fiction – Page 47

Half-way House of the Soul

February 1, 2012 Leave a Comment

Jodie Dalgleish

Travesty, by Mike Johnson with illustrations by Darren Sheehan (Titus Books, Auckland, 2010), 243 pp., $35.00

After finishing Mike Johnson’s Travesty, and re-reading his previous novels and poetry, I have come to the conclusion that, with it, he has achieved the epitome or culmination of something. He has achieved a kind of ‘worldmaking’ — to borrow American philosopher Nelson Goodman’s famous term — that confirms his position as one of New Zealand’s most important fiction writers.

Travesty is an unusual work of fiction. For 204 of its 244 pages Johnson creates an unknown world, the imaginative space of an unknown place. It is a world related to known concepts, and to literary genres such as science fiction and fantasy — and yet it is foreign. The writer’s characters are bizarre and involved in irrational quests. His material world is recognisable, but also thrown into some indeterminable time and place. Reading Travesty is like trying to make out a mirage that is always shifting before your eyes: you are unable to quite grasp it, but somehow you seem to know enough to read and understand it. This, I am certain, is the writer’s intention, and evidence of considerable skill.

Johnson’s characters live in Travesty’s Rathouse, each engrossed in their broken yet richly personal lives. Over the course of the book, the writer takes each of them, including a baby rat, out into Travesty’s wider world to face or to make their fate. It is this seemingly-simple movement that shapes the work and allows the novelist to weave his characters’ realities around each other and thus create the dark, glistening and many-threaded world of Travesty.

[Read more…]

Please Hold

December 1, 2011 Leave a Comment

Kiran Dass

Bird North and Other Stories, by Breton Dukes (Victoria University Press 2011) 191 pp., $35.00.

A quick squizz at a good deal of the latest New Zealand poetry and fiction releases reveals a deeply dismal trend in bland, uninspiring book covers in sedate and muted shades of beige, white or grey. Utterly unappealing, they tragically look like bereavement handbooks.

Northland writer Breton Dukes’ debut Birth North and Other Stories however, shakes off this fusty image, opting instead to slyly beckon the reader with a striking cartoony illustration courtesy of Dylan Horrocks. I initially thought the cover was an odd choice — perhaps a touch too lighthearted for what people keep banging on about as being stories which are concerned with pushing a masculine ‘Man Alone’ angle. But when I say this, I don’t mean in the John Mulgan or Bill Pearson tradition. After reading Dukes’ stories, the cover makes perfect sense. This book looks and reads like a collection for young adults. These are gateway stories — that is, the characters only just allude to having any shred of insight.

This is a plain, no-frills collection of seventeen stories. Dukes’ bongtastic characters drink from beer-filled V bottles, attend dull seminars to apply for call-centre jobs, work in hospitals, spy on their flatmates having sex, and chiefly struggle to relate to the people around them — and themselves.

It’s terrific that while these stories are set in recognisable locations across New Zealand such as Te Anau, the Coromandel, Johnsonville, the East Coast and Dunedin, Dukes isn’t that fixated on landscape and location. It appears that he is more interested in character. Particularly how men relate to each other and to their environment. I get the impression that Dukes is sticking to the safe confines of writing about what he knows, having worked in Government call-centres and hospitals himself. The only trouble is that his characters aren’t strong enough to pull the stories along.

However, Pontoon, a story about an art student who attends a two-day seminar to test his suitability for a position working the phones at the Emergency Services’ 111 call-centre is a terrific piece. Dukes dryly captures the pathos of employment workshops. From the man who brings his own pens (and who no doubt lines them up in front of him on the desk in an orderly fashion), a woman named Shona (for some reason, there is always a ‘Shona’ at these things, isn’t there?), to the ‘nicotine slaves’ who dash outside for a furtive tea-break puff, and a territorial soldier — the characters here are spot on. However, Pontoon ends on a baffling and woolly note about a pod of dolphins. Here, Dukes should have refrained from trying to be deep.

