Steven Temple (1947 to 2023)
Last week, my step-father passed away. He was seventy-six years old. He had been in my life since I was an adolescent. He left us mere days after his final birthday. It’s rather strange to realize that I am now the exact age he was when he came into my life.
Steven Temple was a titan in his field of antiquarian books. His second floor shop on Queen Street (just west of Spadina) was one of the first and last of its kind in Toronto. That shop—up a set of narrow, creaky wooden steps—holds a special place in my heart. Huge spans of books towering well over my head, the rattle of the Queen streetcar coming in through the front bay window, the little sign pinned to the door frame with its NO symbol stamped over a photo or Rudyard Kipling and a caption that stated “THANK YOU FOR NOT KIPLING!” (an insider joke I still don’t get)—these define my earliest memories of him.
I’ve always known that he was esteemed in his profession, but I never really knew him as The Steven Temple. He was my grumpy and harshly opinionated father figure—always supportive, always present, fully there to see that I had stable ground from which to grow and the confidence to seek out a niche for myself in the world.
In the early years, there were rough edges that needed to be ground down. As a teenager—and well into my twenties—I wasted a lot of time trying to impress him. Oh, waste isn’t truly the right word for it. The desire to have your parents be proud of you is pretty standard stuff, but it took me a long time to realize my specific fixation was slightly misguided.
I did a lot of theatre in my youth, even ventured into short films. He would attend all of my creative efforts—and helped finance many of them! His reactions to the work often disappointed me though. He was known to lecture at great length about why a piece of media was mediocre and that’s really not what young, ambitious artistic types want to hear.
Steven was, above all else, unrelentingly honest. He wouldn’t blow smoke up anyone’s ass no matter how much he loved them. And I know he loved me; his attention proved that more than declarations ever could. As I’ve advanced into middle-age, not only did he soften somewhat, but I gained the wisdom to appreciate his honesty and steadfast integrity.
Last summer, after reading a review I had written for a Shaw Festival play we’d seen together, he sent me an email to inform me of a typo he had spotted. I’m not sure I can convey how deeply touched I was by this small, deceptively trivial gesture. Steven never wasted his time on bullshit; a misspelled word in a middling piece of writing wouldn’t have concerned him. For him to mention a typo made it clear to me that he felt the work as a whole was good. In his efficient, professorial way, he was telling me that it—and I—were worth the effort.
Looking back, he was always telling me that, it just took me a long time to properly recognize his respect and devotion. Several decades were spent wanting to wow him in some extravagant way yet ultimately taking for granted his commitment to engaging with me as authentically as possible.
He was a rock in my world. I loved him very much and will miss him greatly.
The above photo of him is my favourite. To me, it’s absolutely iconic—a dignified, somewhat guarded man surrounded by the books that were his life. He was not an easy man to get know. If you were lucky enough to be a part of his private life, to see beyond the gruff exterior—well, he was awe-inspiring. Dedicated, diligent, adventurous and compassionate—he was an ideal portrait of authenticity I couldn’t possibly emulate, but will forever cherish.
His obituary in The Toronto Star
My “Celebration of Life” Reflection
Delivered May 6, 2024
at Sellers & Newel Second-Hand Books
We’re gathered here in celebration. I have no intention of killing that vibe, but I am compelled to acknowledge the loss. There is a quote that has always resonated with me, one that captures this particular feeling. It’s from Richard Adams’ allegorical novel Watership Down. For those who aren’t familiar, it follows a group of rabbits in search of a new home after humanity—and tyrannical rabbit factions—pose a threat to their warren. Their mythology posits a deity who gave them large ears and feet so that they can anticipate and run from the many dangers of the world. In this story, running is life. They refer to their many ancestors as “The Thousand.” When one of their number is lost, those present gather and together they recite this perfect declaration: “My heart has joined The Thousand, for my friend stopped running today.”
With that out of my system, let’s move on to celebrating the gift we share, that each of us, in our own way, had Steven in our lives. Many of you had the opportunity to know him as The Steven Temple, a titan in his field. Bear with me while I indulge in some snapshots of the Steven of my experience. And I need an emblem. Not many years after Steven came into my life, I was searching for a birthday card for him. I happened upon one with an image that perfectly captured an impression Steven—first thing in the morning, before coffee. He kept this card all these years, though it didn’t quite survive the great sorting that occurs at times like this. I found the image online though. And so, as a theatre-boy at heart, I would like to complete the mise en scène with this:
I’m sure we all can recognize here some aspect of the man we knew. He feels very… represented.
