Tag Archives: violence

Barracuda (2013) – Christos TSIOLKAS

Very few sports novels are actually about sport, and Barracuda is no exception. Recent discourse in Australian literary circles has focussed on how to better promote the excellent work done by female writers in this country. Barracuda is a slap in the face to this trend—more than any novel I have read recently, this is a novel that interrogates what it means to be a man. How do you go from being a man in your prime, a man perfectly sculpted to take part in the ultimate masculine challenge to man reviled for the very things that make you who you are?

All of this is embodied in Daniel Kelly. Danny is the misfit at his private school—placed there on a sport scholarship, he is hated by his teammates because he is better than then, even though he is poorer, and much less white. But while he is being bullied mercilessly in the classroom, he is becoming a force to be reckoned with in the pool. He is the Barracuda, mercilessly beating everyone that gets in his way. The disconnect between his in-pool and out-of-pool selves is unsurprising, but the vast distance between the two is.

Out of the pool, Danny’s weakness is his crippling self-doubt. and I cannot help but wonder how many other athletes suffer a similar affliction. Danny’s self-worth is so intrinsically tied to how he performs in the pool, he quite literally cannot imagine a life in which he cannot compete with the world’s best. There would be nothing else for him. To see a man try and claw his way back to having any kind of functional self-respect is a fascinating journey, and one Tsiolkas treats with deftness and dignity.

There are, of course, no excuses for what Danny does to his friend (think Nick D’Arcy on a bad night). At that point, he embodies everything that is wrong with Australian sports culture, particularly in respect to way we build up young men (I use that word deliberately) to succeed. And so, in parallel with this story of the Fall is a story of redemption, of a broken man attempting to find himself. The internal has become external as Danny becomes a drifter, floating through the world, trying desperately to find a role for himself in a world that has no time or space for losers.

I always image people who came to Christos Tsiolkas’ work via The Slap get something of a shock when they decide to dip into his earlier work. Loaded, The Jesus Man and Dead Europe are glorious novels, unlike anything else in the Australian canon, but they are intense, in-your-face works that force the reader to re-evaluate a great many of their opinions about contemporary Australia. The big question I wanted answered when I opened Barracuda was this: which way would Tsiolkas go this time? Would he continue the careful examination he began in The Slap of contemporary Australia, or would he return to his wilder youth?

I can’t help but feel that Barracuda is Tsiolkas defanged. There is no question that he is an excellent examiner of the contemporary Australian psyche—indeed, I can think of no other. But Barracuda is another step towards the mainstream. The scenes designed to shock are no longer shocking (particularly the sex scenes, which seem crowbarred in just for shock value), the barbs aimed at upper-middle-class white Australians seem to be just a little bit less sharp.

Barracuda is not Christos Tsiolkas’ best novel. But even when he’s having an off day, he forces us to think. How do we deal with the internal pressures we place on ourselves to satisfy the wants and demands of the many? I think Tsiolkas is ultimately hopeful in this respect: he sees paths of redemption for all of us who have done something terrible, for those of us who struggle to find our place in society.

Oh, and that last chapter? Perfection.

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Elect Mr Robinson for a Better World (1993) – Donald ANTRIM

It’s hard to know where to begin a review about a book like Elect Mr Robinson. We could talk about the scathing and biting social satirical tone of the whole work, lending it a kind of Desperate Housewives-on-steroids feeling. We could talk about the bizarre extended hallucinations of the main character, in which he is a buffalo living underwater with his fish wife. We could even talk about the shocking ending, which places Elect Mr Robinson firmly in the Easton Ellis school of late 80s/early 90s American violence literature.

I suppose we should start, though, at the beginning. From the very first page, there is a sense of unease as one plunges into the Donald Antrim’s world. Having killed off the previous mayor (the body now resides in his freezer, dismembered), Mr Pete Robinson has eyes on the job for himself. He thinks he, a third-grade teacher recently unemployed, is most suitable, despite his unusual obsession for medieval torture techniques, a hobby that manifests itself in his basement collection of dioramas. In an attempt to win favour with his neighbours, he decides to set up a home school

Clearly Pete is an unreliable narrator. His tone is strangely formal and polite, leaving the reader somewhat distanced from the action he describes. This also had the effect of sucking any irony out of situations, leaving us to deal with this bizarre parallel world as though it were straight. This is extremely discomforting, because so many of the little things are recognisable, even twenty years after publication. People are still worried about their neighbours, going out of their way to build elaborate fences and hedges to keep the bad people out. The extension Antrim builds—that people would build landmine-filled backyards, and booby-trapped moats—seems weirdly logical.

As a result, there are some hilariously memorable scenes. At one stage, Pete’s wife is seeing a therapist that encourages her to find her inner animal spirit. With no trace of irony, she announces that she is a coelacanth, a species of prehistoric fish. No one else in the room blinks. I mean, it’s completely ridiculous, but in this bizarrely twisted world of suburbia, the quest for some kind of spirituality in an otherwise barren landscape means that everyone is deadly serious about enlightenment.

