Category Archives: Page 77

Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home

Posted on 27 February 2025 | Leave a comment

Alison Bechdel, Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic (©2006, Vintage 2022)

A Lesbian friend of mine was surprised, even shocked, when I told her I hadn’t read Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home. I got the impression that she revised her opinion of my literacy on the spot.

Well, now I’ve read it and can hold my head high again.

Alison Bechdel is probably best known for the Bechdel test, which serves as a rough guide to a movie’s level of misogyny or otherwise: does it have more than one named female character? do they have a conversation about something other than a man? According to Wikipedia, Bechdel modestly attributes the invention of the test to a friend and ultimately to Virginia Woolf. But it still bears her name.

She is also celebrated as a creator of comics, in particular her long-running series Dykes to Watch Out for. The strip ran for 25 years, from 1983 to 2008, with a brief revival on Trump’s first election. Fun Home, published in 2006, brought her a wider readership. The book was a New York Times bestseller. It has been adapted into an audio-book and an award-winning stage musical, with a movie reportedly on the way. It has been included on college reading lists and Wikipedia currently lists eight attempts at having it banned in the USA. When I bought my copy the shop assistant enthused that she had studied it at university, but then read it again later for pleasure.

It’s a memoir. At first, it seems like a familiar tale of living with a tyrannical father who is emotionally distant and given to violent rages. But it develops into something much more complex and interesting. Towards the end of the first chapter, Alison and her brother are at Sunday Mass with their parents, and a caption reads: ‘He appeared to be an ideal husband and father.’ This is an ordinary observation about middle class families putting on a front for public display, but then there’s a second caption: ‘But would an ideal husband and father have sex with teenage boys?’ And that question hangs there unexplained for many pages, as the narrative takes us back to the family’s early life, the father’s part-time work as a mortician (which is where the book’s title comes from – it was the Bechdel children’s nickname for the undertaker’s business), and Alison’s own portrait of the artist as a young woman.

So the narrative moves back and forth, entwining the narrator’s own story as a nerdy young person with OCD who comes out as a Lesbian, with the unfolding story of her father’s sexuality, and the way it all plays out in the family. Key moments are hinted at, passed over as offstage events, and then revisited in detail much later, so that there’s a constant sense of something not yet revealed.

It’s a bookish family, and a bookish book, shot though with literary references. The story of Daedalus and Icarus forms a major thread, beginning with a father-and-daughter game of ‘airplane’ as seen on the cover – ‘In the circus acrobatics where one person lies on the floor balancing another are called ‘Icarian games’.– and leading in the final pages to a revisionist interpretation of the myth, applied to this story. Camus gets a look-in, and so do Proust, Oscar Wilde, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Wallace Stevens, J. D. Salinger, A Chorus Line, Henry James, Shakespeare of course, and more – none of them incidental to the plot.

Page 77* may give you an idea of the art and the narrative style. Alison is nineteen, at college, and has just realised she is a Lesbian. The realisation has come about ‘in a manner consistent with [her] bookish upbringing. A revelation not of the flesh, but of the mind.’ There are a couple of pages that could be used as a reading list for a young person making a similar realisation; she attends a meeting of a Gay Union ‘in petrified silence’, and in the resulting exhilaration decides to come out to her parents:

If you enlarge this image you see how beautifully words and images are integrated. The captions offer a commentary on the action: ‘We were that sort of family,’ ‘He seemed strangely pleased,’ ‘I was devastated’. The page is a good example of Bechdel’s skill with dialogue: the father’s words on the phone convey his awkwardness quite independently of the caption’s commentary. The images are more than illustration – the technical term for this kind of story telling is ‘sequential art’, a different beast from ‘illustrated story’. We see how 19-year-old Alison lives: her clothes, the music she listens to, that she has to go to a post office box to receive mail, that her coming-out letter is typed, and composed with the assistance of a thesaurus. As often in this book, the images themselves include text: not just the names of books and records, but a glimpse of the mother’s letter, implying a documentary dimension to the narrative.

On the next page, there’s a fine example of the way the story is given to us bit by bit, layer by layer. We see Alison’s diary entry about her mother’s letter, which quotes part of the letter we are not shown here, hinting at the revelations yet to come about the father’s sexuality.

Like Art Spigelman’s Maus, Joe Sacco’s Palestine or Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, this is a comic that people who don’t read comics would do well to spend a little time with. It might not make comic-readers out of them, but it may give them the same kind of pleasure as a good movie or novel.

I wrote this blog post on land of the Gadigal and Wangal clans of the Eora Nation, where a flock of corellas, which I think are visiting from inland country, have been making a lot of noise. I pay my respects to Elders past and present, and to any First Nations readers of this blog.

* My blogging practice is focus arbitrarily on the page of a book that coincides with my age, currently page 77.

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The Book Club, Alan Hollinghurst and Our Evenings

Posted on 23 February 2025 | 9 comments

Alan Hollinghurst, Our Evenings (Picador 2024)

Before the meeting: About five decades ago I had to write an Eng Lit essay on Gerard Manly Hopkins’s sonnet ‘Spelt from Sybil’s Leaves’. It’s a poem that cries out to be read aloud, and on a weekend away at a beach house with friends, I found an out-of-the-way spot where I could perform the poem over and over for my own ears. It turned out that my secluded corner was actually an amplifying booth, and my sonorous renditions were heard by everyone in the house. Someone finally came and pleaded with me to stop. Embarrassment aside, I still love the poem.

So I took it as a personal gift to me when the poem is being recited, unannounced and unexplained, at the start of Chapter 15 of Our Evenings:

‘Earnest,’ I said, ‘earthless … equal … attuneable …’ Stella peered at me, tongue on lip, daring me.
‘… vaulty …’ she said.
… vaulty, voluminous … stupendous Evening strains to be time’s vast –’ (now we chanted it together) ‘womb-of-all – home-of-all – hearse-of-all NIGHT!’
‘I bet you can’t go on.’

If I hadn’t been loving the book before then, I would have been hooked.

As it happens, I was enjoying the book. The hero-narrator David Win, son of an English mother and a Burmese father he has never known, was given a scholarship to attend a prestigious boarding school, and at the start of Chapter 15 he’s studying at Oxford. The novel traces his development into a successful actor, his crushes, affairs and finally marriage with men, and his arrival at a reasonably contented late middle age (as we in our late 70s refer to the 60s).

The phrase that gives the novel its title occurs when David is in his last year at the boarding school. He is taken under the wing of Mr Hudson, his English teacher. They listen to classical music together late in the evening. These quiet times have an intimate, erotic charge, but though other boys leap to crude conclusions, ‘nothing ever “happened”, as they say’. Among the pieces they listen to is the first movement of Janáček’s ‘On an Overgrown Path’, which has its own title, ‘Our Evenings’. (You can hear it played by Rudolf Firkusny in 1986 at this link.)

