The inside blurb informs me that this novel, the author's third, was runner up for the Australian National Book Award in 1985. That, and the great cover of this Virago Modern Classics edition incited me to rescue it from the bottom shelf in a thrift shop and take it home to give it a read, reviews unseen. For the equivalent of 75 cents, I risked only my time, and might even get lucky and discover a great author unknown to me. It's happened before, so yes, I hunt those bottom shelves and make those quick judgments based on the cover.
Well, I didn't get lucky. I read this with a combination of appreciation, irritation, and yes, at times, the dreaded boredom.
First, the appreciation. J. Turner Hospital has a few tricks up her sleeve, and is a more than capable writer. She has, in Borderline, set about writing an ambitious novel and taken a number of risks for which she deserves some credit.
Now, the irritation (sigh). These same writerly risks, cool that they may be, just don't work here, at least not all together. There is an unreliable narrator (who lets us know as much, from the beginning), a loosely postmodern construction, a smidgen of magic realism, some social commentary (of the circa 1980's Sandinista variety), the borderline theme pressed to the core (between dreams/reality, memory/reality, art and fiction/reality, etc. etc.), references to religion, to Dante, to art, to the theatre; and what have you. To top it all off, there is a very silly attempt to inject elements of a mystery thriller that sours almost all of the other directions taken in this novel. It's as if the cook, unsure of what else to add, throws the whole spice rack in, hoping for a fortuitous outcome.
Finally, the boredom. Yes, there are characters writhing around in here, but most never make it out of the pot. From the philandering, guilt-ridden Canadian salesman (Augustine) who by accident encounters the atmospheric noble heroine on a pedestal (Felicity) to the stereotyped artist-with-big-appetites older lover (Seymour, the Old Volcano) to his wordy and withdrawn son Jean-Mark (the unreliable narrator, seriously smitten and given to unchecked fantasy about his let's call her sometime step-mother Felicity) to La Magdalena, La Desconocida, or just plain Dolorez Marquez, who is at the heart of the story but who never out-steps her ethereal role, as well as a number of other characters - all flavor elements who play a part in the narrative without otherwise existing; at least not to the point where a reader might actually get interested in them.
Final thoughts: A novel that doesn't hold up to its ambition, Borderline is more or less disappointing. Perhaps the author has written more convincing works since so if I happen across another of her novels on used book trawls , I might give it a shot. Until then, I won't be actively seeking them.