What do you think?
Rate this book
The Pages
Murray Bail’s first novel since Eucalyptus is a beguiling meditation on friendship and love, on men and women, on landscape and the difficulties of thought itself.
What are THE PAGES?
On a family sheep station in the interior of Australia, a brother and sister work the property while their reclusive brother Wesley Antill, spends years toiling away in one of the sheds, writing a philosophy. Now he has died.
Erica, a philosopher, is sent from Sydney to appraise his work. Accompanying her is Sophie who needs a distraction from a string of failed relationships. Her field is psychoanalysis. These two women, each with a different view of the world, meet a situation they have not experienced before — with surprising results.
What are THE PAGES?
On a family sheep station in the interior of Australia, a brother and sister work the property while their reclusive brother Wesley Antill, spends years toiling away in one of the sheds, writing a philosophy. Now he has died.
Erica, a philosopher, is sent from Sydney to appraise his work. Accompanying her is Sophie who needs a distraction from a string of failed relationships. Her field is psychoanalysis. These two women, each with a different view of the world, meet a situation they have not experienced before — with surprising results.
199 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2008
6 people are currently reading
214 people want to read
About the author
Murray Bail
26 books50 followersMurray Bail (born 22 September 1941) is an Australian writer of novels, short stories and non-fiction.
He was born in Adelaide, South Australia. He has lived most of his life in Australia except for sojourns in India (1968–70) and England and Europe (1970–74). He currently lives in Sydney.
He was trustee of the National Gallery of Australia from 1976 to 1981, and wrote a book on Australian artist Ian Fairweather.
A portrait of Bail by the artist Fred Williams is hung in the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra. The portrait was done while both Williams and Bail were Council members of the National Gallery of Australia
He was born in Adelaide, South Australia. He has lived most of his life in Australia except for sojourns in India (1968–70) and England and Europe (1970–74). He currently lives in Sydney.
He was trustee of the National Gallery of Australia from 1976 to 1981, and wrote a book on Australian artist Ian Fairweather.
A portrait of Bail by the artist Fred Williams is hung in the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra. The portrait was done while both Williams and Bail were Council members of the National Gallery of Australia
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 65 reviews
November 18, 2009
Murray Bail's 1998 book, Eucalyptus, is one of my most beloved books. It resonates so strongly with me that I'm always disappointed when other readers don't like it like I do - even though I can understand it, especially if they're not Australian and have never been there. It's a mix of Bail's distinctive writing style and the story itself: it either works for you or it doesn't.
The same is very much true of The Pages, a simple, short novel about two women, psychologists from Sydney, who travel seven hours to a sheep station in rural New South Wales to read a possible philosophic work written by a farmer's son, Wesley Antill, now dead. It was in his will that someone read and evaluate his work with the possibility of publishing it, and Erica is sent by the university to do just that. She takes her friend Sophie with her, who after yet another failed affair with a married man needs a break. Wesley's younger brother and sister, Roger and Lindsey, run the sheep station and are just as curious about Wesley's work. Interwoven with this present-day story is the story of Wesley, leaving home first to live in Sydney and then to travel around Europe.
Perhaps because it's a simpler, more straight-forward story, perhaps because it's quiet and uneventful, but it was definitely not the masterpiece Eucalyptus is. It still has Bail's beautiful, introspective prose - a style I simply do not have the words for, and in my failure I can only let Bail speak for himself:
It's Bail's ability to anthropomorphise the land, or to do the opposite - to render humans and their ways into a kind of landscape, to naturalise them - that I love. However, I felt that his style was limited here, that it wasn't quite appropriate to the story, or didn't go far enough. It certainly doesn't have the same magic as in Eucalyptus - I struggled to find quote-worthy passages and I'm not sure I picked appropriate ones. Bail writes like he truly understands that writing is an artform - and he's still experimenting. It may be a weaker story, and his prose might not be as satisfying as it was in his first book, but it still picks me up and carries me off as if on the wind, all lightness and astute glimpses into people's hearts.