The piece seemed simple and songlike, but the modulations in it made you wonder, and an agitated figure broke in higher up and then, like the scratch on the record, disappeared and left you with the song in a further change of mood, which didn’t quite replace the first one but seemed to cast the shadow of experience over it – what, I couldn’t say, but I felt it. I had no idea what we were listening to or how long it was going on – there was a very quiet passage when the agitated figure came back, but subdued and dreamlike, a trance of sadness and beauty, and soon after that the piece ended without any fuss. I glanced at Mr Hudson, but he was staring at the fire too, and then he jumped up and said, ‘Shall we hear it again?’

Apart from being an instance of the way other works – plays, poems, pieces of music – move the narrative along, this passage is a nice example of the way David as narrator shows rather than tells. ‘I couldn’t say, but I felt it.’ He never says in so many words that he has a crush on Mr Hudson, or that he believes it to be reciprocated, but in little moments like this – in Mr Hudson jumping up and suggesting a replay – readers can draw their own conclusions.

The description of Janáček’s music could be applied to the novel itself: ‘subdued and dreamlike, a trance of sadness and beauty’ occasionally interrupted by an ‘agitated figure’. The prose is elegant and unruffled, and most of the terrible things that happen – AIDS, Brexit, Covid – are offstage. David as boy, adolescent and man is unfailingly polite and helpful – we are usually left to imagine what feelings he is covering up, even perhaps from himself. He regularly encounters ‘agitated figures’ in the form of racism, but mostly it’s of the raised eyebrow or muttered phrase, micro-aggressive variety. An African-heritage lover says, ‘You’re not even Black!’ Likewise the homophobia he encounters is subtle – when he comes out to his mother and her female friend, their response is more or less, ‘Well, that’s been obvious for a long time!’ Class plays a role –  David’s patrons, whom he loves to the end – are like Proust’s aristocrats in their unfailing graciousness and generosity, and the sense that nothing really touches them. The mystery of his father remains a mystery, though late in life he receives some vague information. As in real life, many mysteries remain mysterious.

I suppose sex itself might count as an ‘agitated figure’. There’s quite a lot of it but, though it’s not coy, very little is explicit. I remember only two moments when sexual body parts are named, one involving a kind rejection, the other the beginning of a solid relationship. Neither is the slightest bit prurient.

The last 10 pages depart from the mainly ‘subdued and dreamlike’ narrative in a way that came as a surprise to me, and casts a brilliant light back over the preceding pages.

After the meeting: At the Book Club, we usually have two books under discussion at each meeting. This time, there was just the one, but everyone had to report on the book they’d scored in our Kris Kringle at last meeting. So our discussion, which followed and preceded convivial conversation about other things, began with enticing rundowns of books by Bernhard Schlink, Jock Serong, Robbie Arnott and Niamh Mulvey, and an unenticing rundown of one other.

Of Our Evenings, we had a very interesting discussion. I probably liked the book most, but no one hated it. The only strong difference was about the last ten pages, which I felt gave shape and significance to the whole thing and most others experienced as a lame and unnecessary framing device. It would be too spoilerish to present the arguments here. I’ll just state the obvious: they’re entitled to their opinions, but they’re wrong.

One person had an interesting take on the title. It captured the way the book, for her, is like a series of conversations you might have in a quiet evening at home: meandering, pleasant, amiable recollections and reflections, without drama or much significance. (If that’s so, I hope I said at the time, there’s always an awareness of terrible things happening in the outside world, of which many of the tiny things that come up in those conversations are micro-effects.)

David Win as narrator and hero provoked interesting conversation, which I’ll try to summarise. He is an outsider because of racism, class and sexuality, not necessarily in that order. As an outsider, his main way of being in the world is to aim to fill other people’s expectations – to act out the scripts he is given. It’s not insignificant that he’s an actor. He rarely takes the initiative, and there’s a way he doesn’t seem to know who he is. Not just as narrator, but also as character, he doesn’t have access to his own inner life. The narrative restraint about sex, which is not so in Hollinghurst’s other books that people had read, may be part of this. I read out the only passage in the book that mentions hard-ons, and people laughed (but not at all derisively). It’s as if in this book explicit sex is a relief from always having to decode what is being communicated in tight-lipped upper-class British dialogue (see Mr Hudson’s ‘Shall we hear it again?’ above).

We discussed other characters that I didn’t mention in the first part of this blog, especially a Boris Johnsonesque blustering bully, .

Less centrally, some took an almost anthropological interest in the portrayal of Gay male relationships – and it’s true that Hollinghurst gives meticulous detail on how people make their desires known. One person felt that (minor spoiler alert) having the David’s mother become a Lesbian was just laying on the Gayness too thick. Another, on the contrary, was impressed and delighted by the nuanced portrayal of middle-class, middle-aged, post-heterosexual-marriage Lesbianism.

We didn’t discuss the Hopkins poem, the Janáček music, or the plays – notably by Racine and Ben Jonson – that turn up in the narration.

Mint-flavoured Turkish delight was on offer. Only two of us tried it. I was the only one to finish my piece. I don’t recommend it. I do recommend the book.

Our Book Club met on unceded land of the Gadigal and Wangal clans of the Eora Nation. I acknowledge the Elders past and present. I hope that our conversation was in some way in continuity with yarns that have been happening on this land for tens of thousands of years.

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Niall Williams’s Time of the Child and the book group

Posted on 19 February 2025 | 14 comments

Niall Williams, Time of the Child (Bloomsbury 2024)

Before the meeting: As I was reading the first couple of chapters of this book, I had ringing in my ears something that a Book Group member had said about a different book, perhaps one of Niall Williams’s earlier novels, A History of the Rain or This Is Happiness: ‘It’s a beautifully written Irish novel, but I’m not sure the world needs yet another beautifully written Irish novel.’

The first chapters, in fact almost the first half of the book, are brilliant descriptions of life in 1962 in the fictional West Ireland village of Faha, the village we know from those previous books. The rain is still incessant and the village still slowly sinking into the river. The heart broken in This Is Happiness is still broken. Life is still dominated by the Catholic Church. Gossip is still the lifeblood of the community. Most houses now have electricity.

The first chapter begins with a wonderful setpiece, a parish Mass where the beloved parish priest stalls mid-sermon in the first major sign of dementia. Things are seen from the point of view of Jack Troy, the village’s general practitioner whose face and manner give away nothing of his inner feelings as his role in the community means he must always be available, including to people who will never ask for a doctor’s attention on their own behalf. After Sunday Mass he is regularly approached by people who indicate with a nod and a wink that his services are needed at such and such a house.

The second chapter revolves around another magnificent setpiece: the Christmas fair in which farmers bring their cattle to town to sell, and hawkers and traders come from elsewhere. Here, twelve-year-old Jude Quinlan, son of a drunkard farmer, carries the narrative burden.

