The possession of a book becomes a substitute for reading it.

Home (to the left and upstairs) from mid-1996 until early-2002. Sandy Bay Road, Sandy Bay. July 2011.

Two very different books this week.

First up, Aharon Appelfeld's Badenheim 1939 is an odd, dreamlike novel set in an imagined Austrian resort town at the beginning of the Second World War as groups of middle-class Jews arrive to spend another idyllic summer vacation at an annual arts festival.

There is a fair whiff of Kafka in Appelfeld's restrained prose, and the incongruity of the characters’ struggle to maintain (simulate?) normality against the intimations of the approaching catastrophe. Although the reader has no choice but factor in the impending Holocaust as both the historical backdrop as well as its imaginative focus, the author deftly does so from surreptitiously and achieves a subtlety that you would think impossible.

The awkward ignorance of what is to come for the vacationers dominates this book. Spring is in the air and summer is about to blossom as the vast range of characters spend their days strolling among gardens, lounging in cafés, courting, swimming, gossiping and bickering as much as any other vacationer. The mounting tension (indeed horror), that any reader of this sensitive and elegant book will realise, is magnified by the fact that it is a reality that the characters simply cannot, or simply refuse to, see.

Despite the subject matter, this is a picturesque and ‘calm’ tale, and one told with delicate imagery and understatement. The narrative alters in much the same way the seasons do, in minimal and moving increments. Similarly, subtly and with seeming resigned acceptance, the townsfolk’s rights and choices are reduced and constrained: shops are closed, town gates are sealed, the postal service ceases operation. The fact that WE know where this is going to end up really does make you want to stamp your feet and shout out aloud, quite an achievement for such a quiet novel.

This really is a fantastic piece of work, and something that I can heartily recommend to anyone.

Second up is Aiding and Abetting. Murial Spark was 80 (!) when this book was released, so she could be forgiven if her formidable prowess as an author were dawdling. Thankfully, no forgiveness is required as her ‘imagined reconstruction’ of the circumstances of Lord Lucan’s disappearance are explored and – ultimately – reconciled.

There is no requirement to be familiar with the Lucan tale, as the template is a familiar one: issues of class, debt, avarice, murder, disappearance etc. Spark utilises her keen eye for moral ambiguities to explore a complex web of chancers, cads and con artists very neatly. It is not the perfect book by any means – for example, the hasty ending is a little too contrived for my tastes – but there is enough substance (and black comedy) to keep the tale rollicking along and her simple, sharp writing style is a fantastic respite from the many overly ornamental and convoluted literary darlings that you find these days. Recommended.

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

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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