That's the magic of Bail's prose, to enable me to see things in a way I'd never seen them before. It's got nothing to do with adjectives, not really. It's more of an approach, and a perspective. It comes across as a "tell" rather than "show" style because it's very narrative, but actually when you stop to think about it you'll realise how much he's not saying, but subtly revealing, or leaving open to interpretation. Yet, even just looking at these quotes here, I found some of the grammar and structure awkward, and itch to readjust it.
The actual story didn't interest me as much, though I did like it. I liked Erica's story better than Wesley's - Wesley wasn't a convincing character, but an inconclusive one. Not as believable, despite being familiar. He read too fictional, and I felt nothing for him except, I admit, a bit of superiority.
Despite my complaints, I still really liked it, mostly because of how Bail can transport me home, to the country I love best and miss with all my heart and which, I feel, Bail always knows how to bring alive for me - like he's the only one who understands and sees the country the same way I do. I can lose myself in his words. His style isn't for everyone, that I can understand, and this isn't the better book to start with. He has three other novels and a collection of short stories, but I can only speak for Eucalyptus, which makes my veins hum.
The same is very much true of The Pages, a simple, short novel about two women, psychologists from Sydney, who travel seven hours to a sheep station in rural New South Wales to read a possible philosophic work written by a farmer's son, Wesley Antill, now dead. It was in his will that someone read and evaluate his work with the possibility of publishing it, and Erica is sent by the university to do just that. She takes her friend Sophie with her, who after yet another failed affair with a married man needs a break. Wesley's younger brother and sister, Roger and Lindsey, run the sheep station and are just as curious about Wesley's work. Interwoven with this present-day story is the story of Wesley, leaving home first to live in Sydney and then to travel around Europe.
Perhaps because it's a simpler, more straight-forward story, perhaps because it's quiet and uneventful, but it was definitely not the masterpiece Eucalyptus is. It still has Bail's beautiful, introspective prose - a style I simply do not have the words for, and in my failure I can only let Bail speak for himself:
"Erica who was holding onto the door - just his thumb and forefingeer keeping them on track - hand closest often changing down to first - saw how his way of conversing, which had plenty more stops and starts and false trails than actual words, followed the contours of the meandering landscape. Having to negotiate the unevenness on a daily basis had infected his speech. And when coming out with a sentence of more than three words he closed his eyes, the eyelids fluttering slightly as he spoke." (p.87)
"On the train to Bath, a young Frenchman with a violin case on his knees spoke of the conversion of nature into art. Art, being human, is imperfect - hence, its power, smiled the Frenchman. Antill enjoyed the conversation, and thought of seeing more of him, perhaps becoming friends, but when it came to it he couldn't find his address. Women were like small towns: to come upon them, and be surrounded by their neatness, but without the help of directions, before reaching unexpected dead ends; and begin all over again, elsewhere." (p.123)
"It was time for Erica to return to the shed, to submerge herself in the pages. But it was comfortable on the veranda, in the cane chairs with cushions, looking out past the sheds to the brown-purple horizon, tall spreading gum on the left. Lindsey was easy company. The way she allowed, and even encouraged gaps, imitated the landscape." (p.170)
It's Bail's ability to anthropomorphise the land, or to do the opposite - to render humans and their ways into a kind of landscape, to naturalise them - that I love. However, I felt that his style was limited here, that it wasn't quite appropriate to the story, or didn't go far enough. It certainly doesn't have the same magic as in Eucalyptus - I struggled to find quote-worthy passages and I'm not sure I picked appropriate ones. Bail writes like he truly understands that writing is an artform - and he's still experimenting. It may be a weaker story, and his prose might not be as satisfying as it was in his first book, but it still picks me up and carries me off as if on the wind, all lightness and astute glimpses into people's hearts.