Through both of these chapters, we are teased by hints that something big is going to happen. It’s as if the narrator is saying to his readers, ‘Yes yes, I know you’re here for a story, but first let me tell you about the place it happened in and the people who live there.’ At the end of the second chapter, more than a third of the way into the narrative, there’s this:

But it was here, at the back wall of the church in the village of Faha, on the night of the Christmas Fair 1962, that Jude Quinlan found the child.

Ah! The titular child has arrived! Then the third chapter continues to tease us. It takes us back a couple of days in the life of Ronnie Troy, Jack’s long-suffering dutiful daughter. After 16 pages in which we come to know and (speaking at least for myself) love her, she responds to a late-night knock on the door and at last the story begins.

Given that it happens so late in the book, I’m reluctant to say much more about it, except that though my Group member may be right that the world doesn’t need another book like this, I certainly do. Maybe it’s because I spent my 1950s childhood as part of the Irish diaspora in north Queensland, and I respond with little gasps of recognition to little throwaway lines about the Sacred Heart, the ‘Hail Holy Queen’, the smiling pope, or to the way the priest says Mass with his back to the church while the congregation’s more or less devout members goes about their own business. That is to say, maybe there’s a hefty dose of nostalgia in my response to the book. But if so, that nostalgia serves a serious purpose.

This is a time and place when the Church dominated Irish society. It was the time of the Magdalen laundries, covered-up clerical sexual abuse of children, pitiless laws against abortion and condemnation of most forms of birth control. None of this is foregrounded in the book, but oppressive Church–State authority looms large, mostly unspoken, over the second half of the book. On the one hand, a handful of people sinking to their knees to say the Rosary can be an exhilarating manifestation of something fine beyond words (though Niall Williams finds the words); on the other a priest with a form letter mouths deadly phrases like ‘For his own good’ and ‘Preserving his dignity’.

Just as much as, say, Sebastian Barry’s Old God’s Time or Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These, this book is about decent humanity – individuals and communities – resisting the monolithic, repressive authority of Church and State. Like them, it revels in musical language. More than them it’s funny. I did cry, twice, but I laughed a lot.

Page 77* includes a micro example of the resistance. In the absence of a fairground, Faha’s monthly fair is a chaotic mess, and the church gates, ‘with their splayed look of welcome in the centre of the village’, are a main centre of trade. The curate, Father Coffey, representing the Church’s authority, asks the farmers not to stand their cattle there:

As it happened, the curate’s appeal fell on deaf ears, but he took some satisfaction when he was able to negotiate a treaty whereby Mick Lynch promised a rope corridor to let the daily Mass-goers through. As a goodwill gesture, Lynch said, the farmers would take their dung with them when they left, which Father Coffey reported back to the Canon, unaware it was a joke until the older priest put the hand across his laugh to stop his teeth flying.

With such jokes, in which the older priest colludes, the people of Faha keep the authority of the Church in its place.

Most of page 77 is taken up wth one of Niall Williams’s bravura character sketches:

Mick Lynch had the walk of a man who owned his own bull. Short and broad, he carried a blackthorn, wore a frieze coat and low hat with red feather in the band. That hat never came off his head outside of church. He wore it at the counter in Ryan’s, in the spartan confines of his iron bed, and when he went to wring the necks of geese. From victories in cards or trade, Lynch took a deal of pleasure. With a contrary nature, his cheeks were where the most of his hair grew, furred sideburns made key-shaped by the shaving of his chin which gave him a jailor’s look. Lynch had the reputation of being what Faha called a right cool man, a designation that pre-dated refrigeration, meant he could not be hurried or ruffled, and once, when asked by a dealer, ‘What are you looking for in a horse, boss?’ had delivered the incontestable answer, ‘Leg in each corner.’ He had not married. For women he hadn’t the handbook, he said, and children nothing but hosts to headlice and worms.

Remember, nothing has really happened in this book so far. That is, we’re a quarter of the way into it but we haven’t yet had what the movies call the inciting incident. But the narrator refuses to be hurried. There is too much to enjoy at any moment in the life of Faha, so though this is Mick Lynch’s only appearance, we’re going to take a moment, just for the fun of it, to savour him. I especially like that ‘outside of church’: whatever else he may be or do, it wouldn’t occur to Mick Lynch to defy the custom of men going bare-headed in church.

After the meeting: Unusually, this book was the subject of quite a lot of WhatsApp discussion before the meeting, mainly from people who couldn’t make it on the night. A number of us had wept, prompting one to ask whether we were ‘silly old men getting emotional about a baby and family relationships’. He who had made the remark about beautifully written Irish novels confounded my expectations by loving tis one, and wrote a thoughtful email on the theme of ‘the soul’. Another sounded a mildly dissenting note, having read only 80 percent and found it slow going; he reacted against the religion’s hold on people, and used the word ‘silly’ about a main character’s attempt to take charge of the situation (all of which are completely reasonable responses). Yet another quoted a number of favourite passages, and said he loved the way Catholicism co-existed with pishogues, which he noted was an excellent new word to him (as it is to me – definition at this link if you’re interested).

On the night there were just five of us. Among other things, we ate baked potatoes. Almost as soon as we arrived, those of us with Catholic backgrounds – a slim majority – were reminiscing about, of all things, our Confirmations. Not directly on topic, but certainly book-adjacent. We had an animated discussion. More than one said that the book took its own sweet time to get to the point – one said he almost stopped reading, but others (me included) thought it was a feature rather than a bug. Someone quoted a passage to the effect that Irish story-telling never goes in a straight line.

Someone said, on WhatsApp and then again on the night, that the book was an Irish Catholic equivalent to Marilynne Robinson’s Home. I don’t quite see that, though it’s an interesting thought. I had a go at articulating some of what I see the book as saying about Catholicism in Ireland then and now – which I won’t go into here because it would be spoilerish.

Interestingly, no one thought to say out loud that this is a Christmas story, even a kind of second-coming story. And, though someone had looked up Niall Williams on the internet, no one wondered aloud if he became a grandfather somewhere on the way to writing this book.

As for the rest of the conversation, I can’t do better than quote (with permission) from one chap’s report on WhatsApp. Conversation ranged, he wrote:

from John Cage and the Necks to motor bike accidents, playing golf, Parkinson’s disease and then the realities of being Bilbo Baggins.

I wrote this blog post on land of the Gadigal and Wangal clans of the Eora Nation. I was born in MaMu country, though as a small child I was confused about whether I lived there or in ‘Erin’s green valleys’. I acknowledge the Elders past and present of both countries, never ceded.

* My blogging practice is focus arbitrarily on the page of a book that coincides with my age, currently page 77.

