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Revision as of 12:01, 28 February 2009
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{{infobox
|title=His Illegal Self
|author=Peter Carey
|reviewer=Paul Harrop
|genre=Literary Fiction
|summary=An intense look at relationships, with a real feel for outsiders and landscape, conveyed in rich, beautifully-wrought prose. Much to enjoy if you can accept the slightly artificial plot.
|rating=4.5
|buy=Yes
|borrow=Yes
|format=Paperback
|pages=288
|publisher= Faber and Faber
|date=March 2009
|isbn=978-0571231546
|amazonuk=<amazonuk>0571231543</amazonuk>
|amazonus=<amazonus>030726372X</amazonus>
}}
Seven-year-old Che Selkirk has a lot of questions. Why has he been taken
away from his parental grandmother? Who is Dial, the woman who has
abducted him? Is she his mother? Why have they left New York so suddenly
for a hippy commune in the Australian outback? And most importantly,
where is his daddy?
The little he knows about his parents he has learned from his older
friend Cameron. They are something to do with SDS – Students for a
Democratic Society, living 'underground' as part of the sixties US
radical protest movement. And, says Cameron, they will come for him one day.
Peter Carey's novel is a touching look at the confusion and hope upon
which we build our identities. In Che and Dial, and the love and anger
which bind them, he shows us two naive, lost souls trying to make sense
of a world where nothing is certain.
That uncertainty extends to almost every aspect of their lives. They are
referred to throughout as 'the mother' and 'the boy'. As such, they
become primal, feral figures. Living beyond the law and conventional
society, where nobody is known by their real names, they come to realise
that the only dependable thing they have is each other.
In a book where relatively little happens and the major plot event
(flight to Australia) seems arbitrary, sudden and unexplained,
psychological accuracy and dense, often poetic prose sustain the reader.
Like his characters, we are cut adrift from conventional textual
landmarks: there are no speech marks. Authorial narrative and
characters' internal monologues alternate without warning. We switch
between the present and flashbacks, through which Carey fills in some of
the blanks in his characters' history.
Carey's skills as a writer, though, make sure you are rarely confused
about what is happening or who is talking or thinking. His brief
sentences and short chapters crackle with arresting, not to say
occasionally puzzling, similes. Animal imagery abounds: in the first few
pages alone, Che is described as a ''lovely insect''; he and Dial
''slippery together as newborn goats''. Comically, he describes the
fugitive pair as being ''on the lamb''.
That oneness with nature, and their feral existence in the bush, make
the physical realities of the novel as acute as the emotional insights.
Carey, who lived on a commune himself, uses his direct experience to
bring us a convincing, visceral picture of life in direct contact with
the earth (even, at one stage, living literally underground).
That immersion in the landscape, and in the minds of Che and Dial are
the real rewards of this book. The paucity of action, and the curious
lack of tension as sharp reality closes in on the couple, are the price
we pay for Carey’s intimacy with his characters.
In compensation, we get a text which will reward re-reading, if only to
savour the beauty of the words and its profound explorations of the
meanings of identity, family and love.
I'd like to thank the publsihers for sending a copy to The Bookbag.
If this book appeals to you then you might also enjoy [[Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje|Divisadero]] by [[:Category:Michael Ondaatje|Michael Ondaatje]].
{{amazontext|amazon=0571231543}}
{{commenthead}}
|title=His Illegal Self
|author=Peter Carey
|reviewer=Paul Harrop
|genre=Literary Fiction
|summary=An intense look at relationships, with a real feel for outsiders and landscape, conveyed in rich, beautifully-wrought prose. Much to enjoy if you can accept the slightly artificial plot.
|rating=4.5
|buy=Yes
|borrow=Yes
|format=Paperback
|pages=288
|publisher= Faber and Faber
|date=March 2009
|isbn=978-0571231546
|amazonuk=<amazonuk>0571231543</amazonuk>
|amazonus=<amazonus>030726372X</amazonus>
}}
Seven-year-old Che Selkirk has a lot of questions. Why has he been taken
away from his parental grandmother? Who is Dial, the woman who has
abducted him? Is she his mother? Why have they left New York so suddenly
for a hippy commune in the Australian outback? And most importantly,
where is his daddy?
The little he knows about his parents he has learned from his older
friend Cameron. They are something to do with SDS – Students for a
Democratic Society, living 'underground' as part of the sixties US
radical protest movement. And, says Cameron, they will come for him one day.
Peter Carey's novel is a touching look at the confusion and hope upon
which we build our identities. In Che and Dial, and the love and anger
which bind them, he shows us two naive, lost souls trying to make sense
of a world where nothing is certain.
That uncertainty extends to almost every aspect of their lives. They are
referred to throughout as 'the mother' and 'the boy'. As such, they
become primal, feral figures. Living beyond the law and conventional
society, where nobody is known by their real names, they come to realise
that the only dependable thing they have is each other.
In a book where relatively little happens and the major plot event
(flight to Australia) seems arbitrary, sudden and unexplained,
psychological accuracy and dense, often poetic prose sustain the reader.
Like his characters, we are cut adrift from conventional textual
landmarks: there are no speech marks. Authorial narrative and
characters' internal monologues alternate without warning. We switch
between the present and flashbacks, through which Carey fills in some of
the blanks in his characters' history.
Carey's skills as a writer, though, make sure you are rarely confused
about what is happening or who is talking or thinking. His brief
sentences and short chapters crackle with arresting, not to say
occasionally puzzling, similes. Animal imagery abounds: in the first few
pages alone, Che is described as a ''lovely insect''; he and Dial
''slippery together as newborn goats''. Comically, he describes the
fugitive pair as being ''on the lamb''.
That oneness with nature, and their feral existence in the bush, make
the physical realities of the novel as acute as the emotional insights.
Carey, who lived on a commune himself, uses his direct experience to
bring us a convincing, visceral picture of life in direct contact with
the earth (even, at one stage, living literally underground).
That immersion in the landscape, and in the minds of Che and Dial are
the real rewards of this book. The paucity of action, and the curious
lack of tension as sharp reality closes in on the couple, are the price
we pay for Carey’s intimacy with his characters.
In compensation, we get a text which will reward re-reading, if only to
savour the beauty of the words and its profound explorations of the
meanings of identity, family and love.
I'd like to thank the publsihers for sending a copy to The Bookbag.
If this book appeals to you then you might also enjoy [[Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje|Divisadero]] by [[:Category:Michael Ondaatje|Michael Ondaatje]].
{{amazontext|amazon=0571231543}}
{{commenthead}}
