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Indigenous Beasts
By Nathan Sellyn
Raincoast, 181 pages, $22.95

Is there, perhaps, a statistical report tucked away in the desks of all literary publicists everywhere that promises the words "raw" and "unflinching" will sell more books? New writer Nathan Sellyn can hardly be held responsible for the dust jacket of his collection of stories, Indigenous Beasts, but I did wonder, on investigating further than the cover, if those oft-gushed words are finally working their way into the very practice of fiction, staking out a genre — at once undercooked and hardboiled — of their own.

Indigenous Beasts, the young Princeton-educated Canadian's first book, both succeeds and fails on these terms: The stories are bloody and real, yes; they could also, on occasion, have used some more time in the fire.

The book is set across Canada, from Montreal to Victoria. Appropriate, then, that I should read it while travelling along the rails of the CNR. Unlike one Sellyn character who hobos his way across the country, however, I was warm and comfortable on the inside of the car. After a while, frustrated with both the book and the company, I asked my neighbour if he'd give me his opinion on a new writer. He kindly obliged, read a story at random, and handed the book back to me. "It's good," he said. "Reminds me a bit of Alistair McLeod." Right, I thought. Only in Canada.

I returned to my reading, bolstered by this sign of approval, and chastened, to look below the surface for something redeeming in what had struck me, at first, as like the overloud boasting of teenage boys on a city bus. Hypothesis: One of the characteristics of Raw and Unflinching Fiction (hereafter RUF) is to irritate the reader on first contact, like a stubbly beard. And, like the stubbly beard, it's an irritation some will be glad to endure. Qualification of hypothesis: Masculine metaphors may not apply to all RUF writing, but in the case of Indigenous Beasts, they are essential.

The majority of Sellyn's stories are concerned with men's physical violence: The characters commit casual assault on neighbours, girlfriends and passersby; they are victims of one another through gay bashing, rape and murder; one protagonist ventures into a hardware store only to witness another man shooting himself in the bathroom-fixtures aisle.

If such is the rough world of men, there is little wonder that Sellyn's characters behave so badly. Terrorized themselves, they can do little else than terrorize the people around them, whether strippers, siblings, strangers or friends.

Indigenous Beasts is, though, sharply perceptive, rendering the interactions between characters, and the exchanges wherein they construct and protect their fragile egos, especially well. Two men at a swingers party:

CHECK:".'You need to relax. There are some beautiful women here.' 'Yeah, no,' I said. 'It's just ..... you know, first time, like you said. Virgin nerves.' 'You're lucky.' He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. 'Triple-A grade here. A very good crop for your first time, boss.'."

As well, the book contains some exceptionally good writing: One aged and broken-hearted character "had faded, like the ink on a Golden Age comic, his adventures forgotten and gathering dust." A 10-year-old boy narrates a moment with his older brother: "He rocked on his sneakers like a cobra pulling back to strike, and I took a step away from him in case he decided he needed to hit something."

Indigenous Beasts occasionally descends to the RUFly mediocre when Sellyn tacks on cheap enigmatic endings, as in A Routine to These Things (the dialogue of a jealous ex-husband), or uses clunky and contrived staging, as in Cleaning Up (the drugged-out flailing of a young playboy).

As well, the predictability of Sellyn's characters can become tiresome; French-Canadians, for example, only ever fulfill their basest stereotypes, and women are at best endearing aliens, at worst needy blow-up dolls. A possible exception to this last could be the title story, which has a female narrator, but she's given all the personality of a doorstop.

The best story in the collection is the last, The Basics of the Species. This piece, in no way predictable, offers astute and entertaining social commentary on 21st-century urban North America. In it, Sellyn conflates a 9/11-type attack on downtown Toronto with an eTalk Daily-style reality show called Menagerie Madness. The result, though I must part company with my neighbour on the train regarding any resemblance to Alistair McLeod (or, indeed, any other CanLiterati) is funny, strange and smart — worth the stubble rash.

Fiona Foster is a writer and fiction editor in Montreal. She is at work on her first novel.