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Jeff Lemire and others’ Black Hammer vols 5 & 7

Posted on 16 February 2025 | Leave a comment

Jeff Lemire (writer), Caitlin Yarsky (art), Dave Stewart (colorist) and Nate Piekos (letterer), Black Hammer Volume 5: Reborn Part I (Dark Horse Books 2022)
Jeff Lemire (writer), Caitlin Yarsky (art), Dave Stewart (colorist) and Nate Piekos (letterer), Black Hammer Volume 7: Reborn Part III (Dark Horse Books 2022)

When I wrote about Black Hammer Volume 4 (at this link) I thought it was the end of the story, but no, two year later in real life and TWENTY YEARS LATER in comics caption, along comes Volume 5, or Reborn Part I (monthly comics #1-4), closely followed by Volume 6 and 7, Reborn Parts II and III (monthly comics #5–8 and #9–12 respectively). Not only is superhero Black Hammer reborn, as his daughter Lucy reluctantly resumes the identity, but there is a new, female artist. Caitlin Yarsky’s distinctive artwork is every bit as dramatic as Dean Ormston’s in the earlier volumes, though I think the domestic elements of the story have taken on more weight

I was given Volume 7 as a Christmas gift. I hunted for the two earlier ones, but found only Volume 5. I’m resigned to never reading the middle of this trilogy, but I did enjoy the parts of the ride that I took part in, and Volume 7 does start with a recap of sorts.

Anti-God was defeated in the earlier books, and now he’s coming back, and multiple universes are about to be collide and be destroyed. In earlier books, the superannuated superheroes were put out to pasture in a kind of simulacrum of rustic bliss. Many of them turn up in this one, older, possibly wiser, or maybe something else. In the dizzying interplay of universes, the dead live again, the good become evil, the evil good – and some heartbreaking decisions have to be made. There are plenty of what you expect from a superhero comic: THWAKs, SHRIPs and THOOMs and svelte female bodies (always, mercifully, clothed), there’s also a lot of complex, even bewildering time shifts. The emotional heart of the story is Lucy having to choose between being a good mother and saving the universe. (A bit like E. M. Foster’s famous line in ‘Two Cheers for Democracy’: ‘If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.’) Oh, she also has to resolve her daddy issues in a multiverse kind of way.

This is probably not the end of this Black Hammer series. The caption on the last page of Volume 7 reads, ‘The cataclysm has begun.’

The two pages 77* illustrate the books’ range of art and narrative style.

In Volume 5, there’s a more or less domestic scene, in characteristic muted tones.

‘Mom’ here is Black Hammer in her mundane identity. The pudgy middle-aged man, the children’s father, was once an aspiring super-villain. His superpower was pretty pathetic and when Black Hammer vanquished him she also won his heart. In a note, Caitlin Yarsky says his his ‘suburban dad look’ was partly inspired by the late Philip Seymour Hoffman. Lucy’s reluctance to rise to her son’s challenge is a micro version of her central dilemma.

Readers of previous volumes immediately recognise the quavery font in the final panel’s speech bubble: it’s the voice of Colonel Weird, whose entanglement in a time warp means that he lives in the ‘Para-Zone’ were he experiences all times at once. When he says something about the future, we know it’s true. This little speech bubble carries a huge narrative force, as the other characters’ response indicates.

Volume 7’s page 77 may not feature any SCRACKs or KRA-KoooOOMs (these come a couple of pages later), but it’s part of the luridly coloured epic story.

Yes, it’s lurid, but it is crystal clear.

Those upside-down buildings in the top part of the page are parts of other universes heading for this one. A convergence will spell major disaster. Digger is another former supervillain, now Black Hammer’s major ally. He is wounded and probably dying. The Doc is one of the completely good guys – at least this version of him is. The man with the goggles … no, it’s all too complex for a quick summary. And that approaching rocket ship is about to introduce a whole new level of complexity, as Colonel Weird makes another appearance, this time accompanied by multiple even weirder versions of himself.

I guess I’ll keep an eye out for Volume 8 – maybe it will hit the shops in time for my March birthday.

I wrote this blog post on land of the Gadigal and Wangal clans of the Eora Nation. I pay my respects to Elders past and present. After days of heavy rain, the heat is beating down, and the lizards are loving it.

* My blogging practice is focus arbitrarily on the page of a book that coincides with my age, which is currently 77.

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Asako Yuzuki’s Butter

Posted on 6 February 2025 | 8 comments

Asako Yuzuki, Butter (2018, translation by Polly Barton, 4th Estate 2024)

This was my end-of-year gift from the Book Club. It is probably an excellent book about misogyny in Japanese culture, with sharp satiric assaults on attitudes to food, with extra piquancy derived from its claim to be based on a true-crime story. It was evidently a huge success in Japanese and this English translation by Polly Barton has been reviewed enthusiastically.

The protagonist, Kira, is an ambitious young woman journalist working on a sensationalist magazine. In searching for a career-defining scoop she becomes enthralled by Manako Kajii, a woman who defies the social norms of slender femininity and is currently in prison for having killed a number of elderly men, after winning their hearts by cooking luxurious food for them. Manako introduces Kira, who until now has survived on a spartan, negligent diet, to the joy of butter – cooking with it and eating the results.

My guess is that the key to enjoying the book is to read it fast, and I’m a slow reader. The themes are real and interesting: feminism versus feminine wiles; social norms versus desire; career ambition versus enjoyment of life. But I struggled with it, and gave up soon after my obligatory 77 pages.

It may well be that Polly Barton has reproduced the feel of the original Japanese, but the best way I can describe my response to the book’s language is to say that it reads like the kind of English you find in school students’ translations. The information is all there, but in the process of capturing it, the student forgets to pay attention to the natural rhythms and sequencing of English prose. That’s fine if you’re a teacher correcting someone’s homework, but if you’re reading a novel, it keeps yanking you out of the story.

I don’t want to spoil anyone’s enjoyment, but I’ll try to articulate why I find the book such a slog. Page 77* isn’t particularly egregious, but it offers a number of examples. Rika is on an outing with her mother, partly to cheer her up, and partly with the undeclared intention of having a look at Kajii’s apartment. Rika’s mother becomes high-spirited as they inspect the building that has been ‘making a splash in the news’.

I’ll just talk about the beginning and ending of the page, but you can enlarge the image to read it in full:

The first sentence:

Even when a resident came out and gave them a withering stare, Rika’s prevailing feeling was still one of relief that her mother’s mood had shifted.

There’s nothing glaringly wrong with that, but a close look reveals a number of tiny problems contributing to the cumulative awkwardness.

To my ear, the phrase ‘even when’ suggests an extreme event of some kind, and it takes a microsecond to realise that this is something quite undramatic: a resident comes out of the building and gives the pair a withering look. For another microsecond, I wonder why the resident would pay them any attention at all. They’re just two women in a public street. And it’s not just a look, but a stare! How does Rika know that this more or less abstract person is a resident? Moving on, the awkward phrase ‘prevailing feeling’ suggests, if anything, that Rika is experiencing complex emotions, but that suggestion goes nowhere. ‘One of relief’ is clutter – why not just ‘relief’?