I know these characters are supposed to be laconic and ‘masculine’ but I don’t think Dukes gives his cast enough credit. I think that in many cases, it is stoic and quiet men who have some of the keenest insights. In these stories, any insight the characters have (whether that be internally or externally demonstrated) is entirely surface level. There’s nothing really there. I wanted these people to have a bit more oomph. More bite in the characters could have elevated these stories to a knowing greatness. Instead, the characters mostly come across as mealy-mouthed, shiftless, shaggy-brained slackers. And you just know there must be a lot more going on with them if only we could scratch below that grimy surface. On the whole, these are polite stories.

With its distinct chiaroscuro atmosphere, Racquet is a neat, moody and clear-sighted story. I loved the depressingly helpless, awkward and domestic set up.

Standout stunner for me though, is The Moon, a gentle down-the-line story which shows Dukes is not afraid of the quiet moments. Here, he shows us how the child informs what the adult becomes:

“Peter was five when his father said to him, ‘Your mum’s gone to the moon. She has some special work to do. I don’t know when she’ll be back.’”

Which Peter later counters with:

“People can’t live on the moon. Mrs Thompson told us.”

The scene is vivid, Dukes sets it up evocatively. There is: ‘a bottle of tomato sauce upside down on the table. A fly was crawling over the dried sauce around its neck.”’

Using minutiae and delicate observation, Dukes creates a story which is at once tender and sweet but also hopeless and melancholy. Don’t get me wrong, Dukes doesn’t romanticise Peter’s situation — Peter turns into a bit of a deadbeat. This is tangible stuff — we all know people like this. Dukes just offers us an insight into or angle on how people turn out the way they do. The scene where Peter sees his father leaning on a fence ‘just before Ashburton’ sent a chill through me.

It is stories like The Moon which hint that Dukes must have some greatness in him. I’d like to see him dig a bit deeper, get stuck into what is beyond the superficial surface, think a bit more about his characterisation and perhaps try his hand at some long form fiction.

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KIRAN DASS is a Wellington-based writer who has written about music, film and books for the NZ Listener, Sunday Star-Times, Metro, Pavement, Real Groove, Rip it Up, New Zealand Musician, NZ Herald, Dominion Post and Staple.

The Smell of Scorched Chickpeas

November 1, 2011 Leave a Comment

Andrew Paul WoodThe Catastrophe, by Ian Wedde, (Victoria University Press, 2011) 191 pp., $35.00.

