“Montana seems to me to be what a small boy would think Texas is like from hearing Texans.”

Leaves. St Columba Falls, Pyngana, Tasmania. July 2021.

Montana by Gwen Florio

Hard-boiled ~~private dick~~ ~~combat veteran~~ ~~cop~~ foreign correspondent Lola Wicks finds herself thrust back into civilian life only to discover that her oldest (only?) friend has been brutally and mysteriously murdered in the lonely Montana Badlands.

Far be it from me to suggest that Gwen Florio’s Montana is formulaic, but it treads familiar ground. While I enjoyed the remote setting, the story felt rushed, and many of the characters insufficiently fleshed out.

Most apparent is the subplot involving the Johnny Running Wolf, which seems incredibly implausible and emphasised the casual treatment of the Blackfoot, who appeared more as props than authentic and substantive people.

Still, if you are prepared to go with the flow and not dwell on the many implausible facets, it is a pacey read and does not outstay its welcome. I will no doubt give the follow-up a read, which says enough, I suppose.

⭐ ⭐ 1/2

Comments

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

Search This Blog