These days, when party banter turns to the subject of Canadian fiction two matters are raised more often than any others: Have you read "Fugitive Pieces yet?'' and, Could you believe that Philip Marchand thing in "Saturday Night?'' For those who like their culture laced with a little dirt, the latter question is of far greater interest. What's all the fuss about? In short, Marchand's essay is a sweeping dismissal of virtually every author belonging to the first tier of CanLit. ... But what's far more important than the substance of Marchand's particular remarks is the fact that he went to the trouble of making them in the first place. As a gesture of shit-disturbing spilled ink, as an invitation for discussion about our critical culture, it is to be admired.'