Hate traps us by binding us too tightly to our adversary.

Beautiful little buds in the Autumn. St Johns Park, New Town. March 2011.

Surfacing is Margaret Atwood’s second published novel. Like a lot of Atwood’s work, it tackles notions of national and gendered identity, with a strong environmental theme. Plot-wise, we join a woman – who is never named – returning to her hometown in rural-Quebec to try and find her reclusive father who has gone missing. Without giving to much away, we explore the notion of ‘the past’ and experience her decent ‘wildness’ and madness.

However, the mental disintegration of an already unreliable narrator presents a tough ask of the reader. Initially ‘flaky’, our unnamed protagonist's mental reasoning deteriorates sharply and enters a full-blown psychosis. Atwood constructs this in the first person, through monologues and the experience of action through the lens of the protagonist. While this allows for a thorough portrayal of a mind 'undoing itself', it doesn’t half make a tricky read on the Glenorchy express!

The book works, but you would be forgiven for confusing the narrator’s mental breakdown with an inconsistent plot and underdeveloped characterisation. Not for the faint-hearted but if you’re looking for a challenge you could do worse…

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Kris McCracken said…

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Unerhört!

1 April 2011 at 14:27

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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