Ian Wedde’s new novel, The Catastrophe, written during his 2009 Michael King Writer’s Centre Residency, begins with Wedde’s protagonist, the fallen célèbre, middle-aged restaurant critic Christopher Hare — (whose motto, ‘food is love’, is inherited from his Italian grandmother back in Tolaga Bay, Aotearoa; his grandfather being Maori) — eating beneath his accustomed station in an infra-dig eatery. Hare writes under the obscure soubriquet ‘Rosenstein’. My first impression was of something not unlike DBC Pierre in Lights Out in Wonderland mode, taking the piss out of the books of Sarah-Cut Lunch … sorry, Sarah-Kate Lynch … and a global legion of surplus foodie novelists. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has turned a hand at the ‘Oh no, the food is just a metaphor!’ genre over the years, for better or worse, from Emile Zola’s florid Le Ventre de Paris (‘The Gut of Paris’) to Günter — ‘what did you do during the war, daddy?’ — Grass’s chewy Der Butt(‘The Flounder’). Most fail to reach the great heights of either of those novels (Eat, Pray, Love anyone?).
            Hare’s nom-de-plumed muse, the peppery Mary Pepper — (every food writer, bar A.A. Gill, seems to have one; consider Sunday Star Times restaurant reviewer Geraldine Johns’ grandiose ‘the Duke’, implying her status as ‘the Duchess’) — who is also known as Thé Glacé (‘Iced Tea’). Mary, a London photographer specialising in eroticised images of food and a former junkie, has left him. This, in a perfect storm with the economic downturn, is how Hare — an Achilles sulking in his tent — comes to be chasing mediocre rabbit poached in wine (a pun on his name, presumably) around his plate in a less-than-salubrious restaurant in Nice (where else?).
             A mysterious, intriguing woman enters (of course), executes a male diner and his female companion, and calmly departs. For no sane reason, Hare chases after this enigmatic gunwoman and throws himself into the getaway taxi to return the fake Gucci handbag she has left behind in the confusion — a Cinderella assassin with shades of Anna Karenina — as you do. The clichés are knee-deep by the end of the first chapter; but that’s deliberate, I suspect, the presentation of a vaguely noir-ish cinematic vision stirred in with keen observations on the absurd pretensions of foodie culture.
            This isn’t a long book — just shy of 200 pages, all written, apparently, over a couple of months — so it fairly cracks on, with Hare in a precarious position as a somewhat complicit, though inconvenient, hostage of his — as it turns out — Palestinian activist captors. The shooter, Dr Hawwa Habash, is a paediatrician (she suggests en passantthat Hare’s alias is a reference to Nils Rosén von Rosenstein, 1706–1773, the Swedish father of the science of modern pediatrics), radicalised by the vile profiteering of Abdul Yassou, her ex-husband, and also the man she has just killed.
            The novel’s title is a nod to the Nakbah, the ‘Catastrophe’, as the 1948 Palestinian exodus during the Arab-Israeli War and preceding civil war is known in Arabic. Much of the story consists of reminiscences: Hare’s of a long ago and far away New Zealand, and of Thé Glacé; and Hawwa’s of her experience of the Palestinian tragedy: death, betrayal, the international trade in human organs, arms dealing, assorted crimes against humanity. Genre-wise, I guess we could call this a political novel as well then. This is the thoughtful Slow Food weave — convoluted politics and characters — that counterpoints the binge-like, Kentucky-Fried-McBurger, ‘pacey thriller’ weft in this story.
            Mary’s ‘catastrophe’ was her marriage to Hare, a self-imposed punishment resulting from the suicide of her Jewish lover from art school. He killed himself in shame over Israel’s complicity in the 1982 massacres of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. (Not terribly likely, I know, but weird Palestinian synchronicities abound, though unexplained, in the novel.) This all comes out after Hare sends a coded email to her from the safe house where he is being kept, (now implicated and compromised by his strange antics), while she, as self-obsessed and about as sympathetic as Hare, is deciding what to do.
            Further Palestiniana includes the fact that Wedde dedicates the novel to the late Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish, whom he became aware of in Jordan in the 1960s, and whose work he has translated in collaboration with the Palestinian scholar Fawwaz Tuqan. Unusually, the novel has a short bibliography, just to remind us of all the research he’s done. Robert Fisk gets big ups, which is suggestive. This isn’t propaganda, but it’s sympathetic and earnest enough to be taking a political risk in some circles: very Victoria University Press, then.