One last thing: the word ‘still’, which if you read this sentence without context is completely innocuous. But it’s another example of a micro-interruption to the narrative flow. This is the first time we’ve been told that Rika is feeling relieved. The reader (or at least this one) has to do a quick calculation: oh yes, Rika’s mother’s mood has lifted so of course it was implied that Rika felt relief, so now we’re being told that that relief has survived. This is a recurrent quirk: we’re told that something has happened, rather than seeing it happen.

I can enjoy a text that demands work of me, but these extra little bits of readerly labour bring no joy.

I won’t take you laboriously through the whole page, though I can’t resist mentioning the phrase, ‘In the temple heaving with people’. The meaning is clear, but it doesn’t quite feel like English.

At the end of the page, Rika and her mother are having a coffee (in a Doutor, which Rika’s mother prefers to Starbucks because Starbucks doesn’t allow smoking – in the kind of culture-specific moment that I confess to enjoying).

No sooner had she lifted her mug of coffee to her lips than she began her confession.
‘You know, I feel like I can really understand why Manako Kajii was so popular with men. The truth is … You promise you won’t mention this to anyone?’
She giggled like a schoolgirl and leaned across the table to whisper in Rika’s ear. What Rika heard nearly made her choke on her mouthful of milk tea.
‘What! You worked as a decoy at a matchmaking party? I need to hear more about this.’

Again, these are tiny things, but they accumulate. ‘No sooner than’ is just slightly wrong: can you begin to talk at the moment you lift a mug of coffee to your lips? Specifying a mouthful of tea is unnecessary and creates another of those micro-pauses: I suppose it’s technically possible to choke on a mouthful of liquid, but the term ‘mouthful’ suggests that it’s still in the mouth and more likely to cause spluttering. Having the reader learn what the mother says only when Rika repeats it is an unnecessary and (to me) annoying complication.

Your mileage may vary, and I hope it does. If you want a completely different take on the book, I recommend Theresa Smith Writes.

I wrote this blog post on land of the Gadigal and Wangal clans of the Eora Nation. I happily acknowledge their Elders past and present for caring for this land for many thousands of years.

* My blogging practice is to focus arbitrarily on the page of a book that coincides with my age, currently 77.

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Brubaker and Phillips’s Night Fever

Posted on 12 January 2025 | 2 comments

Ed Brubaker, Night Fever (art by Sean Phillips, colors by Jacob Phillips, Image 2023)

I’m steadily making my way through the pile of books I was given as Christmas presents. As always the pile includes some excellent comics. We Are Not Strangers is one (blog post here). Night Fever, which could hardly be more different, is another.

Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips are a prolific team of comics makers. I’ve read their work in a number of genres – Hollywood noir, fantasy spy stories, and horror, though none of them is necessarily constrained to just one genre. Unlike most of their comics, Night Fever is a stand-alone story rather than part of a series. It shares the physical and moral darkness of their other work.

The narrator-protagonist, Jonathan Webb, is a sales rep for a US publishing company who once dreamed of being a writer. In Europe for a book fair, filled with a sense of failure, he crashes a decadent upper-class party, an orgy like the one in Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut, by pretending to be someone whose name he spotted on the guest list.

As every genre reader knows, it’s dangerous to borrow someone else’s identity, especially if they have access to a boundary-pushing party attended by the super rich. Sure enough, Jonathan is caught up in all manner of terrible things: alcohol, drugs and debauchery as you’d expect, but then there’s larceny, murder and an exploding police car. As one caption puts it, ‘Crime is the biggest high in the world.’

But crime doesn’t pay. Or does it? Will he ever find his way back to mundane life, his loving wife and their two sons? And if he does, will he be content? Or will he be haunted by this week when he threw off the shackles of decency? And who is the stranger Rainer who leads him deeper and deeper into the darkness?

Page 77* give you a taste of the art work, including the dark palette. It’s also an example of the genre-blending quality of Brubaker and Phillips’s work. Jonathan has visited a bar where he’s been warned, too late, not to drink anything because, ‘They put a lot of stuff in the cocktails here.’ There follow a number of pages where black space represents things he doesn’t remember of the night, and the rest is full of jumbled images of debauchery and violence. This page is a moment of calm, in which the owner of a voice that has been speaking to him from the shadows is revealed:

Ah, you might think, this is where the story gets really weird. The next thing Jonathan remembers is being back at a party. Maybe she saved him, maybe he landed on something soft, maybe it was a drugged hallucination. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that at this stage, Dave Brubaker himself wasn’t sure which way the story was heading. Another blue, four-armed person turns up a couple of pages later, and someone tells Jonathan that the aliens ‘have been coming more often lately … getting ready for the end’.

This page is also a good example of the objectifying treatment of women’s bodies that is my main dislike of comics like this. Thankfully this is the only naked woman in the book. I guess if you have scruples about pervy comic-book misogyny, you can always slip in a naked woman by giving her a second pair of arms and making her a godlike alien. (A full-frontal naked man turns up later, but he’s dead and not the least bit sexy.)

To quote my gift-giving son about another Brubaker-Phillips book, ‘It’s popcorn.’ It’s quality popcorn.

The first horror story I ever heard was told me by a Bundjalung woman – and it was much scarier than anything in Night Fever. I wrote this blog post on land of the Gadigal and Wangal people. I acknowledge their Elders past and present who have told stories here and cared for this land for millennia.

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Michael Crane’s Urban / Landscape / Ordinary Lives

Posted on 9 January 2025 | 13 comments

Michael Crane, Urban & Landscape / Ordinary Lives (Flying Island Books 2024)

Michael Crane organised Australia’s first poetry slam in 1991, and has been a significant figure in Melbourne’s spoken word scene ever since – or at least until his Wikipedia entry was updated, which may have been more than a decade ago until I added this book.

So this is a book of poems by a spoken word practitioner. That is, they are mainly poems for the stage rather than the page.

There are three sections: ‘Urban’, ‘Landscape’ and ‘Ordinary People’.

The first is mostly snapshots of life in inner-city Melbourne, with a couple of Brisbane scenes thrown in. The ones I like best are list poems. Take ‘The Emerald Hill Library Story Time’, for example, which lists many aspects of Clarendon Street that make it a tough place to live, and ends with the tenderness of storytime for children at the library; or ‘Hi Rise’, made up of fifteen couplets, each describingsomeone we take to be a resident of the building:

Marlene ran a tight ship
as her cat, Teddy, rubbed its tail between her legs.

Many visitors arrive unannounced,
cheating the security system.

Harry lives with his father
who he must treat like his child to manage him.

‘Landscape’ mostly moves out to the country, though in its final poem, ‘Life in the Big Smoke’, a poet from the country (a version of Michael Crane in his post-Wikipedia days?) visits the city, has a number of (non-)encounters and goes back ‘to where he came from’. This poem is enriched by being read in this context: its string of encounters echo similar ones on the first section, but the emotional impact is the opposite. In particular, it pairs nicely with ‘White noise of an urban landscape’, which begins, ‘The country life was not for him.’

