Ethel Wilson - Life

Life

Ethel Wilson was born on January 20, 1888, with only her parents, Robert and Lila Bryant, to welcome her into the world. The Bryants were Methodist missionaries, and were living in Port Elizabeth, South Africa at the time. Lila was unwell at the time of childbirth, and her health continued to deteriorate. She became pregnant again nine months after the birth of Ethel, but this time could not survive the ordeal. She died on July 28, 1889, after giving birth to a baby boy. Ethel's little brother, Robert Norman, died ten days later, and both he and his mother were buried in Port Elizabeth's Russell Road Cemetery. In July 1890, Robert Bryant decided it was best to bring his daughter Ethel to England, and there they stayed until he died of pneumonia on June 19, 1897, at the age of 40. Ethel Bryant was nine at the time.

After the death of her father, Ethel was passed around from relative to relative until she eventually went to live with her maternal grandmother, Annie Malkin, in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. Ethel remained in Vancouver until 1902, when she returned to England at the age of 14 in order to attend Trinity Hall School in Lancashire. She received her teacher's certificate in 1907, and returned to Vancouver to teach in elementary schools, until she married Wallace Wilson in 1921 and began publishing short stories and family reminiscences. It is unclear when exactly she wrote her first novel, "The Innocent Traveller"; however, it was published in 1949. Her second novel, Hetty Dorval, was published in 1947, and followed this with Swamp Angel in 1954. She wrote her final book, Mrs. Golightly and Other Stories in 1961.

Dr. Wallace Wilson died in 1966, after which Ethel Wilson suffered a stroke and no longer wrote. She died on December 22, 1980. The Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize, British Columbia's top fiction award, was created in 1985, commemorating Wilson's achievements.

Read more about this topic:  Ethel Wilson

Famous quotes containing the word life:

    The animal is one with its life activity. It does not distinguish the activity from itself. It is its activity. But man makes his life activity itself an object of his will and consciousness. He has a conscious life activity. It is not a determination with which he is completely identified.
    Karl Marx (1818–1883)

    A moment that gave not only itself, but
    Also the means of keeping it, of not turning to dust
    Or gestures somewhere up ahead
    But of becoming complicated like the torrent
    In new dark passages, tears and laughter which
    Are a sign of life, of distant life in this case.
    John Ashbery (b. 1927)

    We have long forgotten the ritual by which the house of our life was erected. But when it is under assault and enemy bombs are already taking their toll, what enervated, perverse antiquities do they not lay bare in the foundations.
    Walter Benjamin (1892–1940)