And then there’s the ending. I can’t talk about it here—to spoil it would be to deny you a great pleasure as a reader. A quick glance on some other online reviews suggests that it has polarised readers: people love it or hate it, and their entire reading of the novel is coloured by their reaction. All I will say is that I love it. It is hugely jarring, and completely unexpected, but somehow acts as synecdoche for what Atrim is trying to show us as a whole: the dangers of taking things too far.

Most satirists tend to take one part of our world and mock it mercilessly. They shift the balance of one facet of our society just enough for us to examine it more closely. Antrim shifts everything. In doing so, he packs layer upon layer into a novel of less than 200 pages, forcing the reader to examine what it means to live in contemporary America. And though his contemporary is our history, it rings no less true today.

 

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The Blind Man’s Garden (2013) – Nadeem ASLAM

My pick for last year’s Man Asian Literary Prize, Uzma Aslam Khan’s Thinner Than Skin, was a beautiful evocation of a less-than-well-travelled part of the world—the dangerous mountains on the borders of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Reading that opened my eyes to a part of the world about which I know nothing. I was excited, then, to see that Nadeen Aslam’s The Blind Man’s Garden was set in the same place.

In the wake of terrorist attacks in New York in 2001, two Pakistani brothers walk across the border into Afghanistan. They are not there to take up arms, but to help the wounded civilians caught up in the American invasion.

It tries to reach similar heights to one ones Khan’s achieves, but never manages to provide the reader with an emotional centre into which we can fully immerse ourselves. The story itself should be touching—it is the story of mistaken identity in a world torn apart by sectarian violence, where protestations of innocence fall on deaf ears. It is not limited to American misunderstanding of who is a terrorist and who isn’t—the Taliban are on the warpath, and anyone considered to be an American sympathiser is not safe.

Ostensibly the biggest problem with the novel is the way in which it is structured. In the first section, we are introduced to a family—the father, Rohan, whose wife’s death has forced him to question his beliefs in God; his biological son, and his adopted son. After the attack on New York on 9 September 2001, the two brothers decide to go to Afghanistan to help the sick and the injured.

So we spend almost a quarter of the book getting to know these two characters, only for at least one of them to be torn away from us. Why should we, as readers, continue to invest our emotion and thoughts into a novel that is willing to kill off a character it has set up as a protagonist so early?

The rest of the novel deals with the repercussions of this death. This, in itself, is not a bad choice, but I am yet to understand why Aslam waited this long to get to the heart of the narrative. Many of the reactions to his death are touching, and recounted deftly by Aslam, whose control of the English language is exquisite.

Most of my problems with the novel could easily be solved in one of two ways. The first is to simply eliminate the first section, and let the reader deal only with the fallout of an undeserved death on a grieving family. The other option is simply to rearrange the chapters slightly so Jeo’s story is told in flashback, slowly allowing us to understand who he was to those who remain.

Form and function are always bound tightly. The function of Aslam’s novel is to highlight to us the grey nature of right and wrong in a world where violence begets violence. It’s an admirable theme, and one that we would all do well to consider more often, particularly in the case of religious extremism. But his choice of form lets him down, and the meat of the novel doesn’t start until well after it should have. It is this that remains the fatal flaw for The Blind Man’s Garden.

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The Mussel Feast (1990) – Birgit VANDERBEKE

I’ve taken the plunge this year and bough a subscription to Peirene Press‘ Turning Points series of contemporary European novellas. The blurb on the back of The Mussel Feast tells us that this is a “modern German classic,” one that has been taught in German schools for the last twenty years. With this in mind, one has to wonder why it has taken this long to get translated into English, and why it has fallen on a small boutique publisher to do so.

A family sits down to a normal family dinner, but there is someone missing. The father has not yet returned from work, which is strange, because he is always on time. As the evening grows long, and as signs of the father’s arrival become fainter and fainter, the daughter tells us about the world that this family inhabit. A world where nothing is quite what it seems, and where, just underneath the surface, something terrible is brewing.

There’s a lot to be said for the short novel. It can give the author a chance to explore more deeply a concept or scene that might otherwise simply have been part of a larger canvas in an epic novel. Vanderbeke clearly realises this, and uses The Mussel Feast to closely and forensically examine the life of one family. Though the entire book is set over no more than a few hours, by the end, a detailed portrait of a four-person family has emerged. And it is not a family that I have any desire to get to know any better, though, as a testament to Vanderbeke’s skill as a writer, there is nothing else that needs to be known. Everything you could want is contained somewhere in these 105 pages.

The titular mussels are a symbol of the marriage central to the novel. There’s no greater symbol of familial love and piety than the evening meal, where all members of the family sit down together as a unit and discuss their day. This night’s meal is a mussel stew, the dish that has come to symbolise the relationship between husband and wife. Though she may not like it much, they ate it early in their relationship, and it has become something they return to again and again.