The third section, ‘Ordinary Lives’ begins with ‘Introduction’, which lays out the section’s rationale, including this:

I find most people more interesting than me, but my job
is to document their success and failures, the moment of glory or
the times when they are alone without love.

The poems in this, as in all three sections, are mostly direct, straightforward, unassuming. They tend to name things without analysis or commentary. On the page they tend to be flat, but my sense is that they would come alive with the gesture, tone of voice and facial expression of spoken-word performance. They’re also mostly on the depressive side – fewer moments of glory, more times alone without love.

My arbitrary blogging practice, especially with books of poetry, is to focus on the page that corresponds to my age, which is currently 77. Page 77 of this book features one of the ‘Ordinary People’ poems, ‘On a plane to Cuba’:

This seems straightforward on a quick read, but there’s something unsettlingly off kilter about it – which may be another way of saying it couldn’t have been written by AI.

After I wrote that last sentence, I decided to test my assertion, and asked Chat GPT to write a poem about a woman who is about to leave her sleeping husband and go to Cuba. I’ve given the result at the bottom of this post, so as not to confuse it with real poetry*.

ChatGPT was worryingly proficient. But what it produced demonstrates that a mechanical aggregator just can’t do what a human poet can. The AI product has sharp images of the room, gives reasons for the woman’s choice of Cuba, and even has a last line that works, but none of it is surprising.

Michael Crane’s poem, on the other hand, pretends to be offering us clichés, but undermines them all the way. In the first ten lines, even as the poem evokes the woman’s yearning for elsewhere, it subtly, almost invisibly, distances itself from her. Does anyone in touch with reality think of Paris, City of Lights, as dimly lit? And though I’ve been in London when it snowed, surely ‘snow-covered footpaths’ is an idiosyncratic way of evoking that city. Her version of Cuba is similarly idiosyncratic. The ‘almost naked dancing women’ are a cliche from Rio rather than Havana. She seems to be vague about Cuban history. What is the ‘long war’? Maybe she’s thinking of Fidel wearing military fatigues? And, in the most telling split between the woman’s perspective and the poem’s, why does she find memories of war attractive?

In lines 13 to 15, the woman’s situation becomes clear:

She is going to catch a flight to Cuba 
as soon as she leaves the snoring man
who kidnapped her youth, ransomed her beauty.

Perhaps the woman’s idea of a ‘long war’ has come from the implied long time that she has been unhappily married. The definitive final line is hinted at here.

The poem continues to tread a fine balance between sympathy and – what is it? – scepticism. She takes no responsibility for whatever has one wrong with the relationship: there’s no indication that the man has been abusive – just that she took up with him when young and beautiful, and now feels the loss of those qualities (and we understand that she means he held her beauty to ransom rather than, what the words literally mean, that he paid a price to set it free). The feeling of loss is real, but we (or is it just me?) can’t help suspecting that she lacks insight.

Crucially, it’s her dreams that she packs along with supremely impractical clothing, and the last line strikes a superbly ambivalent note: all through the poem she has been dreaming of Cuba, and she heads off to ‘the songs of endless summer nights’, but really it might as well be dim Paris or snowy London, because what matters is 

days filled with the absence of him.

It’s not ‘She’s Leaving Home‘, with it’s brilliant empathy for both sides of the departure, but then what is?

I finished writing this blog post on land of Gadigal and Wangal of the Eora Nation, as the sun was breaking through clouds after a day of heavy rain. I acknowledge the Elders past and present who have cared for this land for millennia.

*ChatGPT’s poem:

She watches him sleep, his chest rising and falling,
the steady rhythm of a man who never saw her breaking.
The sheets tangled around him,
a quiet fortress she once called home.
But now it feels like a cage.

Her bags are packed, a quiet rebellion in the corner.
Cuba waits—its colors, its heat,
its freedom, a place where she can feel her pulse again.
She runs her fingers over the window sill,
tracing the outlines of a life she no longer wants.

She should wake him, say goodbye,
but the words are too heavy,
the goodbyes too worn.
Instead, she steps lightly,
a ghost slipping past the threshold.

She breathes in the cool air of the morning,
the world opening wide in front of her.
And with every step,
she leaves behind the woman she used to be.

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Josh Tuininga’s We Are Not Strangers

Posted on 8 January 2025 | Leave a comment

Josh Tuininga, We Are Not Strangers (Abrams Comicarts 2023)

In December 1941, about 127,000 Japanese Americans lived in the continental USA. After the attack on Pearl Harbor and the declaration of war on Japan, about 120,000 of them, of whom about two-thirds were U.S. citizens,  were forcibly relocated and incarcerated in concentration camps.

This is not a secret history. In The Karate Kid, the young boy comes across references to the deaths of Mr Miyagi’s wife and child in a camp. Star Trek actor George Takei famously spent a number of years in one of the camps as a child, as told in the documentary To Be Takei (2014) and in They Called Us Enemy, a comic he co-wrote that was published in 2019. David Guterson’s novel Snow Falling on Cedars (1994) and the Scott Hicks film made from it refer to the incarcerations. (There are more examples on Wikipedia – I’ve just mentioned the ones that ring a bell for me.) Various presidents have expressed regret over the episode.

Josh Tuiininga’s comic comes at the subject as it played out in Seattle, from the point of view of Sephardic Jews. It begins in December 1987, with the funeral of Marco, the narrator’s grandfather. The funeral proceeds according to Sephardic tradition, but a lot of people turn up that the narrator has never seen before. Curious, he asks them how they knew his grandfather so well, and the story emerges.

During World War Two, as the Sephardic Jews of Seattle were watching the horrific events unfolding in Germany, they were suddenly confronted by a terrible injustice closer to home, as Japanese friends and neighbours were rounded up, their businesses forcibly closed, and their lives disrupted.

Page 77* marks a turning point. Marco and his family have just heard a radio announcement that ‘the Japanese population in America are potentially dangerous’ and are to be relocated or suffer criminal penalties:

In the first image on this spread, the woman walking away with a dismissive gesture is Marco’s mother, who has successfully escaped Germany and been smuggled into the USA by way of Canada. Her gesture signifies contempt for the edict, which she has just said is like what happened to Jews under the Nazis (not a view the comic necessarily endorses, but it shows the basis for solidarity between Jews and Japanese).

The left-hand page appears to portray Marco and his family as helpless bystanders. Evidently the Japanese American Citizens League recommended compliance for pretty much the reasons that Marco gives here: to resist would be to undermine the war effort. But the wordless right-hand page suggests something else. It is followed by two more wordless pages, a full page drawing of Marco at his desk beneath a clock showing one-thirty, and then a single drawing of a lit window in a dark suburban scape. We don’t now what these images mean precisely, but they remain as a question as the rest of the story unfolds: there’s a Passover sermon at the Synagogue; one of the Japanese children has her white friends turn against her; the Central District of Seattle is filled with remnants of Japanese presence; there are glimpses of life in the camps, and on their closure signs of persistent anti-Japanese sentiment are everywhere.

