Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

The Funky Monkey. Lindisfarne North Primary School, Lindisfarne. August 2012.

The Sea, by John Banville seems to have been a controversial winner of the Booker Prize in 2005. I guess that it's not so surprising that the response to this book has generated some degree of angst when the victory assured that a vast swathe of readers (of all tastes and persuasions) would pick up and read something that might be a little outside their comfort zone.

Myself, I really enjoyed it. Yet it is an almost deliberately stifled book chock full of literary allusions and a meandering, haunting atmosphere. It certainly doesn't resemble your typical novel and is perhaps more an exploration of memory, remembering, forgetting and reconstructing life experiences that seem to be on the brink of slipping away.

Beautifully written, there is more than a little Proust about this one. More than once I stopped and reread sentences and paragraphs just to check that they were as well constructed as I first thought. Yes, generally they were! I'd give this one an A-, and happily recommend it. However, if you are after neatly-resolved plot-lines and sympathetic characterisation, you might do best to avoid it.

Comments

Kris McCracken said…

Ego quasi Robespierre.

13 September 2012 at 13:38

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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