Trillium Book Awards Author Reading 2015

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Win a Free Copy of Robert Rotenberg's The Guilty Plea

Would you like to win, courtesy of Simon & Schuster Canada, a free copy of Robert Rotenberg's latest Toronto-set legal thriller, The Guilty Plea (see writer-in-residence Amy Lavender Harris' comments on the book here), in stores this week?

Write a short (200 word maximum) text and post it in the comment section below, describing a real or imagined encounter with the criminal justice courts in Toronto. The best comment will win its author a free copy of The Guilty Plea -- and may just make you world famous (or infamous) in Toronto.

(In)humane City: Robert Rotenberg's The Guilty Plea

A police court is a place of tragic gloom, though like the ground where Ophelia was laid to rest, it is sometimes enlivened by the jests of the grave diggers; it is a whirlpool into which offenders against law and order are sucked; a justice shop where men, sinned against and sinning, receive their deserts; a pit of peradventure into which men sometimes slip; a guillotine which falls with shuddering swiftness upon the necks of those who would menace society; a house of tears and sighs and evil temper; a clearing house, where parcels of humanity are valued and classified; and sometimes--not too often--it is a mercy seat. [Harry M. Wodson, 1917. The Whirlpool: Scenes from Toronto Police Court.]

Why We All Hate Toronto

In 1987 Anthony Hyde, an Ottawa-based reviewer of Michael Ondaatje's now-iconic Toronto novel In the Skin of a Lion, expressed his unhappiness not merely with the novel itself but with the city in which it was set. Describing Toronto as "a catastrophe," he emphasized, "ugly, formless, without character, it sits upon the banks of Lake Ontario like some diseased organ in the body, spreading pollution around it."

The City at the Centre of the Map

"The city scrolled away from us like a vast and intricate diagram, as indecipherable as the language of the Hittites. Lights dim as stars cut into the vast blackness of Lake Ontario, all quivering in the rising remains of the heat of the day. Here was a religion, I thought. My religion. My secret book, my Talmud." [Robert Charles Wilson, "The Inner Inner City," In The Perseids and Other Stories. Tor, 2000.]

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