That's the magic of Bail's prose, to enable me to see things in a way I'd never seen them before. It's got nothing to do with adjectives, not really. It's more of an approach, and a perspective. It comes across as a "tell" rather than "show" style because it's very narrative, but actually when you stop to think about it you'll realise how much he's not saying, but subtly revealing, or leaving open to interpretation. Yet, even just looking at these quotes here, I found some of the grammar and structure awkward, and itch to readjust it.
The actual story didn't interest me as much, though I did like it. I liked Erica's story better than Wesley's - Wesley wasn't a convincing character, but an inconclusive one. Not as believable, despite being familiar. He read too fictional, and I felt nothing for him except, I admit, a bit of superiority.
Despite my complaints, I still really liked it, mostly because of how Bail can transport me home, to the country I love best and miss with all my heart and which, I feel, Bail always knows how to bring alive for me - like he's the only one who understands and sees the country the same way I do. I can lose myself in his words. His style isn't for everyone, that I can understand, and this isn't the better book to start with. He has three other novels and a collection of short stories, but I can only speak for Eucalyptus, which makes my veins hum.
Read
July 8, 2024Short Note On Putting Philosophy into Novels
This just isn't ambitious enough. It's about a psychoanalyst and a philosopher, both women, who go into the Centre to look at the papers of a self-styled philosopher who had lived on a sheep ranch. The theme has potential as a dialogue among women friends—it's the best-developed part—as a meditation on nation and landscape, as a philosophic contrast between psychoanalysis and literature, and as a novel of letters. It just doesn't do much with any of those themes.
When the dead philosopher's papers are finally sampled at the end of the book, they reveal Bail's idea of philosophy, at least in this instance, is a mixture of Wittgenstein, popular psychobiography, and undigested Nietzsche. I wouldn't trust Bail to write about philosophy, or the idea of philosophy, and I have no evidence he knows anything about psychotherapy. The book is strong when it's about imagining the inner lives of the two women, but there is no much more that could have been done here.
The moral, for me, is this: if you're going to write a novel of ideas, put in the ideas. If the novel has big ideas in it—here, the entire history of Western philosophy—then the prose should work to include those ideas in their full difficulty. The aspiring philosopher in the novel who has died has left sheets of aphorisms hanging on a clothesline. What if those had been real aphorisms? What if they had been Ludwig Hohl's sheets? Elias Canetti's? Wittgenstein's?
2012, revised 2024
This just isn't ambitious enough. It's about a psychoanalyst and a philosopher, both women, who go into the Centre to look at the papers of a self-styled philosopher who had lived on a sheep ranch. The theme has potential as a dialogue among women friends—it's the best-developed part—as a meditation on nation and landscape, as a philosophic contrast between psychoanalysis and literature, and as a novel of letters. It just doesn't do much with any of those themes.
When the dead philosopher's papers are finally sampled at the end of the book, they reveal Bail's idea of philosophy, at least in this instance, is a mixture of Wittgenstein, popular psychobiography, and undigested Nietzsche. I wouldn't trust Bail to write about philosophy, or the idea of philosophy, and I have no evidence he knows anything about psychotherapy. The book is strong when it's about imagining the inner lives of the two women, but there is no much more that could have been done here.
The moral, for me, is this: if you're going to write a novel of ideas, put in the ideas. If the novel has big ideas in it—here, the entire history of Western philosophy—then the prose should work to include those ideas in their full difficulty. The aspiring philosopher in the novel who has died has left sheets of aphorisms hanging on a clothesline. What if those had been real aphorisms? What if they had been Ludwig Hohl's sheets? Elias Canetti's? Wittgenstein's?
2012, revised 2024
July 3, 2022
3.5 stars. An interesting, original, cleverly written short novel mainly set in rural NSW, Australia. Recently deceased Wesley Antill’s will requests that his philosophical writings be published, the costs to be paid by his estate. He left large amounts of written pages at the family’s rural estate. Income from the estate has allowed Wesley freedom to travel, study and write. His single brother Roger runs the family business, living in the home on the rural property with his sister Lindsey. Erica Hazelhurst, a Sydney University philosopher lecturer accepts the assignment to supply an opinion on Wesley’s papers. Erica drives seven hours west of Sydney with her friend Sophie Perloff to spent some days reading and assessing the papers.