            Reminiscent of the endless lists of exclusive brands in Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho, Catastrophe is a ragoût (noticeably Martin Amis-ish in its self-conscious prose style), liberally slathered with haute-cuisine metaphors, menu similes, outrageous analogies: Yassou’s blood is described as resembling Tomates aux crevettes (a Belgian dish of tomatoes stuffed with shrimps, ew!). Obviously, Wedde is too good a writer to take that kind of tosh seriously, so it must be sarcasm or parody on his part. (Surely.)
            Even so, the writing’s tight as a drum; even if Hare’s self-abduction seems unlikely and counterintuitive, rash impulsiveness is not unheard of in the real world. Personally, I find the self-inflicting Hare loathsome and gross — preening, solipsistic, vain, nihilistic to the point of sociopathy — his epicurean self-indulgence repeatedly invoked by descriptions of his sensuous lips, smacking and licking (very Swinburnian) in the face of others’ starvation and misery. This is very much the point, if a heavy-handed one. Hare is fun to loathe; however even Nabokov’s self-regarding and noisome paedophile Humbert Humbert has more depth. For Hare the perfect Cappon Magro (a ridiculously elaborate Christmastide seafood salad from Liguria, no doubt included as a result of Wedde’s professed fondness for Lucio Galletto’s 2008 Lucio’s Ligurian Kitchen) is as significant an issue as the precarious predicament in which he finds himself.
            Hawwa is a much more appealing character by far – one of those stylish, polyglot, urbane and intellectual professional Palestinian women in exile – a slightly romanticised cross between Lila Abu Lughod, Nadia Hijab, Ghada Karmi, Huwaida Arraf and maybe a pinch of Edward Said in drag – who very much exist in the real world. I wish she was less of a cipher for the tribulations of the Palestinians than she is. We again experience her memories through food. Early on in the book she bitterly notes that Hare’s book on Middle Eastern cooking was unlikely to contain reference to the UN relief supplies she was forced to live off as a refugee in Lebanon, her otherness (mercifully Wedde avoids the temptation to orientalise too much) signalled by the smell of scorched chickpeas (possibly hummus, that straightforward, unfussy, but delicious staple of Levantine cuisine) pervading the safe house. She is, however, a creation Wedde can be proud of.
            While less obviously literary than Wedde’s other novels, this isn’t an easy read either. There’s no spoon-feeding going on — no narrator is reliable, the author makes no direct stands regarding geopolitical history and the personal moral choices of his characters. Wittgenstein believed that all human behaviour was conscious, and therefore a matter of ethics. Wedde (I suspect him of being a neuro-behaviourist at heart) takes the opposite view that sometimes those ethical choices are not always well-thought-through ones, that human beings lose control of themselves at times of great misery. It’s an incredibly difficult novel to review because it is a novel of human illogicality and impulsiveness, the random pointlessness of life and history; and the possibility that it can also be redeemed, made meaningful, by human actions. Wedde strongly implies that we must take personal responsibility for dealing with the outcomes of those irrational impulses. Everyone in The Catastrophe, through the breakdown of humanity and reason, seems to be thrusting themselves into impossible situations from which they cannot extricate themselves: untenable situations that must nonetheless be endured and survived – an exact parallel with the Israeli-Palestinian situation as it is today; a tense, high pressure, ultimately disintegrating stalemate.
            That’s about as close as he gets to any moral in the novel. There can be no easy resolutions, no straightforward answers for any of the characters. Hawwa survives with the conditional sympathy of the reader. Hare remains more or less an utter turd of the first water that no amount of polishing could make very endearing. Mary is more problematic, a morally ambiguous figure somewhere between the two. What kind of novel is The Catastrophe then? That’s a very difficult thing to say. The passages of hedonistic glamour, and the Middle Eastern exoticism, and the political thriller aspects belie somewhat its status as a philosophical novel of political, social and existential import. At the same time, the narrative is suffused with liberal pot-shots at the overblown, ultraviolet-lit prose of food writing, as well as plenty of the dark humour — both pure schadenfreude and a specific variety of bleak irony that flourishes in Gaza and on the West Bank. It is entirely possible to enjoy the book on both levels. An intellectually hungry reader will find pleasure in the challenge posed by this concoction from the newly appointed New Zealand Poet Laureate. All in all, I pronounce The Catastrophe one of the better home-grown literary meals I’ve enjoyed in a while.