But it turns out that what Marco was doing in his study that night was working out how he could safeguard his friends’ homes and businesses. When they return home, he gives them envelopes full of rent money, deeds and all that is needed to help restore their lives. And he has done it for as many families as he could manage. Only at his funeral do his own family find out what he has done.

‘Why did he keep it a secret?’ the narrator asks, and over a series of images that show Marco with family and his Japanese fishing friend in 1945, 1953, 1968, 1979 and then (his empty chair at the family table) 1987, the captions read:

Maybe he thought he would get into trouble.
Perhaps he wished he could have done more.
Or, maybe …
… he just wanted to forget all about it …
… and spend his time on more important things.

That last line is a caption between two images, one of Marco as an old man at a family meal, the other (echoing images from early in the book) of him and his Japanese friend fishing together and laughing.

It’s a powerful story, elegantly told in a palettte of mainly warm browns and pale blues. Though a note at the beginning assures us that this is a work of fiction, it also says the story is based on ‘the oral histories of many’.

It’s pure coincidence that I have read this so soon after Yael van der Wouden’s novel The Safekeep. That novel hinges on the loss of property and livelihood by Jews in the Netherlands under the Nazis – so that those who did return from camps found their houses occupied and their personal items now used by strangers. That almost certainly happened to many Japanese-Americans, but this story demonstrates how it could have been different, and that in at least some cases it was different.

It would have been impossible for me to read this book without thinking of North Queensland. My grandfather was a police magistrate. The family story is that because he had learned Italian he was brought back from his posting in Brisbane to supervise the internment of Italians during World War Two. That internment was on a smaller scale – 5000 men were taken from their families to internment camps in New South Wales and South Australia, and at least twice as many were put to work in remote areas building roads and rail, and working in mines. Many were naturalised Australian citizens.For the most part, only the adult men were taken away: the results were devastating for Italian farmers, and families were disrupted.

The ABC ran a story in 2020 marking the 75th anniversary of the end of the War (link here). The excellent Babinda museum tells one man’s story – a man who, characteristically, downplays the difficulties he faced. The official archival records of the internments have been made public for some decades now, but as far as I have been able to tell the many stories – from Innisfail, Ingham, Garradunga, Daradgee, Boogan – have yet to be told.

I wrote this blog post on land of Gadigal and Wangal of the Eora Nation, peoples whose own stories of mistreatment in times of war have yet to be fully told. I acknowledge the Elders past and present who have cared for this land for millennia.

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The Book Group and Samantha Harvey’s Orbital

Posted on 12 December 2024 | 5 comments

Samantha Harvey, Orbital (2023)

Before the meeting: We picked this book as our next title the day before it won the Booker Prize. Smart us!

Four men and two women on a space station orbit the Earth sixteen times in twenty-four hours. They eat, they monitor experiments with plants and mice, they do strenuous exercise to counteract the bodily effects of living in low-gravity, they maintain their environment and monitor their own vital signs, they report back to ground control, they exchange messages and images with their loved ones at home, they occasionally have weirdly unreal conversations with complete strangers on Earth, and they look out with wonder at the planet below them and at the vastness of space.

That’s the plot.

A writer less sure of herself might have developed a plot where the relationships among the travellers create conflict or titillation. There would be plenty of possibilities in the crew consisting of two Russian men, an Irish woman, a Japanese woman, a Christian man from the USA, and a Latino man with connections in the Philippines. But the subject of this novel is the humans’ relationship to the planet, and beyond that to the universe, from a perspective that makes the conflicts that dominate human life in general seem absurd.

At the front of the book there’s a diagram showing the pathway of the spacecraft’s orbit over the day. The craft flies / falls in a straight line, but the rotation of the planet beneath it means that it crisscrosses the land and ocean below. I kept flipping back to the diagram as chapter by chapter, one for each of the sixteen Earth orbits in the day, describes in lyrical language what can be seen below.

This book is ideal for my blogging practice of singling out a particular page, currently page 77, because though there is a narrative of sorts it’s not the kind that means one has to be wary about spoilers. Part of what makes this book a worthy winner of the Booker is its brilliance at the sentence level.

Page 77 is in the chapter ‘Orbit 8, ascending’. Though the craft is over the south-west of the USA, the narrative departs, as it does occasionally, from what lies below to describe what is happening on the other side of the planet:

Over there, in tomorrow, the typhoon summons winds of a hundred and eighty miles per hour. It’s rampaging through the Mariana Islands. The sea levels off the islands’ coasts have already risen with the expansion of the warmer water, and now, where the winds push the sea toward the westward edges of its basin, the sea rises more and a five-metre storm surge engulfs the inlands of Tinian and Saipan. It’s as though the islands are hit with cluster bombs – windows blown out, walls buckling, furniture flying, trees splicing.

There follows a little more description of the typhoon from a meteorological perspective. Its growth is the book’s one central narrative thread. In later chapters, the crew see it as spectacle – contrasted with the terrifying reality on land, especially as it affects a poor family who once offered hospitality to one of them.

But for now, the daily routine asserts itself:

The crew go on with the last of their tasks. Anton eats an energy bar to fight off late afternoon drowsiness. Shaun removes the four fasteners on the bracket of the smoke detector that needs replacing. Chie inspects the bacteria filters. Their path now ups and overs and exits America where the Atlantic is ancient, the placid silver-grey of a dug-up brooch. Calm suffuses this hemisphere. And with no ceremony they complete another lap of the lonely planet. They top out some three hundred miles off the Irish coast.

And then there’s this:

ln passing through the lab, Nell looks out and sees the promise of Europe on the watery horizon. She feels somehow speechless. Speechless at the fact of her loved ones being down there on that stately and resplendent sphere, as if she’s just discovered they’ve been living all along in the palace of a king or queen. People live there, she thinks. I live there. This seems improbable to her today.

This intermingling of more or less objective observations of the Earth as seen from orbit, the daily routines of life in the space station, moments of lyrical reflection is maintained, with miraculous poise, through the whole book.

The meeting: We’ve been calling our bring-a-plate meetings gentlemen’s picnics. This one was an actual picnic, in Bicentennial Park on the shores of Blackwattle Bay, Gadigal land. Pavlova, quiche, dumplings, barbecued sausages eaten to a backdrop of birdsong and practising dragon boats beneath a three-quarter moon. We were interrupted briefly by what seemed to be a gay bashing – eight men of certain ages tried to look imposing as we lumbered towards the scene, but it seemed to vanish before we reached it. We conferred with a couple of men who were dossing down in the Esther Abrahams pavilion, and with a cluster of hefty teenage boys, and decided there was nothing further any of us could do.