A novel of interesting observations, raising many questions but leaving things a little too open. I enjoy Bail’s writing style and expect I will reread this book.
This book was first published in 2008.
A novel of interesting observations, raising many questions but leaving things a little too open. I enjoy Bail’s writing style and expect I will reread this book.
This book was first published in 2008.
March 4, 2011
I recently saw the film Another Year by Mike Leigh and I was intrigued by the way he blended comedy and tragedy so that I wasn't always certain which was which. Murray Bail does something similar in this book which often took me by surprise. Sometimes I wondered if I was meant to understand what I was reading, or if it wasn't just a bit of an elbow nudge.
The story is about what happens when two women friends, Erica, a philosopher and Sophie, a psychoanalyst, venture from the City into the wilds of outback New South Wales. Alternately we read about the life of Wesley Antill, whose papers Erica has been asked to assess. He is the deceased older brother of Lesley and Roger, sister and brother who run the family sheep station, who as a self-proclaimed philosopher, spent many years abroad before returning home to write his life's work.
It is a tale of travels - including those of the mind and heart; and the 'big' questions of philosophy and the emotions. It is a small book but one to savour. It will continue to amuse and perplex me for quite some time. Highly recommended.
The story is about what happens when two women friends, Erica, a philosopher and Sophie, a psychoanalyst, venture from the City into the wilds of outback New South Wales. Alternately we read about the life of Wesley Antill, whose papers Erica has been asked to assess. He is the deceased older brother of Lesley and Roger, sister and brother who run the family sheep station, who as a self-proclaimed philosopher, spent many years abroad before returning home to write his life's work.
It is a tale of travels - including those of the mind and heart; and the 'big' questions of philosophy and the emotions. It is a small book but one to savour. It will continue to amuse and perplex me for quite some time. Highly recommended.
February 16, 2016
As I loved Eucalyptus by Murray Bail, I expected to do the same with The Pages. And there was every reason I should; I grew up on an Australian sheep station and am writing about an eccentric philosopher author of a similar era (late 1800's). I resonate with the landscape, smell of lanolin and sense of alien incongruity felt by the main character. So I was surprised to find this book less engrossing, although there were felicitous images and phrases.
January 9, 2016
I found this an elusive text about philosophy, the inner and the outer life, friendship and obsession. The language is reflective, recursive, ambiguous, poetic. Much of the settings are reminiscent of Eucalyptus, a wonderful Bail novel, but this didn’t have the same impact on me. It would probably repay re-reading but with so many good books to tempt me, I doubt I will.
January 7, 2021
I’m having fun reading this year’s Miles Franklin shortlist, and I’m revising my opinion about a few authors as well. I really enjoyed The Pages!
It’s a story of epiphanies, woven around characters who discover the truth about themselves in unexpected places. A couple of city women set off for the bush: one to take on an odd project: assessing the work of a rather bizarre bush philosopher who’s died and left a Will requiring the Estate to publish his writing; the other woman tagging along because she’s getting over another failed relationship with yet another married man.
BEWARE: spoilers below
The bush philosopher is Wesley Antill. His siblings Lindsay and Roger indulged Wesley’s idiosyncracies so that he could spend his life travelling the world, and return to write philosophy in the woolshed. They’re salt-of-the-earth country souls, and the chaos of Wesley’s pages is beyond them to sort out.
Erica is the academic: she’s a minor philosopher. She’s sensible, restrained and thoughtful; she wears flat shoes and does the driving. (She’s probably got a pudding-basin haircut though Bail doesn’t say so). It’s just as well that Erica drives : Sophie, her rather daft friend, paints her nails on the dashboard and talks incessantly. (I suspect she has frivolous curls). She’s a psychologist but she’s not very self-aware. No, more than that, she’s tiresome. Both these women are incongruous in the bush. En route to the backblocks, they stop for a thermos and a sandwich – and fail to notice that they have a flat tyre and have parked underneath a widowmaker.
