Making Waves at HOP Snr
At last, a reason to live. I’ve just finished reading Tim Winton’s Breath. In the last few weeks I’ve waded through a sludge of awful Australian novels. I’ve near enough drowned in bottomless quagmires of syrupy metaphors. There is only so much I can take of being told the sky/land/sea is very like something related to food/sex/madness. I’ve all but choked on prize-directed worthiness and been conned into taking gratuitous side trips to London or New York serving no other purpose than to woo the UK or US market. Rubbish writers please note – I do not require you to actually have been to these places, you do however, have to make me believe you are taking me there. A little less reliance on the London Underground map and a little more on the imagination s’il vous plait, my time is precious.
'Some risks it would seem are beyond respecting. Meanwhile, everyone is terrified that this whatever life has become, is it. And what’s worse is it’ll be over soon.'
'Now I knew there was no room left in my life for stupid risks. Death was everywhere – waiting, willing, undiminished. It would always be coming for me and mine and I told myself, I could no longer afford the thrill of courting it.'