What makes this night different is the fact that the father doesn’t turn up. Which, in many ways, makes the feast even more unbearable. He is always on time, always ready for the evening meal—and so when he doesn’t arrive right on schedule, in many ways, the tension becomes even more pronounced. What will he be like when he finally does turn up? What has caused his delay? No doubt, any change in the schedule will upset him.

The key to unlocking the novel is contained in the phrase I used earlier: “though she may not like it”. Slowly but surely, like an orange being unpeeled, the narrator drops hints about past family dinners, and past family events. As she does it, though, there’s a strange sense of unease about the whole thing, as though there is something that’s not quite right with the whole thing. And then the penny drops. This isn’t a story about a family dinner where the father doesn’t turn up—it’s a story about a drunk and angry father. And once that clicks in your mind, the whole thing takes on a rather uncomfortable sense of claustrophobia.

Though he never appears on the page, it’s easy to imagine a man like the father of the family. I suspect there’s some cultural context I’m missing here (my knowledge of late-1980s Germany Is pretty limited), but it’s easy to gloss over—this is not a unique phenomenon. The father is so caught up in having this perfect middle-class family, he is blind to the fact that he is the one that is preventing this from happening. Embarrassed by his own relatively poor upbringing, he is a part of the aspiring middle-class that tries to erase its own history with conspicuous consumption—he mocks his wife for being cheap and stingy, though by any stretch of the imagination, her frugality is simply a smart way to save a few marks here and there. It’s not just her taste in clothes he despises—the furniture in the house must be well-designed and expensive, just to prove to anyone who might visit that, yes, this family has money it can afford to spend on things like nice furniture.

Of course, once you realise that this man is not very nice, the question of physical violence crosses your mind. For a man this crazy and controlling, resorting to physical violence to ensure his photo-perfect family remains intact doesn’t seem that far-fetched. And, inevitably—depressingly—your thoughts turn out to be correct. Several incidents are mentioned, though never expanded on, but it’s the fleeting, lingering images that take a hold of your imagination, rendering further detail superfluous.

The narrator never names the characters, adding to the sense of beige that seems to permeate the novel. The language is simple without being simplistic, and in many ways, is almost stream of conscious: the paragraphs are pages and pages long, and we slip between past and present with great ease. This all adds to the stuffy, claustrophobic atmosphere that Vanderbeke draws so well.

They say good things come in small packages. If this is the standard of all Peirene books, I look forward to the other 2013 offerings. The Mussel Feast is a glorious book. Everything I could possibly want in a novel is somewhere in here: the language is taut, the symbolism is heavy, and there is nothing superfluous. It may have taken twenty years, but English-speaking readers can finally read a classic novel that lives up to its label.

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Gold Rush (1998) – YŪ Miri

I’ve read some of Yū’s work before, though mostly in Japanese, and mostly skimming through it for thesis preparation. So it was nice to find a whole novel in the library translated into English so I didn’t have to think about it. Yū is a third-generation zainichi Korean writer (click the link for an explanation), though most of her work doesn’t really deal with race or ethnicity in any meaningful way. What she does seem more concerned with, though, is gender roles in contemporary Japan, and the ways in which men and women react to one another.

Kazuki is heir to Vegas, a huge chain of pachinko parlours. His father, Hidetomo Yuminaga, runs the company like a mad-man, but dotes on his middle-son, who is the only child capable of taking over the family business. His eldest son is mentally disabled, and his youngest is a girl. But this free reign has meant Kazuki has lost sight of what it means to be normal – for him, rape, drugs, and violent outbursts are the norm. One day, though, he does something so outrageous in his quest to take his father’s job, nothing will ever be the same again.

I want to start this review by briefly mentioning how I read this novel. I know I just said that Yū is not interested in race in her work, but it’s hard to avoid when you have a Korean name written in Korean characters plastered on your books in an otherwise Japan-friendly Japanese bookstore. Everyone who reads Yū in Japan knows she is ethnically Korean. And I came into the novel with that baggage: I know that, on average, Koreans in Japan are poorer, face more discrimination, are more likely to join gangs, more likely to run pachinko parlours etc. So while it is never explicitly stated (except for one passage where someone refers to Kazuki’s father as Chang Yong-chang – a Korean name if ever I’ve seen one), I think we’re all supposed to understand this to be a Korean family. Just something for those not as invested in Japanese cultural history as I am to think about.

I’m not sure I’ve ever read any other novel that explicitly described an under-age gang rape scene less than twenty pages in. And that’s really the base-line for the sex and violence in this novel. If you are faint-hearted, this is not for you. Fortunately, it almost never seems gratuitous, which is good, because I’ve seen Yū compared to Bret Easton Ellis, whose work I have always found to be gratuitously pushing boundaries of good taste. Yū manages to give us a protagonist who watches his friends gang rape a girl, who sells drugs to his friends, who kills his own father, who beats a dog to death with a golf club, and yet still comes off as almost sympathetic. Almost.