Bail is superb at this type of cunning imagery. Wesley rides on harbour ferries, ‘cream and green ones looking like nineteen fifties kitchen cabinets’ (p51). Shopkeepers on Darlinghurst Road in Sydney have ‘ tired expressions as they cut pizzas into bleeding triangles which drooped over plates, day and night, like Dali watches (p44); a butcher ‘sold basic cuts and Australian sausages, unaware of the shifting demographics (p45). A widowed friend of Wesley’s shrugs away regret: ‘In broad daylight at any given moment there was always somewhere a head-on collision taking place, especially on the road to Cooma. There were too many solid trees in Australia. Far better to lean forward, which she did, allowing him to glimpse the softness of her neglected breasts’ (p49). The Pages is full of arresting images like this…
Having painted Erica as the bookish, articulate, competent academic, detached from the land and a real city woman, Bail then shows the bush weaving its magic on her: she learns to listen carefully to Roger’s incoherence (p90); and she allows herself to ‘blend into gullies’ (p88) when out driving around the farm with him. Her first response to the realities of farm life had been to attack Roger because he didn’t care about a sheep drowning, and she accused him of being inured to suffering (p91). Later, she reflects on her outburst, thinking that her sharp observations ‘protrude like rocks in a landscape’. She becomes acutely conscious of her intellect, and realises she should not use it to score points because Roger will suffer if she does (p92).
To read the rest of my review please visit https://anzlitlovers.com/2009/05/02/t...
It’s a story of epiphanies, woven around characters who discover the truth about themselves in unexpected places. A couple of city women set off for the bush: one to take on an odd project: assessing the work of a rather bizarre bush philosopher who’s died and left a Will requiring the Estate to publish his writing; the other woman tagging along because she’s getting over another failed relationship with yet another married man.
BEWARE: spoilers below
The bush philosopher is Wesley Antill. His siblings Lindsay and Roger indulged Wesley’s idiosyncracies so that he could spend his life travelling the world, and return to write philosophy in the woolshed. They’re salt-of-the-earth country souls, and the chaos of Wesley’s pages is beyond them to sort out.
Erica is the academic: she’s a minor philosopher. She’s sensible, restrained and thoughtful; she wears flat shoes and does the driving. (She’s probably got a pudding-basin haircut though Bail doesn’t say so). It’s just as well that Erica drives : Sophie, her rather daft friend, paints her nails on the dashboard and talks incessantly. (I suspect she has frivolous curls). She’s a psychologist but she’s not very self-aware. No, more than that, she’s tiresome. Both these women are incongruous in the bush. En route to the backblocks, they stop for a thermos and a sandwich – and fail to notice that they have a flat tyre and have parked underneath a widowmaker.
Bail is superb at this type of cunning imagery. Wesley rides on harbour ferries, ‘cream and green ones looking like nineteen fifties kitchen cabinets’ (p51). Shopkeepers on Darlinghurst Road in Sydney have ‘ tired expressions as they cut pizzas into bleeding triangles which drooped over plates, day and night, like Dali watches (p44); a butcher ‘sold basic cuts and Australian sausages, unaware of the shifting demographics (p45). A widowed friend of Wesley’s shrugs away regret: ‘In broad daylight at any given moment there was always somewhere a head-on collision taking place, especially on the road to Cooma. There were too many solid trees in Australia. Far better to lean forward, which she did, allowing him to glimpse the softness of her neglected breasts’ (p49). The Pages is full of arresting images like this…
Having painted Erica as the bookish, articulate, competent academic, detached from the land and a real city woman, Bail then shows the bush weaving its magic on her: she learns to listen carefully to Roger’s incoherence (p90); and she allows herself to ‘blend into gullies’ (p88) when out driving around the farm with him. Her first response to the realities of farm life had been to attack Roger because he didn’t care about a sheep drowning, and she accused him of being inured to suffering (p91). Later, she reflects on her outburst, thinking that her sharp observations ‘protrude like rocks in a landscape’. She becomes acutely conscious of her intellect, and realises she should not use it to score points because Roger will suffer if she does (p92).