ANDREW PAUL WOOD is a Christchurch-based writer and arts commentator who contributes regularly to a wide range of publications.

Dancing Flames

November 1, 2011 Leave a Comment

Azure Rissetto

The Trouble with Fire by Fiona Kidman (Random House, 2011) 302 pp. $36.99.

‘That’s the trouble with fire, you never know which way it will turn.’ So says Alice Scott, a young visitor to the 1860s Canterbury farm of Annie and Frederick Broome in the title story of Fiona Kidman’s latest collection, The Trouble With Fire. The random, haphazard energies of fire noticed by Alice might stand for the nature of storytelling itself, the way stories flicker from person to person.

In Kidman’s hands fire becomes a potent and magical symbol threading through her narratives as she sets about illuminating the domestic lives of ordinary New Zealanders. Kidman spins skeins that cross from the colonial to the postcolonial, the provincial to the metropolitan, from mother to daughter, and then criss-cross back again. Just as fire sparks, spreads, and simpers, so too she displays an ability to seize on aspects of her scenarios and enlarge upon them to suit her larger purpose again and again in this collection.

The eleven stories are divided into three sequences. Part I is made up of six distinct episodes, featuring characters we can recognise as present-day city-dwellers, grappling with issues from the past; Part II centres more closely on a single event which may or may not have occurred on a Waikato farm during the Great Depression; and Part III fictionally recreates scenes from the lives of two ‘real-life’ historical figures. The ‘Fire’ of the title moves from the literal to the figurative, offering fires in the bush, and underground, and in the distance; but it also becomes an index of extreme emotion: adolescent lust, homicidal anger, malicious envy.

The fiery power of ‘storytelling’ is evident everywhere, starting with the opening story, ‘The Italian Boy’. The make-believe gossip that surrounds the Italian boy of the title and Hilary, a young girl in small-town New Zealand in the mid-twentieth century, acts to shroud like smokescreen the real incestuous passion between the brother and sister bullies of her childhood. Only years later, following a visit from her school-friend Meryl, does Hilary confirm that the ‘pregnancy’ which preceded her departure from the town was merely the spiteful fancy of a fifteen-year old girl.

Storytelling is a hot and molten art form, with the volatile capacity to flare and die away, to generate different intensities of emotion according to ever-shifting contexts. The breakdown in communication between a husband and wife pair is the first sign that all is not right for these New Zealand visitors to Vietnam in ‘Silks’. As soon as the husband is quarantined in a local hospital this absence of understanding transmutes into a nightmare of cross-cultural (mis)translation where, in the absence of a shared oral language, every mute gesture becomes imbued with impossible significance. The land itself tells of other stories.

If the intense power of storytelling to carry us through hard times is not renewed by a fresh spark of some kind, it must inevitably fail and be extinguished. Trouble brews for the lovers in ‘The History of It’ when they squabble over the number of children they are supposed to have between them, at least as far as they construct their (false) story for others. Eventually, the actual loss of another child signals their passion for one another is over.

Sometimes trouble arises from what we choose to read into something. For Simon in ‘Heaven Freezes’, a single moment in the car-park of his local supermarket precipitates the end of his second marriage, but it’s also an epiphany — it allows him to finally acknowledge the truth regarding the end of his first marriage.

At other times, trouble lies in wait when we refuse to acknowledge something that is right in front of us. When the fire-spotter husband in ‘Extremes’ fails to recognise the key signs of his wife’s adultery, the child she unexpectedly delivers registers their different kinds of infidelity — the husband’s failure of observation, the wife’s literal unfaithfulness — in her appearance. The nickname he bestows upon the child, ‘firebug’, registers the threat of illicit sexual combustibility in a long-term, seemingly stable marriage.

For Rachel, the other expectant mother in ‘Extremes’, the story of the termination of her love child – a ‘lump of tissue’ which has resulted from a quick ‘office shag’ – is marginalised and eclipsed by the birth announcement which declares the safe arrival of a son to her one-time lover and his wife. Just as she imagines her lost child would have carried the revealing fire-orange hair of its father, Mark, so Rachel soon discovers that the stain of illicit passion is impossible to erase from the genealogy of her life story.

The disfigured appearance of an unwanted child also informs the truncated narrative of a vanished mother in Part II of the collection. When the adoptive parents of an illegitimate newborn return her because of an unsightly birthmark on her face and neck, the act of rejection reverberates through the generations, and for readers as well. As we move from ‘The Man From Tooley Street’ on to ‘Some Other Man’ and finally ‘Under Water’, readers witness family members rhythmically re-write and re-erase the story of the woman’s disappearance, much like the fires which sporadically reignite and recede underneath the farm where the family resides. Yet since a missing body forestalls closure of any kind, the end of the third story in Part II paradoxically directs us back to the beginning.

The final section, Part III, is the most explicit in acknowledging the self-renewing fire of storytelling as it ‘fictionalises’ episodes from the lives of both Gordon Coates — Prime Minister of New Zealand from 1925–1928 — and Lady Barker, the famous colonial writer. In the last, eponymous, story, Kidman rephrases scenes from Barker’s memoir Station Life in New Zealand (1870). Arguably, the dual third-person/first-person narration here illustrates the impossibility of any final narrative authority when it comes to the telling of New Zealand tales.

