but has he truly moved on?
Will’s mother Katherine — one of the few people, perhaps the only one, who loves him unconditionally — is also in recovery, from a bout with colon cancer that haunts her body and mind with the possibility of relapse.
Having experienced heartbreak, and fearful of tragedy, Will must come to terms with the rule of impermanence: to see past lost treasures and unwanted returns, to find hope and solace in the absolute certainty of change.
In The Geography of Pluto, Christopher DiRaddo perfectly captures the ebb and flow of life through the insightful, exciting, and often playful story of a young man’s day-to-day struggle with uncertainty.
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- Montreal Review of Books
“What is also noteworthy about this novel is its versatility. It can be categorized as an urban story, as gay literature, or as a mainstream Canadian novel, equally comfortable on any of those shelves […] A voyage well worth taking.”
“DiRaddo’s first novel is a terrific debut that will have you mulling over the characters long after you’ve finished. They resonate that strongly. Highly recommended.”
- Out in Print
“A sharply written time capsule of gay Montreal in the 1990s.”
For instance, I learned about the city of Regina because that is where Shaun Findley was from. Shaun Findley, whose body was like the Prairies, his chest as flat as Saskatchewan, overlain with rolling wisps of golden hair. He was the first guy I slept with. He was twenty-five and I was eighteen. During the two weeks we saw each other I would sit up in my room at night and flip through my old high school textbooks, reading from chapters on the Prairie provinces: Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta. I’d look at the photos of the flatlands and think of him: rural images of farmers on tractors collecting wheat, beautiful red sunsets bleeding into the unbroken horizon, no mountains for miles.
But Montreal has a mountain—and the west side of Mount Royal glared at me disapprovingly through the large windows of Shaun’s Westmount apartment. Shaun lived in a giant yellow concrete monster on Sherbrooke Street West that faced a small park behind which ran a climbing row of expensive houses. The building had a deafening buzzer that would let me in and follow me up the stairs to the second floor. The noise gave me the impression of being buzzed in to visit a prisoner, and I couldn’t shake the feeling each time I climbed those stairs that there was indeed something sketchy about the man I was coming to see.
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