His most redeeming feature is the love and care he shows towards his older brother, Koki, who suffers from Williams Syndrome, which for the purposes of this novel comes across as something on the Autism spectrum. Like all 14 year old boys, Kazuki wants to be treated like an adult, and he thinks that acting like one will get him some respect, Unfortunately, the only real role model he has – his father – is less than ideal. This is the angle Yū pushes as an explanation for Kazuki’s abhorrent behaviour, though it takes her almost the entire novel to really make it explicit, leaving me at least to assume that, for most of the novel, Kazuki is actually just a dick.

All of this takes place against a backdrop of poverty and dirtiness that anyone who’s spent more than five minutes outside the tourist traps of Tokyo will instantly recognise. There’s a delightfully seedy history of gambling, prostitution and other well-regarded under-world activities in Japan’s big (and small) cities, and Kogane-chō is one of the best. It’s perhaps an ironic background, considering just much money the Yuminaga family have, but perhaps that’s the irony here – the rich are getting richer by screwing those addicted to the, quite frankly, ridiculous past-time that is pachinko.

I’ve spent some talking about poverty and money in this novel, and while it certainly is important, gender plays at least as important a role here, too.

Most of the female characters are secondary, and (if I remember correctly) all but one are either violently and horribly abused sexually and physically. It’s not a pretty picture, and I suppose that’s the point – Miho, the younger sister, seems to be a prostitute at the tender age of 15; Sugimoto, the second-in-command at Vegas, is having a violent affair with Kazuki’s father; Mai, Kazuki’s mistress, ends up sleeping with Kazuki, even though he’s only 14, and doesn’t seem happy about it. There’s a lot of stuff here about the role women play in Japanese (zainichi?) society, and it’s clear they are nothing but second-class citizens. From the simple fact that Miho, the daughter of the family, cannot take over the business simply because of her sex, to the treatment of almost every other character as a sex toy, it’s hard not to be confronted and angered by the way in which women are treated. It’s more that misogynistic, and to be fair to mainstream Japanese (and zainichi) society, probably a little exaggerated, but if that’s what it takes, maybe that’s the path Yū has to take.

Kazuki’s mother is the one redeeming feature in this onslaught of unpleasantness. She is everything Hidetomo is not – calm, reserved, and most importantly, relentlessly anti-materialistic. She abandoned her family long ago, realising that the lifestyle she was being forced to live was not doing anything for her mental and spiritual well-being. She provides hope, hope that there is a way out of this cycle of violence and madness. It is to her that Kazuki turns for advice and help in the final act, reaching out from the violent and money-hungry life he has known, in order to find some kind of salvation. She is the antithesis of everything to which Kazuki has previously aspired, and the fact that she (kind of) wins the battle for his soul at the end highlights what I can only assume is Yū’s message here.

Very briefly on the translation style: I don’t like macrons, particularly when they’re used in the names of main characters – it looks funny on the page. But other than that, Stephen Snyder, who also translated The Housekeeper and the Professor, does a good job. (And, having finished the rest of the review, I’ve only just realised I’ve done the same bloody thing with Yū’s name. I’m sorry.)

It’s always seemed strange to me that we don’t apply age ratings to books like we do with films – both contain a wide range of themes and images that can be disturbing to people who might not be ready for them. Gold Rush should come with a warning. It contains intense scenes of rape, drug use and violence. But unlike so many other novels, they all serve a purpose. Yū paints a world where money has corrupted men (and I use that word intentionally here) to such an extent, they have forgotten what it means to be human. Disturbing, confronting, terrifying.

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The Casual Vacancy (2012) – JK ROWLING

There’s no question that The Casual Vacancy will be the most talked about book of 2012. JK Rowling’s first foray into writing for an adult audience, we’ve now known about the existence of this book for years. And the fact that almost no one was allowed to get their hands on a review copy, combined with an international embargo, meant that excitement and anticipation for it was whipped up into a form that caused several members of the public to swear at me when I refused to sell it to them before the embargo. So is it worth the wait?

When Barry Fairbrother, a likeable member of the local council, dies suddenly of a brain aneurysm, the small town of Pagford is thrown into turmoil. Without the seemingly irreplaceable Barry, the town begins to turn on itself, pitting resident against resident as an historically divisive issue rears its ugly head. As secrets come out and lives irrevocably changed in the superficially peaceful town, events are also forcing change in the neighbouring council estate housing. Nothing will ever be the same again.

A word of warning – if you don’t like books with unlikeable characters, this is not the novel for you. Just as Tsiolkas’ The Slap exaggerated unappealing characters to prove a point about contemporary Australian society, so too does Rowling populate Pagford with people I hope I never meet. Howard, the ostensible mayor of Pagford, treats his daughter-in-law like a piece of meat, despite having a wife watching him. Gavin, Barry’s best friend, has been stringing along a social worked from London who has moved to London with her sixteen-year-old daughter just to be closer to him. Krystal, the local wild girl, has a heroin addict for a mother and a violent temper that has resulted in several lost teeth at school.

