Skip to main content

“I trust a man who golfs less than a man who pays for sex.”

Vines upon a tree. Cairns, Far North Queensland. April 2021.

The Bass Rock by Evie Wyld

I had high hopes for this one at starting, but I was more than a little underwhelmed. Between time jumps and shifting narrative perspective, I found myself confused throughout.

While I understand and appreciate the central tenet of the novel is an exploration of the horrors that men visit upon women (and occasionally other men), the unremitting bleakness does wear the reader down. Flitting across three interlinked timeframes, I found the one farthest back - of witchcraft in early-modern Scotland - a bridge too far, disorienting and distracting to the central story arc.

Wyld's exploration of the dysfunctional male psyche that brings about misogyny and the terrible crimes committed upon women (and, again, upon other men) does not trouble me as it seems to have other male reviewers. Alas, I want to see a little more depth to the characterisation of these men, lest we fall into the trap that the "bad guys" are simply that, with very little to be learned beyond the obvious.

While many of the female characters in the book are drawn in rich, complex strokes, the men come across as one-dimensional and overly simplified. Their motivations lack the depth and subtlety that might help get further to the crux of the issues at hand. Without this, it feels more like a futile scream into the void.

Perhaps that is what the book is intended to be. If so, I guess that it did not quite land for me.

⭐ ⭐ 1/2

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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...