I get to poke a little fun now. He certainly was not shy about doing so. Whenever my mother would tell tales of me as a child, Steven, who wasn’t there for those haphazard, formative years, would often cap these nostalgic anecdotes with “Awwww, Wittle Dugi.” I wonder if he wished he had been there to experience those earliest episodes first hand. Something he said to me on his last birthday—when I remarked that I am now the exact age he was when he came into our lives—was that he had joined our family quite late in life, that navigating fatherhood was tricky with me, even more so than my brother Sandor (who was still a child) because I was “already my own man.”
I was somewhat taken aback. It’s strange: imagining your adolescent self regarded by such a grounded and accomplished man as a having identifiable personhood.
He wasn’t there for the adventures of “Wittle Dugi,” but he did see me grow to middle-age. And he wouldn’t hesitate to remind me how much closer to the end I was getting, year after year—how my hair was both receding and greying, I was getting fatter. These are not, on their surface, flattering observations. Some might even call them rude. It was a ritual though. These incantations were an acknowledgement of life’s journey, in the same direction for all of us, and that he was seeing me.
I have to confess, for many years, I wasn’t seeing him clearly enough. It’s not uncommon to take your parents for granted. My teenage years were spent trying to sort myself out, indulging in the many magical possibilities of me, myself and I. Well into my twenties—I was always hoping to impress him, though what exactly I was expecting that to look like is hard to grasp. He would attend all of my creative efforts—and helped finance many of them! His reactions to the work often disappointed me though. And not just my own efforts, he could lecture at great length about why something you made or admired was mediocre and that can be mortifying.
As I matured, my stiffening backbone and his own continued adaptation, I began to recognize his relentless honesty as beneficial. He wouldn’t blow smoke up anyone’s ass no matter how much he loved them. And I know he loved me; his attention proved that more than declarations ever could.
Last summer, after reading a review I had written for a Shaw Festival play we’d seen together, he sent me an email to inform me of a typo he had spotted. I’m not sure I can convey how deeply touched I was by this simple gesture. Steven never wasted his time on bullshit; a misspelled word in a middling piece of writing wouldn’t have concerned him. For him to mention a typo made it clear to me that he felt the work as a whole was good. In his efficient, professorial way, he was telling me that it—and I—were worth the effort.
Looking back, he was always telling me that, it just took me a long time to properly recognize his authenticity, respect and devotion.
Speaking of the Shaw Festival. That summer, before diagnosis and the dark cloud, I spent two glorious weekends with Steven and my mother. The weather was great. We saw four plays and had some wonderful meals and lovely walks. It was almost as if the universe had anticipated the need and supplied some wonderful, recent memories.
And they join the ranks of many that I cherish.
The piles of stuff (mostly books), coated in cigarette ash—his personal bastion against a fraught world. His shop on Queen Street, up those narrow, creaky wooden steps—the rattle of the streetcar coming in through the front bay window, the little sign pinned to the door frame with its NO symbol stamped over a photo of Rudyard Kipling and a caption that stated “THANK YOU FOR NOT KIPLING!”
His delicious breakfasts, served up by his Greek, greasy-spoon alter-ego, Stavros. I remember his voice as he’d call up to a family scattered throughout the house: “Heathens!”
Highlighting these moments seems so arbitrary, inadequate, reinforcing the impossibility of doing him justice. It feels intangible and abstracted, like the notion of “Quality Time” we all strive toward with our loved ones. Reflecting upon my notes for this, I realized that I was at risk of talking as much about myself as Steven. But, y’know, that’s inevitable because he is very much a part of me. I can’t remove him.
Our sensibilities were miles apart. While this caused me frustration in youth, formed rough edges that would have to be ground down over time, I now embrace what I think of as my “Steven filter.” As I go through life, his voice is embedded in my mind, and interrogates my perception—of books, of movies, of plays of people. I don’t always—in fact, rarely—agree with him. But he’s there.
An intelligent, loyal, compassionate and playful man; he always strived to do the right thing, as he saw it, even if the process was arduous, unpopular and painful—for himself and others. This often put him at odds with people. He cared, in a deep and sincere way that didn’t often look or sound pretty. His steadfast integrity was awe-inspiring and remains a touchstone for me.