Howard O'Hagan is, with great regret, an obscurity floating against the distant shores of the literary canon. The first strike against him may be that he was Canadian. Canadian authors always seem segregated from the rest of literature, relegated to the dim recesses of academia or a dusty shelf at the local library. The only Canadian authors who receive some recognition are Margaret Atwood and Alice Munro, and even they are hardly household names. Perhaps this ignorance towards Canadian literature stems from Canada's position in respect to the United States, that Canada just does not have as much to offer the world because of its location next to a global entertainment powerhouse. I am writing to tell you this is not the case: Canadians produced, and continue to produce, a richly diverse body of literature. O'Hagan's novel "Tay John" stands as proof of this wonderful richness. Set in late 19th and early 20th century Canada, "Tay John" tells the story of an Indian messiah of enigmatic origins as he moves through the vastness of the Canadian West.

The novel breaks down into three parts: the first reads like an Indian story, outlining the birth and destiny of Tay John (an anglicized name taken from Tete Jaune, or Yellow Head, referring to Tay John's mane of yellow hair). In this section, O'Hagan explains that Tay John is the offspring of Red Rorty, a white trapper on a religious crusade, and Hanni, a Shuswap Indian he beds while living among the tribe. The result of this union is Kumkleseem (Tay John), a yellow haired youth destined to become a leader who will lead the Shuswaps to a promised land of great plenty.

O'Hagan makes a jarring transformation with the second and third sections of the book, bringing in narrator Jack Denham, a wanderer who tells any one who listens about this strange character named Tay John. Denham relates a tale about watching Tay John fight a grizzly bear, about a card game gone horribly wrong, a couple trekking into the mountains of the West with Tay John as guide, and a story about a developer building a resort along the expanding railway system. Tay John is the central character in all of these anecdotes even though he has little dialogue in any of them. That is the beauty of this book: O'Hagan lets events speak for themselves through action.

This minimalist approach fits in with the landscape of the novel. The author introduces the reader to the rugged terrains of Western Canada, where mountains, rivers, and wide spaces serve not just as background but also as characters in the sweep of the story. Against this awesome backdrop move the human characters, living out their lives in the shadow of mother earth. O'Hagan makes you feel the smallness of humanity by elevating every mundane action into an act of overwhelming importance. This makes the story severely realistic, as people living in a land where humans are scare would tend to treat interactions with others as larger than life events.

The afterword by Michael Onjaatje is of great assistance in understanding O'Hagan's book. Onjaatje explains that "Tay John" was one of the first examples of mythic realism in Canadian literature. The story, explains Onjaatje, shows how a myth of an Indian messiah is made into a legend in the real world. Looking at the book with a view of Canadian history, I did not notice the myth/legend aspects as much as I noticed the parade of archetypal figures through the Canadian West: first the Indians, then some white travelers, then the railroad and a developer. You can trace the history of Western Canada just by reading this book.

Ultimately, words fail to describe this deeply philosophical piece of literature. The only way to fathom the beauty and majesty of this book is to sit down and read it. Regrettably, Howard O'Hagan only wrote two other books and an autobiography before his death. After reading "Tay John," it is obvious that he had the talent to do more work. This is one of those books that will stay with you long after you read it. Hopefully, it will receive more attention in the future.