People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use.

Trees. The Hastings Caves State Reserve. The Huon Valley. June 2011.

I feel a little cruel to this week’s first book, Visitation by Jenny Erpenbeck. Eking out snippets and snatches of reading at a time does not really do justice to a novel that seeks to engage with the epic trajectory of Germany’s troubling twentieth-century

The central ‘character’ of this novel is actually a place. A majestic house and its grounds by a lake in Brandenburg (once upon a time best buddy of Prussia, and then for a spell part of the German Democratic Republic) is witness to a succession of occupants that displace each other through the political turmoil of the twentieth century.

Like Erpenbeck’s other work, nothing is ever straightforward. The story does not progress through momentous occasions, and there are no grand scenes that progress the action. Indeed, we experience change only in shades, shadows or echoes.

As such, it is probably not the best book to be reading in scraps of time. I think that it would resinate far more if you were able to shut yourself off in a quiet room and immerse yourself.

Recommended for those without small children (or those with small children plus a nanny and sound-proofing).

Moss on a tree. The Hastings Caves State Reserve. The Huon Valley. June 2011.

Book two this week I really liked. A lot. On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan is a really master class in storytelling.

The book is broken into five parts that alternate between the immediate present that takes place in the bedroom immediately after their marriage and “flash-backs” to their separate childhoods and home life as well as the development of their relationship with each other and each other’s respective families.

This novel is in one respect one long ‘sex scene’ (or tease). However, the tension and build up to the physical consummation of a marriage is really a creative narrative device that lets McEwan go about his magic. The book explores the danger of ‘unspoken’ conflict and the consequences of not speaking or not acting.

Ultimately, On Chesil Beach is much more than a simple story of suppressed emotion. In fact, it is deft exploration of how emotional wounds can be inflicted and the course of lives can be changed by simply not saying or doing nothing.

I expect that if I was prone to tears, I’d be weeping at the conclusion of this novel. It really is a heart-rendering piece, which is oddly life affirming (considering the dénouement). Very VERY highly recommended. Give it a run!

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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