The stories in this collection are written with unrushed clarity, unforced compassion, and unmannered economy. Fiona Kidman is a veteran storyteller whose intuitive brilliance is undeniably in evidence throughout The Trouble With Fire.

AZURE RISSETTO is currently pursuing her PhD in English Literature at the University of Auckland.

Generation Xperimental

October 1, 2011 Leave a Comment

Jodie Dalgleish

Zebulon: A Cautionary Tale, by Richard Meros, (Lawrence and Gibson, 2011) 169 pp. $24.00; Getting under Sail, by Brannavan Gnanalingam, (Lawrence and Gibson, 2011) 236 pp., $24.00; The Constant Losers, by Alex Wild, (Titus Books, 2010), 189 pp., $30.00.

The ridiculous is skilfully made both funny and thought-provoking in Richard Meros’ Zebulon: A Cautionary Tale, recently published by the writers’ co-operative Lawrence and Gibson. Not only does the book present a writer’s hilariously sadomasochistic efforts to dominate a few fledging writers in order to spark his own creativity, but the head of long-dead Che Guevera is made to thaw on a shelf of the FBI and head south, levitating and directing itself with a new-found power. What’s more, these two unlikely threads of storyline are brought together and intertwined to form a novel that playfully and pointedly explores the potential of experimental fiction and the act of writing itself.

As the book began, I suspected that the writer was going to do little more than indulge in the pursuit of smartass-edly writing about himself. But by the end of the second chapter he had begun to reveal his particular ability to throw reality around since ‘no mere story, especially one posing as auto-biography, can approximate reality’. Meros convinces the reader that the book’s main character is also its author, slyly establishing a chronological link to his previous book, On the Conditions and Possibilities of Helen Clark Taking Me as Her Young Lover. At the same time, he is the book’s main character: a writer typing words that ‘flopped off [his] computer, onto their pages, and onto the floor.’

At the hands of Sally and Leo the main character and author, Richard, is unexpectedly smeared in a number of condiments and subjected to an erotic encounter with a book on tattooed nudes. Somehow inspired, he devises a plan to dominate would-be writers, and reels in three recruits like trout that each require ‘a different type of tickling.’ In master and servant sessions they are slapped, pinched and caressed into writing, without drifting from their narrative flow. But by the end of the fifth chapter, Richard has inevitably and unsatisfactorily slept with one of his recruits, fired another and been overcome by the normalising demands of Riley, the third.

In the sixth chapter Meros goes further, throwing the reader into a narrative that is almost surreal. Taking the ridiculous to a new extreme, Che Guevera’s defrosted head is able to move as if controlled by the joystick of his new life force. Levitating without friction, Che traverses America at his own discretion, creating hysterical rumours and headlines along the way. At the end of the chapter, however, the author presents ‘Richard’s comments’ on that chapter’s text, making it that of Riley, his only productive recruit. And so follows a to-ing and fro-ing of chapters that alternate between the story of Richard and Che.

Over a lengthy nine chapters, Che Guevera achieves a second coming and eventually recognises the impotence, capitalisation and stylisation of his so-called revolution. Co-incidentally, Richard finds a new recruit, Karl, that turns the tables on him, more fully discovers his own impotence as he begins to write again, is suddenly engaged to be married and tries to quit the Lawrence and Gibson Group. This gives substance and movement to Meros’ novel, but if the author did wish to draw parallels between the idea of failed or eventually impotent revolution and writing, he could have made more of the play between these chapters.

Part way through his novel’s nine chapter interplay, Meros infuriates the reader. He takes the story of Che — which is supposedly that of Riley — into his own clutches, sneaking in bits of language he used in his first few chapters. The reader — who is also likely to be a writer, given the experimental nature of Meros’ novel — is likely to ‘tut tut’ and shake a finger. Fully aware of his flaunting of ‘the rules’, however, Meros deliberately plays a trick on the reader and rescues the reputation of experimental fiction in the last chapters of his book.