To read the rest of my review please visit https://anzlitlovers.com/2009/05/02/t...
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
November 4, 2012
At the time of his death, Wesley Antill, son of a wealthy sheep farmer and self-declared philosopher, had left his rambling thoughts in big heaps of scattered, handwritten notes all over his shed-study. His siblings, Lindsey and Roger, having looked after the farm while intellectual Wesley pondered life and philosophy, are tasked with publishing his work. To assess the value and validity of Wesley's notes as having the makings of a "philosophy" Erica Hazlehurst, herself an established philosopher from Sydney, arrives with her psychoanalyst friend Sophie in the remote Australian Outback. Two city women in the wilds - the challenges start there. Ten years after the award winning Eucalyptus: A Novel, Bail's new novel has been greatly anticipated. The least one can say that this slim volume provided much encouragement for reflection on the meaning of "thought", "self", "philosophy", and some lighter, humorous fare as "life intrudes".
Bail tells the story from two related perspectives alternating throughout the narrative. First, Erica's exposure to Wesley's writing, but more poignantly, to the Antills and their enormously different life from one that she is familiar with and, even more important, and to the power of the bare and empty countryside. These aspects are beautifully evoked by the author. Interleaved are Wesley's unstructured accounts and musings of his version of a modern Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship: first in Sydney, then in England and Europe. Some pages of writing contain only a few sentences or words, pinned on a line across the room... are these to be interpreted as element of his philosophy? Erica - and the reader - struggles to piece anything coherent together. "It will take months" to work through the wealth of material. Without doubt, the author enjoys toying with the reader's creative imagination. Intriguing thought elements hint at deeper analysis, if Erica could only find those bits of paper, leaving more questions than providing answers. For example, why the Australian landscape and climate are not conducive to philosophical thought...
The beauty of Australian landscapes, in particular the dry and sparse surroundings of the sheep farm, are exquisitely conveyed. Bail is well known for his talent in this regard and for his ability to create atmospheres that reflect the intense impact the landscape can have on people living in it or suddenly exposed to it. The relationships between the four protagonists, on the other hand, while well set up initially, drawing the reader into a range of complexities, are not fully realized and leave the reader hoping for more exploration. Erica with her own reflections on philosophy and changing perspectives make her the more interesting character. While Bail has been counted among the post-modernist authors, the novel could have benefited for more detail and depth. All in all not a fully satisfying reading experience.
Bail tells the story from two related perspectives alternating throughout the narrative. First, Erica's exposure to Wesley's writing, but more poignantly, to the Antills and their enormously different life from one that she is familiar with and, even more important, and to the power of the bare and empty countryside. These aspects are beautifully evoked by the author. Interleaved are Wesley's unstructured accounts and musings of his version of a modern Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship: first in Sydney, then in England and Europe. Some pages of writing contain only a few sentences or words, pinned on a line across the room... are these to be interpreted as element of his philosophy? Erica - and the reader - struggles to piece anything coherent together. "It will take months" to work through the wealth of material. Without doubt, the author enjoys toying with the reader's creative imagination. Intriguing thought elements hint at deeper analysis, if Erica could only find those bits of paper, leaving more questions than providing answers. For example, why the Australian landscape and climate are not conducive to philosophical thought...
The beauty of Australian landscapes, in particular the dry and sparse surroundings of the sheep farm, are exquisitely conveyed. Bail is well known for his talent in this regard and for his ability to create atmospheres that reflect the intense impact the landscape can have on people living in it or suddenly exposed to it. The relationships between the four protagonists, on the other hand, while well set up initially, drawing the reader into a range of complexities, are not fully realized and leave the reader hoping for more exploration. Erica with her own reflections on philosophy and changing perspectives make her the more interesting character. While Bail has been counted among the post-modernist authors, the novel could have benefited for more detail and depth. All in all not a fully satisfying reading experience.
