Quickie Book Reviews

I'll quickly whip through a few here.

Vendela Vida, Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name

The story is interesting enough, but an annoying central character and clumsy dialogue spoil it for mine. Avoid.

W.G. Sebald, Austerlitz

I really expected to enjoy this more than I did. A remarkable main character, fascinating story and it covers a topic that interests me greatly. Yet it left me cold. Maybe it is Sebald's narrative approach, but I just found it a bit of a grind. Not for the faint hearted!

Philip K. Dick, The Man in the High Castle

I've not read a lot of Dick as sci-fi has never really been my thing. However, I do have some time for alternate history, especially if it is well done. Dick does a convincing enough job envisioning a world in which the Axis powers emerged victorious in the Second World War, and delivers a decent little page-turner to boot. Recommended.

Peter Roebuck, It Takes All Sorts

I've both bagged and praised Roebuck previously in this blog, and generally rate his work. He has a keen eye for minor detail that stands out amongst cricket writers that I like, and this book is a reasonably interesting examination and rumination on the different types that play cricket across all levels. Recommended for fans of the sport.

Michael Gurr, Days Like These

The recollections as speech writer for Steve Bracks interested, mediations on the theatre less so. Only for the very keen.

Jerzy Kosinski, Being There

Although very slight (finished in under three hours), it remains terribly enjoyable. It's aged quite well (better than the film), and reads as surprisingly contemporary. Highly recommended.

Kathryn Hughes, The Short Life and Long Times of Mrs. Beeton

History as it should be, both focused in extraordinary detail, yet always in the context of the time, Hughes has pulled off a masterful work. Anyone interested in food or the history of food will find plenty here. Recommended.

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Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...

This will hurt me...

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