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“I remembered only the good and loveable things about him, not the wretchedness he caused me, and the dope, and the resentments and silence and the half-crazy outbursts.”

 

Bass Strait is blue today. Sisters Beach, Tasmania. January 2021.


Monkey Grip by Helen Garner

Credit must go to Helen Garner for her frank reflections on her own choices and desires in this semi-autobiographical novel. She conjures up a Melbourne long-since gone, and a world of a bohemian vision of life filled with excess, collectivism and the withering away of norms like monogamy, patriarchy and the jingoistic nature of Australians.

As I say, this is a time long gone. Garner writes well and with frankness and empathy that is to be admired.

Yet despite her best efforts, the appeal of Javo – which is the central premise driving the book – utterly eluded me. I could see nothing of the charm, beauty, intelligence or love in the man. Even in the frank descriptions of the sex – and there is no shortage of fucking in this book, with Javo and others in this milieu of rootless artists – didn’t help explain the obsession.

The novel consists of days repeating days. Swimming and drugs and sex and drugs and sex and sex and drugs and swimming and then a gig followed by sex and drugs and gigging and fucking and getting stones. Oh, we can laugh about it now, but I’m not sure how it must have felt at the time. There’s not a lot of joy to be found in this tale of communal living.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

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