September 30, 2010
What a mixed bag of a book this was and it could have been so much more! I’ve given the book three stars instead of two mainly because of the way the relationship is portrayed between Erica and the sister and brother on the sheep station. Bail has really captured the awkward, initial sizing up and working out of another’s personality - what makes them who they are.
What I really had trouble with was the chapters on psychology and philosophy and the social commentary on Sydney as a city (which I often didn’t agree with and I’m originally from Sydney). I mean who’s viewpoint were they supposed to be from? Were they from Wesley (sort of thinking aloud) or were they from the author as narrator as philosopher. I found the ambivalence annoying. Despite all this (and possibly because of it) I enjoyed the challenging nature of his work and I’m definitely looking forward to reading Eucalyptus.
What I really had trouble with was the chapters on psychology and philosophy and the social commentary on Sydney as a city (which I often didn’t agree with and I’m originally from Sydney). I mean who’s viewpoint were they supposed to be from? Were they from Wesley (sort of thinking aloud) or were they from the author as narrator as philosopher. I found the ambivalence annoying. Despite all this (and possibly because of it) I enjoyed the challenging nature of his work and I’m definitely looking forward to reading Eucalyptus.
August 9, 2011
I'm sorry but this book just didn't cut it. OK, so Bail's prose is enigmatic and slippery, but the premise here is contrived at best: an academic is sent to a remote farm to read the writings of a little known hermit philosopher who has passed away. What follows unsurprisingly is a thinly veiled philosophical indulgence with some equally thin characters. Look, I did quite enjoy his earlier Canowindra book, even allowing for the unexpected Clare Quilty-like appearance of the suitor. But The Pages has made me reconsider the premise of that book in a different way now too.
Sentus Libri 100 word reviews of overlooked books.
Sentus Libri 100 word reviews of overlooked books.
Read
February 12, 2011I have a beautiful hardcover edition (not the same as the one pictured here) with roughcut page edges and a eucalyptus bark coloured cover that made the experienceof reading it all the more pleasurable. Not knowing much about philosophy, I found the fine nuances difficult to understand, but it didn't really matter. Just being taken on a journey through Australian countryside through the slow, measured rhythm of Bail's prose was worth it.
December 3, 2022
Don't bother reading this for the philosophy (the aphorisms listed at the end are banal or meaningless or contradictory and Wesley is a lazy, entitled self-deluded dilettante) and don't read it for the romantic/sexual relationships as absolutely every one involved someone cheating on someone else.
And truly annoying were the time references which don't make sense. We are told Wesley was 22 in 1978, hence born in 1956. We are told he was 43 when Rosie was killed so this would have been around 1999. So far, so good, but we are then told Rosie was 32 when she died, so born about 1967, which would have made her 11 when she was a uni student living in the same block of flats as Wesley and sleeping with him. It was very hard to nail down when Wesley left for England, but we are told he left England in 1988 and then spent years roaming around Europe until he persuades Rosie to join him in 1999. He notes he hasn't seen her for five or six years but it's far longer than that. He returns to Australia in 2001. Assuming the book is set before 2008 when it was published, it doesn't make sense that the family solicitor said Wesley came to see him 14 years before when he was in early 30s, as he would have been in England or on the Continent when he was in all or virtually all of his 30s. We don't know how long Wesley spent back on the family property (scribbling rubbish while he brother and sister did all the work) or how he died (my book club wondered whether he topped himself). And why did he never enrol at university and do a degree rather than just attending lectures (until he realises he might be exposed as not enrolled)? Why did he chop down a lovely stand of eucalypts (too much of a distraction apparently) rather than just moving his desk or covering the window? What was his hang-up with photography? And why was the radio static for Erica and Sophie's entire seven-hour trip from Sydney to the property (you can always pick up a station even if you lose it and have to find another one sometime later), but Erica imagines Sophie listening to loud music all the way back? Why didn't they just take cassettes or CDs with them? And what was it with "afraidness" on page 35 rather than just fear? So many frustrations with this book.