As it turns out, the members of Lawrence and Gibson (which include Riley and Karl) decide to declare their insolvency. But on the insistence of their accountant, the uncooperative cooperative’s James Marr claims the incomplete manuscripts of its last active members and tries to compile a book that will make enough money to cover their debts. He ‘[cobbles] the confiscated texts into something half-coherent, whittling it all down to two plotlines,’ sends it to Richard to both finish and edit, and calls it ‘Zebulon: A Cautionary Tale.’ In one fell swoop Meros finishes by throwing questions about the authorship of his novel up in the air, and causes the reader to rethink his entire novel as those questions fall.

***

Lawrence and Gibson’s other recently released book, Getting Under Sail by Brannavan Gnanalingam, is less successful. Gnanalingam recounts his extraordinary road trip from Morocco to Ghana with two guys previously his high school friends. It is, as advertised, part-travelogue, part-picaresque and part-confessional. This is what makes it interesting and worthy of attention. However, the language, while at times surprisingly refreshing, is often overburdened by grammar and diluted by unnecessary ‘factual’ or autobiographical information. In addition, the dialogue between Gnanalingam and his travel companions is often banal and the laddish dialogue that includes frequent mention of girlfriends as ‘good bitches’ will, I suspect, sound unreal to most readers.

With some direction and a good edit, Gnanalingam’s book could have been polished into a gem. For the author can conjure a place with a stellar phrase. Of Cairo he writes: ‘the pollution snarled at my eyes, stuck its tongue down my throat like an over-enthusiastic first kiss.’ In the medina of Marrakech: ‘music filled every spare corner … Moroccans [were] taking on the blues, or waltzes with traditional instruments that convinced the sky dust and night air to dance a dervish around the open space.’ In Mauritania, the aroma of fried fish ‘stood out in the blanket of dust.’ In Senegal, a van ‘was a stutterer under stress’, and ‘a sharp, cool, palliative beer’ washed away heat. ‘Tamale was a city lurking in wait.’ And in Busua, fishing boats ‘flopped onto land like a swimmer too tired to get out of a pool.’

Perhaps the most interesting, and yet underdeveloped, thing about Gnalanalingam’s account is his exploration of his own identity as a ‘darkie’ from a ‘white’ country travelling as a tourist in Africa. Throughout the book, the author gives little snippets of his Sri-Lankan heritage and muses on the nature of ‘blackness’ and ‘whiteness’. Poignantly, Gnanalingam calls himself ‘the black man who is white’. On the back of this is a load of guilt, contradiction and conflict that works its way to the book’s end. Gnanalingam does fully understand and explore the strange experience that is travelling, however. He mentions the need to explore the world for the sake of it, the practice of ticking off attractions, the way a traveller remains dislocated from people and their so-called monuments, the fact that ‘tourists’ and ‘locals’ inevitably act out their respective roles, and the supposed superiority of the well-travelled.

***

Like Zebulon, The Constant Losers by Alex Wild is a surprising and successful work of experimental fiction. Written as a series of zines that combine text-speak, doodles and photocopied notes, it offers funny and appealing musings on music, relationships, books and sexuality, among other things. Of particular note is its ability to be fully Generation Y (‘OMGWTF’) while it draws on plenty of music and other stuff dear and recognisable to a Generation Xer, such as the practice of making and exchanging audio cassette tapes.

It might seem unlikely that any writer could maintain a zine format with its truncated manner of speech and keep the reader engaged, but Wild pulls it off with ease. She lets her zine-like format structure her novel’s text under snappy headings and uses her doodles as visual cues. At the same time, she offers a recognisable narrative flow. She has a deft touch and a way of making her story live through her own kind of content. In particular, the tone of her central characters, Frankie and Amy, skilfully carries the smile, wink and nudge of the author. And the battle-of-the-zines that develops between them and ultimately brings them together is nothing less than a sweet read.

JODIE DALGLEISH is a curator, critic and author currently living in Wellington. She is a regular contributor to the online art journal EyeContact, and has a Masters degree in Creative Writing from the Auckland University of Technology.

A Father’s Rights

October 1, 2011 Leave a Comment

Brett Lupton

Settlers’ Creek, by Carl Nixon  (Random House, 2010), 330 pp. $29.99.

