What do you think?
Rate this book


194 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2016
"The woman could see the man kept staring at some girl. He looked at her as if she were the Turkish delight they’d brought to the party, as if she were the offered plate. The woman thought she might have imagined it. She knew she hadn’t imagined it. She reached out and touched the elbow of the other woman. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll be back.’ The other woman squinted her eyes and nodded and smiled, as the music washed over the room. The woman walked past the bathroom entrance and onto the terrace and propped her elbows on the balcony rails, leaning against them, near the whirring of the pig. She looked up at the now dark sky, tinged orange, and then out to the other terrace windows. In one of the large terrace windows a woman was there, her back visible. Then a man appeared, and they were both facing away from the window. The man grabbed the woman’s neck hard, he shook her side to side, and then he did something that seemed strange, and turned and looked out the window. He met the woman’s gaze, from the window to the balcony, and then just stood, looking, with his hand tight on the neck as if from the distance the act was not so violent at all."
I could spend time wondering why Tara June Winch is not Australian literary royalty now*. Or I just enjoy this collection, which builds from good through to outstanding as it progresses. Winch is interested in the emotional turmoil under the surface, the ways emotional crescendos are reached in small moments, after long build-ups. It is not surprising her tapestry is 'political': tackling terrorism, refugees, colonialism, racism, and the impact of intergenerational trauma, but this is not a particularly polemical book. Winch's focus remains on emotional landscapes, never on grand narratives.
At its best, every line punches, Winch is particularly effective at alternating length and complexity of sentence - "The rain began to pour and stampede the street; the noise, she thought, was like a million quaking hearts, a frenzy of drumbeats signaling something else approaching.", or, "Later he would trawl through years of minor internet articles to recall the things that defined him. He did this when he became lonely and his life prematurely quiet." And the consistent quality and revelation is almost intoxicating, I wanted to laugh (Or whoop - is that what whooping is?) for the sheer pleasure of reading her prose. At moments, like the headline quote, she captures a feeling, a sense of deja vu so acutely.
Winch feels like the writer we need now. Someone who digs into our world behind the media cycle to find the humanity in who we are. Her characters do awful things, as well as survive them. Many are overwhelmed by their own constraint or helplessness, but in the midst of this, Winch sees them, gives them agency, recognises that we all live, and choose, and maybe struggle.
And look, really I just want her to write a leetle bit faster. And yes, get a lot more respect.
*So this was nominated for two state literary awards - not nothing - but not a Stella or a MF either. I'd assume it was a short story problem, except both have had short story compilations nominated in the last few years. Maybe it is simply generational. Maybe no-one shares my taste. But it still irritates.