I assume everyone who’s read the book has an opinion about who is the worst character in the novel, but there was no contest for me, and I will fight you all if you disagree. I’m not sure I can recall a time when I’ve felt more anger towards a fictional character than when I was reading any passage containing Simon Price, father to Andrew ‘Arf’ Price, ,husband to Ruth. This is a man who torments his youngest son Paul by constantly referring to him as ‘Pauline’; who calls his son a “fucking little shit” on too many occasions to count; who beats his entire family when it is discovered that their new computer is stolen. Paul is on the receiving end of these attacks so often, he develops nosebleeds on the way to school because he is so stressed.

It is unsurprising, then, that Andrew should be the one to initiate the Ghost_of_Barry_Fairbrother handle that begins to haunt the worryingly poorly secured website of the local council. So outraged that his father would consider standing for local government – and worried that his father’s crazy would become public knowledge – Andrew takes to hacking the website to anonymously vent his rage. Once this enters into the public consciousness, two other teenagers take up the technology with which they are frighteningly familiar, and do the same to their own parents. The trick gets a little old third time around, but the effects remain as devastating as the first time. In fact, the role of “cyberbullying” (a phrase I desperately hate) is examined quite closely here, perhaps highlighting the seemingly never-ending cycle of bullying humanity at which humanity seems so well-versed taking on a new and worrying form. One of the few people in the novel who seems designed to elicit sympathy is Sukhvinder, a young Sikh girl who is bullied mercilessly for her physical appearance, driving her to self-harm. Her mother and father seem blissfully unaware of this, worrying more about their older children getting into university. Her antagonising bully is Fats, the son of Colin Wall, the deputy headmaster, who was good friends with Barry. Fats, incidentally, was one of the many characters in the novel I was on the verge of liking, but then goes and ruins it all by being a complete and utter dick to Sukhvinder over Facebook, and indeed, in real life.

Like all good British novels, class is central to the way in which characters act and react to the events around them. We have to turn to the daughter of a heroin addict for any glimmer of hope in this quagmire of petty and parochial infighting that seems to plague the middle- and upper-class residents of the town. In an interview with Jennifer Byrne last week, Rowling mentioned that a potential title for the novel had been What Do We Do About Krystal? And, of course, this is the moral quandary central to the novel: how do we, as middle- and upper-class people, deal with drug-addicts who have fallen into a hole of substandard living conditions and welfare dependency, particularly when they live next door to us? Most of the people in Rowling’s book simply want to brush the problem away – out of sight, out of mind. Rowling does not offer any concrete suggestions for improvement – and I don’t think anyone should expect an author to come up with a problem to a deeply intractable social issue – other than to ask us for more sympathy, more time to properly understand the underlying issues surrounding these people and their lifestyle.

The novel is not perfect. As with all books over about 300 pages, I think it drags a little, and could do with a little pruning. Having said that, the cast of characters is huge – almost too huge – so without cutting out some of the subplots, I’m not sure what she could do to resolve the problem. The pacing, too, seems a little off. Something like a hundred pages are dedicated to going through the town, examining the reactions of each and every member of the cast. And then the election itself turns out to not be the climax of the novel at all, coming before the third act even begins. Then there’s an exceptionally odd town council meeting which probably could have been the end, but isn’t – by a long shot. And then there’s the end, which actually is quite touching, though I should warn you, in no way optimistic.

It’s been hard to find a review of this novel that doesn’t mention Harry Potter. I’ve tried to redress this problem, but there are one or two points I want to make about it before I finish. Many reviewers seem shocked that Rowling has written a novel that isn’t anything at all like HarryThe Casual Vacancy has sex, a lot of swearing, and a whole load of drug taking. But all of this is superficial. Thematically, it seems like the logical next step for Rowling. Her primary concern in both works is mortality, and she has admitted as much in interviews. I don’t know why people are that surprised at The Casual Vacancy – there were hints of wider concerns about closed-mindedness and parochialism in Potter. All one has to do is read Chapter Two of Philosopher’s Stone to see the Dursley’s lock their nephew in a broom cupboard for fear of his ‘difference’ being discovered by their neighbours. I mean, that’s pretty heavy stuff, even for a kid’s book. No longer shackled by a huge child-oriented audience, it feels like Rowling is letting loose with ideas that have been bubbling below the surface for a long time.

The Casual Vacancy is a blistering and angry attack on the parochial and superficial mindset that seems to infect middle England. It is a confronting novel, and often makes for unpleasant reading. In many ways, though, this is the strength of the novel – slapping its readers in the face with social realism can only make us questions our own views, and start a wider conversation about the kind of society in which we want to live.

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The Mary Smokes Boys (2010) – Patrick HOLLAND

There’s something about Queensland. Thea Astley, Andrew McGahan, Matthew Condon – for a state widely regarded as a cultural backwater, it’s a surprisingly fertile breeding ground for talented writers. This is not being helped by the new Premier, but I digress. Maybe it’s the sense of isolation between those small Queensland towns. Maybe it’s the strange conservative nature of many Queenslanders. Who knows. Whatever it is, it’s intriguing.