It was our final meeting for the year, so we swapped gift-wrapped books (I scored a Zadie Smith) and most of us read a poem: David Malouf, Robert Frost, me and John Levy (it was unclear whether I’d broken a rule by reading one of my own, but it was excused because my poem was there to illuminate John’s), Brecht, James Baldwin.

In the middle of this mostly joyous occasion, we managed to talk about the book. The first thing said could have been a paraphrase of my fourth paragraph above: what a relief that Samantha Harvey didn’t go down the track of having big conflicts among the crew. My sense is that everyone enjoyed the book a lot.

We reminded each other of ‘good bits’: the lab mice learning to live in low gravity, the tear drop that has to be caught and disposed of because free-floating liquid can’t be tolerated, the nose pressed against a stomach as two characters squeeze past each other … Someone mentioned what should have been obvious: though the crew sees sixteen sunrises, they all happen on the same day – I took that in my stride while reading the book, but when it’s put like that it leaves me gasping.

One person found a lot of the book tedious and repetitive, but later, driving in the car, he realised that the repetition was partly the point, these people were caught in a continuous loop.

The closest we came to disagreement was when someone said the absence of ordinary, everyday irritations and conflicts among the crew strained his credulity. In real life, people living together in such close quarters would inevitably grate on each other at best. Two arguments were offered to counter this view. First, on the level of verisimilitude, the crew are disciplined – they can live with an itch in a space suit for hours without scratching, surely they can put personal irritations aside. Second, yes it’s unrealistic, but to pay attention to such matters would have cluttered the book or even taken it to a different, less interesting place. (One of us has spent some months in a hut in the Antarctic, so could vouch for the likelihood of conflict – though he was the one who argued most strongly that these are disciplined space travellers.)

It was a terrific end to another Book Group year.

Photo by Steve Kennedy, used with permission

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Andrew Burke’s Historic Present

Posted on 10 December 2024 | Leave a comment

Andrew Burke, Historic Present (Flying Island Pocket Poets 2023)

The ‘About the author’ paragraph at the back of this book begins ‘Andrew Burke was an Australian author’ – and you realise that the Acknowledgements two pages earlier were written very soon before the writer’s death in his 79th year (as confirmed by his Wikipedia entry), and that one of the last things Andrew Burke wrote was this tiny love note:

The many moods of this collection were suffered in partnership with my wife, Jeanette – so thanks for discussions over blueberries and porridge.

The preceding ninety pages of poetry do reflect and capture many moods, and it’s not hard to imagine the man who wrote them enjoying a quiet chat over blueberries and porridge – not just with his wife but with a community of poets living and dead. Many of those poets find their ways into the verse, either by name or by quotation, very occasionally in a way that made me go googling, but mostly as a way of invoking a community, of readers as well as writers of poetry.

There are poems of travel and childhood memory, poems marking the death of a friend, poems that seem above all to be recording a passing moment. They don’t strive for effect or makes a song and dance of their emotional content or insights, but quietly do their work and are gone.

‘Testicular Check-up’, for example, begins:

I fell in love with my balls
all over again when
they were endangered.

(You’ve got to love those line breaks!) What follows is a good humoured conversation with the ‘lady’ scanning his testicles. He doesn’t spell out the emotional content of the moment. Enough to say that amid the chat and the matter-of-fact handling, first of his penis then of each testicle, he feigns comfort and indifference, the repetition of the word ‘feigning’ lying like a blanket over what is left unsaid.

Page 77* falls in the middle of the book’s longest poem, ‘Lone Patrol: Darlington 1991’. Again looking to Wikipedia, I find that Darlington is a small community some distance east of Perth frequented by artists. The speaker of this poem is living in someone else’s cottage, perhaps an Airbnb (or the 1991 equivalent) or a writerly retreat, or just to take a break from a difficult time on his life. He chats with a visitor, attends an AA meeting, writes, listens to Jack Kerouac, reflects on his life, enjoys the surroundings.

The poem is in 23 sections, and reads like notes on his time in the cottage. These lines, from page 78, referring to work he is doing on another poem, shed light on the nature of this poem:

'Triplog' poem edited
___________ down to 15 pages
but what to do
with such an
________idiosyncratic poem ...

‘Log’ isn’t a bad description of the current poem – ‘staylog’ perhaps, part journal, part jottings of observations and reflection. And it’s not hard to imagine that it has been edited down from copious daily notes to its 14 pages. I usually look for an overarching narrative in long poems, but here I couldn’t see anything other than a string of moments – and I’m happy with that.

Page 77:

The first two sections are short haiku- or senryu-like poems.

The first, as I read it, juxtaposes the speaker’s grim mood (‘Comedian – / no!’) with the cheerfulness of the natural world, represented by kookaburra’s laughter. Whether the laughter is derisory (the kookaburra is laughing at the poem’s speaker) or simply indifferent (the kookaburra is just laughing without reference to him) is left open.

The second is less successful. I googled ‘Do bees fart?’ Apparently it’s an age-old question, and they sort of do but not really. My sense is that the poem doesn’t care about that. It catches itself in a cliche celebration of flowers in the spring, and throws in a bit of vulgarity to shake the image up. (It does make me want to echo the earlier lines: ‘Comedian – no!’, but in a friendly way.) You might enjoy the way ‘break wind’ has a second, more literal meaning – the bee interrupts the flow of the breeze. If so I’m happy for you.

The third section starts out as a prosaic to do list, then in the second stanza that prosaicness finds what in my distant university days was called an ‘objective correlative’ – an embodiment of the underlying emotion:

I stare at the dry stick
propped against the wall

The narrative behind the matter-of-fact notes ‘pay car reg / pay lawyer’ comes more fully into view – there may be a divorce in the mix:

_________ all
creativity gone, energy,
sapped by money
and marriage hassles.
dry.

The section goes on, to describe an afternoon of talking, and then of trying to write. It ends, taking the image of the dry stick one step further:

dead spider talks
about mortality

Unlike the kookaburra, the dead spider (on a windowsill?) reminds him of his mortality; or perhaps he himself, dead-spider-like, can’t write of anything but death.

The poem is a staylog, and also a pretty matter-of-fact account of what a more egotistical person might have called a Dark Night of the Soul. In 1991, the poet was approaching 50. Perhaps the matter-of-factness was there at the time, or perhaps the poem got to its present form much more recently, and the matter-of-factness comes from the thirty-plus intervening years.

It’s a bitter-sweet thing to meet a poet only after he has died. But it is sweet.

I wrote this blog post on Gade / Wane. I acknowledge the Gadigal and Wangal elders past present and emerging, and gratefully acknowledge their care for this land for millennia.

* My blogging practice is to focus on page 77 (at least until I turn 78). In books like this, the practice saves me the impossible task of choosing one poem to represent them all.

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