Randolph Stow (1935–2010)

The first line of this book is a favourite of mine: "I say we have a bitter heritage, but that is not to run it down."

I don't think Stow is known by many members of my generation, which I think is a shame. Well, I don't think he's for everyone. His prose must already have been amorphous and tricky even then; his intentions sometimes obscure; his themes specific and psychological. But, gee whiz, I enjoy him. There's something of Joseph Conrad in Stow's vision of man trying to fight nature armed only with culture and religion, neither of which he can be fully certain of. Transpose this to the dusty red of the Australian outback, and you have something most intriguing.… (plus d'informations)

"White man always talking and never listening" [said Justin].
"I'm sorry," said Heriot humbly.
"Whatever you say to white man, he always got something else to say. Always got to be the last one."
"We call it conversation", Heriot said, and bit his lip as soon as the words were out.

A bleak, atmospheric work, meditating on the relationship between white and black in Australia, between colonists and those they sought to colonise. "We're all lost here", says Heriot, the protagonist. And Stow - although he spent his later life living in England - evidently felt that great sense of loss among this fierce, overpoweringly beautiful country. It's a work of great prose power, as all of Stow's works are. A fairly quick read and, more importantly for a work that is now past its 60th anniversary, still a fantastic contribution to the ongoing conversation about the coming of the British to this seemingly endless continent.

They rode in a silence relieved only by the rattle of stones from the horses' hoofs. Trees, grasses and water were still as death, and beyond them was nothing but rock. They passed a stretch of rock pitted and wrinkled like lava. How old is this country? Heriot wondered. But it's not old, it's just born, the sea has never been over it, it was created yesterday, dead as the moon. Let the sea some day come up and drown it and fish come swimming out of the rock-pigeons' holes. I will ride with my hair green and wild, through the canyons of the sea.… (plus d'informations)

An Australian writer who is new to me but both prolific and very highly regarded. The German word that would describe this book is probably bildungsroman: a coming-of-age story ostensibly about Rob (six when the book opens, fourteen when it ends) who idolizes his older cousin Rick. Rick is absent for much of the book because he is a Japanese POW in World War Two. The tale describes Rob’s day-to-day life in his small hometown and at family sheep stations in western Australia. Although I was never captivated by Stow’s writing (more than any other Australian writer I’ve read, he makes use of Australian idioms), he is nevertheless masterful at depicting the life of a maturing young boy and, even more, providing a sense of place. He has a gift for imagery and, indeed, the book is in some ways a love letter to place. In fact, it’s this very aspect of the book that I find puzzling because Stow left Australia in his early thirties and stayed away for the last 36 years of his life (he died in England in 2010 at the age of 74). Toward the end of the book, the focus largely shifts from Rob to his cousin Rick and Stow moves from nostalgia to poignancy. Much as I was impressed the first two-thirds of the book, I thought he hit his stride in this last portion. I never loved the work but still consider it a very impressive novel and wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it.… (plus d'informations)