In the tiny town of Mary Smokes, a group of young men steal horses to resell them. One of them is Grey North, a young man who’s mother died giving birth to his younger sister, who’s father is a good-for-nothing drunk. His younger sister, Irene, idolises him, following him everywhere he goes. As they grow up, their relationship takes on new and unusual facets not even they could have foreseen. This is a novel of small town Australia, of the people that inhabit them, and what happens at night.

Grey’s family is one tragedy after another. His mother died giving birth to his younger sister, his father is a drunk – and that’s it. It falls to a young Grey to look after his even younger sister, and as a result, he becomes overly protective of her, and she becomes deeply reliant on him. Grey will do anything to protect his little sister, while she will follow him around everywhere he goes, even if this means out into the bush. It will come, I suspect, as little surprise, that Grey’s own feelings towards his sister slowly become more and more confused as she matures and turns into a young woman. The slowly dawning realisation that he is no longer the only man in her life upsets Grey’s view of life, and he inevitably lashes out. Fortunately, he doesn’t do anything too ridiculous – though the sexual assault of your younger sister is nothing to forget. I suppose we can be thankful for small mercies that he realises what he is doing before it gets really bad.

I spoke a little while ago about the way in which Paul Carter detailed a way in which young Australian men grew up, and how the teenage years are so formative for a person’s future life. Holland is doing the same thing here, but I think perhaps to more effect. He races through the early years, and Grey’s falling in with the wrong crowd is clear and easy to understand. In contrast to Carter, though, Holland skips the whiny angsty teenage years, landing up firmly in the early twenties, Grey’s life already ruined. This allows him to examine and explore what life is like for a high school drop out with no ambition in a tiny town in rural Queensland. As tends to be the case, Grey and his friends resort to petty crime, making money from dead end jobs in highway petrol stations, and chasing the few girls left in town.

There’s a bit in Casino Royale when M turns to Bond and says that “arrogance and self-awareness seldom go hand in hand.” I’m about to make a really big leap here, but follow if you can. I don’t think Grey is arrogant in the traditional sense, but I do think he has spent a lot of his youth being blissfully unaware of the consequences of his life choices, whether that be stealing horses or whatever. In some ways, I suppose, that is the arrogance of youth. But in the final chapters, as he begins to, well, grow up, and become more aware of his surroundings and his own position within those surroundings, he also becomes aware of his own failings in looking after himself and looking after his younger sister.

Spoilers abound for anyone who hasn’t read this. The finale is gut-wrenchingly sad. In the truly classical sense, this is a tragedy. Just as Grey finds an out – the girl he’s been sleeping with has decided to move to Brisbane, and he’s happy to follow – Irene is killed. It’s a random, senseless act of violence, and despite the undercurrent of danger and despair running through the novel, this is the first time it spills over into Grey’s family. Holland leaves the consequences of this horrific act unsaid, but there are signs of depression in Grey’s reactions, and it does not feel like it is going to be the fairy tale ending Grey was hoping for.

I really enjoyed The Mary Smokes Boys. I know it’s unfair to compare this with Carter’s debut novel, but since I read them at the same time, and they share similar themes, it’s all connecting in my head. Holland paints a beautifully bleak portrait of two young people left with no parents, and how they learn to survive in a world with absolutely no hope at all. I look forward to other stories from Patrick Holland.

Oh, and Mary Smokes is a real place.

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The Roving Party (2011) – Rohan WILSON

When Rohan Wilson won the Australian/Vogel’s Literary Award last year for The Roving Party, it heralded a change in the way the award functioned. No longer would we have to wait months between announcement and publication – it was available to buy the very next day in all good bookstores. Of course, it has taken me more than a year to get around to reading it, but there you go. I’ve had other things to do.

John Batman has been charged with rounding up rebel tribes of Aboriginals in Van Diemen’s Land. Given a small band of convicts, along with two black trackers – and a man named Black Bill, an Aboriginal man born and raised as a white man. As they make their way around the small island, there is one man they all want to find – Manalargena, a powerful tribal leader who has a personal connection to Black Bill.

There is a deeply violent streak at the core of this novel. It is not far from the beginning that we are given a glimpse into the kind of people we are following – convicts desperate to do anything to escape their conditions have accepted a job for which they are deeply unsuitable. None of them seem to like each other, and this bubbles over when one young man makes the mistake of insulting the youngest member of the team – a teenage boy, barely able to shave. The boy responds by brutally beating him. When this doesn’t deter the man from further taunts, the boy attacks again. These two incidents give us an insight in to the kind of people tasked with tracking down and killing Aboriginal tribes – they are hardly pleasant.

At the same time, though, Wilson goes out of his way to highlight the stark beauty of the Tasmanian wilderness. We get gorgeous descriptions of the bush in all seasons – from the intense (well, for Tasmania) heat of summer, to the brutal cold of an unforgiving Tasmanian winter. It seems perhaps ironic to have this beautiful landscape as the backdrop for some heinous abuses of both morality and human rights, but it seems somehow grimly fitting. I like that characters refer to Indigenous Tasmanians as Vandemonians – it took me far too long to realise this was a corruption of Van Diemen’s Land. It’s a nice touch.

