Richard Flanagan: The Sound of One Hand Clapping

[Cocko]

Here's one from 1997:

In reading the reviews of this novel the words gut-wrenching, heartbreaking and poignant often appear. I suppose that is because there are only so many superlatives one can use to describe the tragic story that unfolds in Richard Flanagan’s second novel. The story in question is focused on one of the many migrant families that fled post-war Europe and found themselves constructing dams in the isolation of Tasmania’s remote river system in the 1950s. People scarred by the horrors of war, attempting to rebuild their lives in the emptiness of their new and unfamiliar surrounds.

This is an almost unbearably sad tale, but if you can bear the sadness you will discover that it is a very beautiful piece of writing. Flanagan is mining rich territory as he draws metaphors between the migrant workers attempting to hold back the tides of water while attempting to hold back the tide of their memories and emotions. But, the simplicity of this symbolism does not do Flanagan justice. His triumph is not just found in his telling of the broader migrant workers, but rather the way in which he does this through an estranged father and daughter.

The events over 35-years unfold with such power that the reader is at once repulsed, yet constantly in contradiction of being ever-hopeful. To be honest it isn’t a pleasant experience and is quite surreal should you be reading a novel such as this as I did on public transport. But, difficult certainly does not mean bad, it means challenging, as the reader is asked to fight a preconceived notion of love, responsibility and what is fair and just.

Flanagan’s writing is effortless and as such the reader is carried along at speed. For my mind this is vital as the violence that unfolds in this story is borderline oppressive and all consuming. If I had to fault any part it would be the level of trauma inflicted on its characters, but then again this is an exploration of resilience.

An interesting post script to this is that Flanagan directed a screen version of the novel. You can read an interview about his experiences here.

How's this for a passage:

There is only this, thought Bojan. Flesh and stretched bones and shit and wood that grows in trees that stretches flesh and flesh that flattens wood to make meaningless things such as this hut in which we are and this noise that means nothing. There was birth and there was love and there was death, and there were only these three stories in life and no others, but there was also this noise, this endless noise that confused people, making them forget that everything died. There was only that, thought Bojan, and he lifted Sonja to his chest. He began to sob, at first quietly, then uncontrollably, and it was then that Sonja put her small arms around her father’s head, and cradled it as if it were the most fragile thing in the world, as if it were made of china and could as easily be broken.