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Books

Breath by Tim Winton

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I think this is Tim Winton’s best novel.  He has lost his earlier pretentiousness.  His writing is spare, evocative and compelling. 

The tale is told by a paramedic in his 50s who attends an accidental hanging.   He knows it’s accidental because of events in his youth, and so you are drawn into this tale of coming of age.  Of a young boy becoming a teenager, who with his friend become acolytes of an enigmatic surfer.  A surfer who encourages them to risk everything for the rush that comes with living on the edge.

The rush that cuts through everything to make you feel alive.

It’s also the story of friendship, and of chips that we carry with us from childhood.

I felt a little creeped out by the book.  You want to like your hero right?  Instead I felt repelled.  But perhaps it was more that I was repelled at how easily he slipped into character traits that were less than seemly.  Maybe slipping into them is easier than we’d like to think. 

Groover thinks the book describes Tim.  I don’t like to think of him as that creepy myself.

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One other small niggle:  I hate the way Tim uses Angeles and Sawyer for the town names.  I find it a distraction and it gives me the irrits. 

I’d be interested in your thoughts.  Have you read Breath?

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SMH article

The Australian

Groover, Random

Why surfing is like sex

“Surfing is a strange sport. It’s like sex. All week we talk about it. We spend hours on the telephone finding out whether or not conditions look good to do it. We argue about where to go to do it. And when it finally comes to doing it, we spend seven hours in rubber suits for what may amount to a 15 second ride after which we get dumped and hurt and then spend the rest of the time avoiding the wet patch.”

[excerpt of a letter from Groover to the Dark Horse early in 1990]

Yes ,The Dark Horse has arrived and we spent an enjoyable evening catching up and getting to know his lady. TDH brought with him some ephemeral reminders of days gone past including some letters Groover wrote TDH as a young man – before he met me.

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“We ended up at 1 o’clock on Monday morning in our grundies with three policemen making “We’re going to arrest you” noises, in the sea, in October, outside a bombed out hotel, with two girls throwing our clothes and my bank cards, to the wind. So my first night was pretty uneventful.”

But the classic line for me was his sign off:

“Lend us a fiver! P.S. I’m pregnant.”