The book of David Metzenthen “Boys of Blood and Bones” is composed as two interlaying stories: one set in the present time and one placed in the World War I. For starters, if you put each story as a separate book, both these books will be total rubbish.
Why? What do you call a book with no structure and no story, and absolutely nothing happening? Correct: you call it a waste of your time and possibly money (hopefully, you got it from your library and not paid for it!) If I want to read about the World War I, Erich Maria Remarque or Aleksey Tolstoy, both write much better prose. If I want to read about Australian boys going windsurfing, well, the windsurfing is an exciting sport, but not too much to write a book about (the surfing could be a good part mixed with something else, such as a treasure hunt, or a detective, or a love story; but alone – no, it does not stand a chance.) Instead of reading a book about surfing, I would rather go learn windsurfing myself. Way more fun and a good exercise. And do I need a book for it? Yes! A tourist guide will do, cheers, mate.
The characters in each of two Metzenthen’s “separate books” are as flat and predictable a slice of Salami, and probably have one for the brains. It is difficult to develop a character with a slice of Salami for a brain into something other than Pizza. The author’s descriptions – are not descriptive. Every time David Metzenthen comes to something he needs a bit of literature talent for, he wisely stops himself. For example, there is no description of a tragic traffic accident with one of the main present-day characters, Trot (he dies; and I vividly imagine that slice of Salami smashed all over windshield.) Equally non-descriptive is that episode of the final attack into the no-man’s land in the World War One part. How can I write this without talent, the author asks himself. Too much work, mate! Let just stick in a one-sentence mention of the traffic accident here and the three-line mention of that attack there, and let the reader to think through the rest. The only thing that makes any of the “two books” stand out a bit is a heavy Australian accent and slang (with all the swearing,) but I can hardly imagine making a full 276-page story on the accents alone.
Now, it does not matter how complicated Metzenthen can make a combination of his “two books” by constantly and unexpectedly jumping from one story to another, from the modern-day beach to the WW-I trenches, a zero plus zero is still a zero. This is not literature, but a waste of paper. It would be marginally acceptable if the author paid the readers few dollars to read his rubbish (or at least if he sent me coupons for free movies,) but otherwise it is a total, outrageous waste of the reader’s time.
Do not bother with this book, mate!