Wilson’s style is worth mentioning, too. Though I am far from expert in this field, there is an evocation of McCarthy in it – whether this is just because they seem to share an intense dislike of commas and quotation marks, or because of the similarly violent concerns, I’m not sure. I’m not alone in thinking this (don’t click on that link if you haven’t read the novel – there are giant spoilers), and it’s nice to see some stylistic experimentation in Australian fiction – there’s such rich opportunities in the Australian tradition for a kind of “Australian Gothic” in response to “Southern Gothic” I’m surprised it’s not taken up more often.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Black Bill is the most interesting. There is a long line of Aboriginal characters raised as white folk in Australian literature, and what is fascinating about Wilson’s character is his clear decision to reject his black identity. He does not struggle with who he is, he knows. For him, there is no question about his cultural identity – he is a white man, despite the colour of his skin. Of course, this causes a wide range of problems when he comes up against people who are less sure about him, whose world consists of good white people and bad black people. What I like even more is that we are never allowed in to his inner thoughts – Wilson denies us the opportunity to explore whether or not this surety is a façade, or whether he truly thinks everyone around him is an idiot for not playing along. This isn’t some take on the inscrutable Other, I should point out – many main characters are denied internal monologues.

I’m genuinely surprised The Roving Party didn’t make it to this year’s Miles Franklin longlist – I thought it was a shoe-in. It takes historical fiction in Australia – so often tired and worn out from overuse by mediocre authors – and gives it a swift kick up the arse. It is brutal, unforgiving and tiring, but it is an excellent novel. I’m excited to see where Rohan Wilson goes next.

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The Orchard Keeper (1965) – Cormac McCARTHY

Cormac Mc Carthy is an author that has interested me greatly for a long time now – I blame No Country For Old Men, which is an excellent film, and you should all see it if you haven’t already. Picador have also reissued his backlist into these gorgeous new covers, making them almost irresistible. I’m aware that The Road is probably, now, his most well-known novel, but I figured I’d start at the beginning, and slowly make my way through his stuff, working up to The Road. Of course, by the time I get there, he may have written another one…

In a small town in rural Tennessee, two men hurtle towards each other, neither aware of the relationship that already exists between them. Marion Sydler is a rum-runner, trading alcohol during a period of prohibition. John Wesley Rattner is a young teenager who unwittingly gets caught up in the rum-running business. Years ago, though, Sydler murdered Rattner’s father in an altercation, something neither man knows.

Hands down the best part of this novel is McCarthy’s grasp of the English language (though some digging around on the internet seems to indicate he is a direct successor to William Faulkner, who I have now added to my list.) I’m struggling to think of an author so in command of the language – his descriptions of both landscape and humanity are collections of words you’d never have thought could or should go together, and somehow, he just makes them work. The sense of place this allows is palpable – each and every scene is vivid in one’s mind, from the colour of the sunlight to the individual leaves on each of the trees. I had intended on highlighting this through a quote, but I couldn’t find just one example. It’s all great.

Characters, too, are given the McCarthy treatment. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, there is a dearth of female characters, but his men are strong, gruff and isolated. The plot thread dealing with the trade of alcohol highlights the tense relationship between these criminals and the police, and the isolation felt in the wide spaces McCarthy describes simply accentuates the sense of wilderness, of frontier living that these characters so clearly inhabit. The old man, who features heavily in the lives of the two main characters, is withered and tired – he moves slowly and carefully, though it is clear there is a spark of life lingering underneath this exterior. There is a particularly poignant scene near the end where he is forcibly removed from his dog, and his reaction is both hilarious and heartbreaking.

Sydler and Rattner remain closed off to the reader – there is never a hint of their own feelings about their actions. This makes Syddler in particular come of as a raving loony who cares not for anyone else, and since that’s all we have to go by, perhaps that is what we are invited to think. Perhaps he is a precursor to the insane man Javier Bardem plays in No Country for Old Men.

This sense of bleakness and violence – this Southern Gothic feeling for which McCarthy has become well-known – is perhaps no more evident in the murder around which the plot revolves. Sydler’s decision to kill Rattner’s father is the result of a fairly trivial car incident, but the violence and force with which he carries out the murder is so intense, so visceral, it’s hard not to feel that, perhaps, it was unwarranted. But on the road, where no one else can see you, and indeed, where no one else lives, there is no law, no rules governing the relationships between men. McCarthy’s suggestion that we would all revert so quickly to violence is terrifying.

Unfortunately, though, McCarthy’s greatest strength is also his greatest weakness. His over reliance on descriptors and sense of place means the plot itself does suffer. Fractured in the truest sense of the word, each chapter – indeed, almost each paragraph – is disconnected from the previous, and it is up to the reader to play catch up in trying to fill in the blanks. I had to turn back every now and then to try and work out if I’d missed something vitally important, but as it turns out, that’s simply the way of the book. One cannot help but wonder if a reread might be in order some time in the future to try and piece together exactly how everything joins together.