I have been an admirer of Carl Nixon ever since, some years ago, I read his short story ‘My Father Running with a Dead Boy’. Settler’s Creek is Nixon’s second novel and, having read this, I want very much to seek out his first, Rocking Horse Road, written in 2007.

The story in Settler’s Creek is told through the third-person perspective of Box Saxton, a man devastated by the sudden death of his stepson. Worse, the boy’s biological father, a Maori elder, takes the body without consent to be buried in ancestral land. Through his shock and grief, and memories of his own unfortunate family life, Box is compelled to set out to recover the son he has lost.

Nixon obviously recognises that much of the emotional power is already in the material and through tasteful changes of tense, from past to present, he adds additional focus as needed. All of which culminates in a simple but evocative style of prose that subtly reinforces themes and provides insight into the lives of the characters and how they may later react.

Box looked at the tools left hanging on the walls of the shed. A lot of them were missing now …. When he was very young Box hadn’t understood that his grandfather had drawn around each tool in here with a heavy marker and then painted in the outline in black on the wall. Back then, Box, the boy, had believed … that the tool had left behind its shadow … He looked at the black marks now, faded but still visible. Surrounded by the smells of linseed and earth, he stood for a long time and stared at the wall of lost shadows.

Yet despite the relative simplicity of plot and style, the issues Settler’s Creek addresses are certainly not so simple. In fact its cluster of thematic concerns are so snarly and gnarly, it took some thought to decide what this novel is really about. An ambivalent book for an ambivalent time: because it hugs the centre of a road that traces the nation’s bicultural faultline, as if testing territoriality, I am sure this book will mean different things to different people.

Initially the main concern appears to be the obvious clash of opposing world-views. And Nixon devotes much of the novel to developing this dynamic: the European equivalent of tangata whenua symbolised by a family bible; the dual cultural background of his stepson Stephen/Tipene; several examples of the inability of both sides to communicate effectively. He clearly wants a balanced view of both cultures.

But this is also where the novel occasionally wavers. Exactly because both sides of the argument have validity, and there are no readily apparent solutions, Nixon must act as a kind of facilitator — an explainer and ameliorator. As a result, there is sometimes the palpable sense of being led by a firm and insistent (‘fatherly’) hand through the issues. I feel the intentions of the story, and the storyteller, would be better served by allowing the reader the same space to think about the events as that which they’re allowed for emotional reaction — otherwise, paradoxically, the novel, wanting to maintain an even keel (overly concerned with everyone getting ‘a fair hearing’), is in danger of tipping into melodrama, bathos, or worse.

Balancing the cultural issues also distracts from what I feel is the novel’s true thematic focus: not the larger issue of social politics, but the ostensibly smaller – but no less important – question of what constitutes true fatherhood? This is where the novel derives its true power and purpose, and this is primarily why, I think, the author elects to tell the story through the suddenly bereft protagonist. Nixon is at his best when writing directly about Box and his experiences.

And when at his best, all concerns for the political issues that tend to divide us as a nation are swept away by what really matters, the immediacy of personal experience:

Now, looking at the damage, Box couldn’t help imagining latex hands cracking open his son’s chest. He felt a surge of anger. What the hell were they looking for anyway? Wasn’t it obvious that it was hanging from his neck that had killed the kid? Box imagined them reaching into the excavated chest and lifting out the boy’s heart. They would have held it up, turned it towards the light and slowly rolled it over for closer inspection. How much had it weighed? he wondered.

Notwithstanding the odd stumble, Settler’s Creek, with its exploration of contemporary moral complexities, and with its evocation of a particular time and place, lingers in the mind as a fine novel. And, despite my not having read his Rocking Horse Road (a situation soon to be rectified), this novel, in my estimation, is a necessary and successful step forward for this award-winning short-story exponent in getting to grips with the technical complexities of the larger form. It seems obvious to me that, from the luminous and careful crafting of this novel, and his dedication to building on that craft, Carl Nixon is destined to become one of New Zealand’s leading writers.

BRETT LUPTON is a writer and musician who lives in Dunedin. He is currently completing a PG (dip) Arts in English at the University of Otago.