David Malouf: Johnno

[Cocko]

Here's one from 1975:

David Malouf’s first novel is certainly a personal one. This semi-autobiographical account of Johnno, a troubled adolescent cum restless adult is as much a glimpse into Malouf’s own upbringing as it is that of an often strained and dysfunctional, but profoundly strong and loving friendship. Although there is significant emotional power conveyed in the final chapters as the men acknowledge the strength of their bond, I would suggest that the real payoff is found in earlier passages where Malouf discusses his own insecurities, both in place (the mediocrity of Brisbane) and person (the uneventful roots of a studious middle-class suburban boy).

An accomplished poet, Malouf’s nostalgic turn of phrase gives this bland picture of Australia a chance to thrive as he strings together memories of Johnno, and Johnno’s elusive search for a dream that fights the expectations of time and location.

Unfortunately, while I engaged with Dante, the moniker for Malouf, I found myself uninspired with the character of Johnno. I had wondered if this was due to the way in which the story unfolds through fleeting moments, and short glimpses, of friendship strung over many years. Yet, I soon realised that a similar disjointed approach to narrative structure was used to great effect by Malouf in his 1993 masterpiece, Remembering Babylon.

In the end I decided that the novel reads like a one side love letter, a letter which contains much beauty and craftsmanship, but ultimately a letter that is shared between two not three.

Still, here's a nice passage (mind the language):

I’m going to shit this bitch of a country right out of my system,’ he told me fiercely. ‘Twenty fucking years! How long will it take me, do you think, to shit out every last trace of it? At the end of every seven years you’re completely new - did you know that? New fingernails, new hair, new cells. There’ll be nothing left in me of bloody Australia. I’ll be transmuted. I’ll say to myself every morning as I squat on the dunny, there goes another bit of Australia. That was Wilson’s Promontory. That was Toowong. Whoosh, down the plughole! And at the end of seven years I’ll have squeezed the whole fucking continent out through my arsehole. I’ll have got rid of it forever. All this.’ His wild glance took in Queen Street at four in the afternoon, with the newsboys innocently shouting the racing results, and women shoppers, with no conception of the fate Johnno had in store for them, shifting wearily from foot to foot in the islands between the traffic. It seemed a large task for one man to accomplish. Even in a lifetime. Let alone seven years.

[Stewart]

Obviously I can't comment on this book but I recently got a glimpse of the cover in the new Penguin Modern Classics edition.



If the UK doesn't publish these - including the Jolleys and Garners - then I think I'm going to have to save up some cash to get them onto my shelves.