It’s hard for me to write a concrete, concise essay explaining how I felt about The Orchard Keeper. It is clear that McCarthy has a gift for manipulating the English language for his own purposes, as long as that purpose is describing landscapes. His inability to channel this into a more meaningful plot and set of characters is disappointing, though not enough to put me off eventually picking him up again.

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The Pillow Fight (1999) – Matthew CONDON

I read Matthew Condon’s A Night at the Pink Poodle some time ago now, and though having little to no memory of it, it clearly left a good enough impression for me to pick up The Pillow Fight when it came up on a sale table at work. I have been interested in the concept of this novel for a while, along with another novel, The Book of Revelation. They both deal with undermining traditional gender roles, and concern themselves with domestic violence and rape against men.

Luke and Charlotte have been married no more than six hours when an act of violence comes between them that is symptomatic of much larger problems in their relationship. It forces Luke to consider just what led to this chain of events, and indeed, how he came to be in an abusive relationship. As the past between Luke and Charlotte unfolds, we see a relationship between two people that should never have been placed in the same room together, let alone get married.

I’ve always been fascinated by the reversal of gender roles in popular culture. Try watching a sitcom on television, and imagine what the jokes would be like if each character’s sex was reversed. Would we still laugh at a nerdy girl unlucky in love? Would middle-aged men feel the same attachment to a male version of Sex and the City as so many middle-aged women have for the current edition? Would Spider-Man and Mary Jane’s relationship be different if she were the web-slinging superhero, and he were the damsel in distress? Would people demand a young, attractive male companion if we had a female Doctor?

I don’t do this to make some kind of point about gender roles as a whole, but it is an interesting exercise nonetheless. And I’m also not saying gender roles are inherently bad – just that we should be careful in our consideration of them, and think about them more critically. As such, a novel that deals with male domestic violence fascinates me, because I’m curious to see how a male author treats the problem.

In many ways, Condon is tricky in his treatment of the issue. So much of what Luke says and thinks is what we expect the stereotypical battered wife to say or think. He thinks everything will get better, as long as he remains patient and lets Charlotte blow off her anger, it will all get better. Of course, once he wakes up to the fact that this is not at all how the relationship is going to pan out, he doesn’t waste time in calling reinforcements. Their visit to a marriage counsellor is both awkward and a relief, because you’re sitting there thinking, well, of course no one’s going to believe Luke, he’s the man in the relationship. Had Condon wanted to ramp up the tension, or make his point more lucid, he could have pushed this angle. Mercifully, though, he puts Luke out of his misery, and Charlotte’s confrontation with the counsellor is terrifying.

Chapters alternate between present and past, and the flashbacks to the beginnings of Luke and Charlotte’s relationship attempt to provide some kind of reason as to why the two are even together in the first place. Most important in these flashes is Charlotte’s overwhelming personality. It is clear she is in charge here, and Luke is initially willing to go with the flow. The sex is good, Charlotte is hot – it seems like an adventure, particularly since his relationship with Charlotte is conducted behind the back of his long-term girlfriend. As time progresses, and when Luke finally breaks it off with his real girlfriend, it seems inevitable that Charlotte should propose. Glimmers of her temper are present, even in the early stages of the relationship, but it is not until the present chapters that we finally understand just how horrible she truly is.

Without delving too much into pop psychology, Condon does provide us with a possible explanation for Charlotte’s temper, her violent tendencies, and her all-round two-facedness. Though they only feature in a few scenes, Charlotte’s parents are vital – her mother, too, is derisive of her husband, and he has become a door-mat in his own house. While this is initially played for comic effect – think back to what I said earlier about sitcom tropes; the overbearing wife/long-suffering husband is on full display here – it rapidly becomes apparent that here, too, is probably another violent relationship behind closed doors.

Unrelated to the main plot, this is also a novel unashamedly of Sydney, which is a pleasant change. As a Sydney boy, I do occasionally feel like my city is shown up by Melbourne, or indeed, the outback, in Australian literature, so it’s nice to see something so fully immersed in the localities of Sydney. From the hotel in Circular Quay, to Luke’s home at The Entrance, to the North Shore background of Charlotte’s family, they’re all presented so carefully and perfectly, you can’t help but imagine exactly where the action is taking place. Sydney stereotypes, too, flow from this, and when we meet Charlotte’s friends from the North Shore, images of snooty North Shore private-school girls float into your head with ease. Similarly, Luke’s Central Coast background shines through, and his simplicity and ease of movement are so typical of people from The Entrance.

I’ll finish by returning to something I said at the beginning – this is a relationship between two people who should never have met. They are not good for each other in any way. While there may be some semblance of love buried deep within, just like Archie and Clarence in The Circuit, Luke and Charlotte feed into each other’s insecurities, and push each other’s buttons in a way that is not healthy. The spill into violence from an unexpected corner is handled deftly by Condon, who makes his point clear to us – domestic violence is never funny, even if a woman hits a man.

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