And truly annoying were the time references which don't make sense. We are told Wesley was 22 in 1978, hence born in 1956. We are told he was 43 when Rosie was killed so this would have been around 1999. So far, so good, but we are then told Rosie was 32 when she died, so born about 1967, which would have made her 11 when she was a uni student living in the same block of flats as Wesley and sleeping with him. It was very hard to nail down when Wesley left for England, but we are told he left England in 1988 and then spent years roaming around Europe until he persuades Rosie to join him in 1999. He notes he hasn't seen her for five or six years but it's far longer than that. He returns to Australia in 2001. Assuming the book is set before 2008 when it was published, it doesn't make sense that the family solicitor said Wesley came to see him 14 years before when he was in early 30s, as he would have been in England or on the Continent when he was in all or virtually all of his 30s. We don't know how long Wesley spent back on the family property (scribbling rubbish while he brother and sister did all the work) or how he died (my book club wondered whether he topped himself). And why did he never enrol at university and do a degree rather than just attending lectures (until he realises he might be exposed as not enrolled)? Why did he chop down a lovely stand of eucalypts (too much of a distraction apparently) rather than just moving his desk or covering the window? What was his hang-up with photography? And why was the radio static for Erica and Sophie's entire seven-hour trip from Sydney to the property (you can always pick up a station even if you lose it and have to find another one sometime later), but Erica imagines Sophie listening to loud music all the way back? Why didn't they just take cassettes or CDs with them? And what was it with "afraidness" on page 35 rather than just fear? So many frustrations with this book.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
December 2, 2009
So I've done it again. I don't know why I do this. Sometimes literary fiction appeals to me, but most of the time it comes off as bland or just unremarkable. Nothing about The Pages indicated to me that it would be any different, and I was predictably unimpressed with it. But I can't very well write a review that says, "More of the same." I feel an obligation to provide a full explanation of my displeasure, especially because, at the time I'm writing this, the other two poor reviews of this book both consist of single sentences.
Erica and Sophie are gal pals, the former a philosophy and the latter a psychoanalyst. When a recluse named Wesley Antill dies, his surviving siblings invite someone from the University of Sydney's philosophy department to read over his epic philosophical tract and determine which bits are worth publishing. Sophie tags along for the ride, because she's got a hole in her schedule of having affairs with married men. Instead of getting to work, however, upon arriving on the farm, Erica does everything she can to avoid revealing Wesley's philosophy to us even as she stokes some sexual tension with Roger Antill, Wesley's brother. Oh, and she was sleeping with Sophie's dad.
There's a certain sense of majesty in the way Murray Bail describes both the setting and its characters. I love his descriptions of Sydney in the second chapter, the way he explains that it's a city that embraced psychoanalysis instead of philosophy as a result of how it grew from the forced immigration of convicts and other social misfits. This descriptive quality stays constant throughout the book and testifies to Bail's abilities as a writer. In fact, Bail's ability to make Australia come alive for me not just as a setting but as an atmosphere almost makes this book a worthwhile read:
I could go on and quote more of the opening to chapter 8, which establishes a character to Australian life even as Bail continues his thematic contrast of philosophy and psychoanalysis. And to some extent, Australia becomes a better-realized character than either Erica or Sophie, for we at least better understand it. While Bail provides plenty of pithy descriptions of his other characters, there's very little conflict to accompany these pictures, and what conflict there is feels contrived and very confusing.
It's a sneaky thing, a novel without conflict. Hard to accomplish, of course, because a story needs conflict, but doable when you can distract with description and dialogue. I didn't notice it until after I finished the book and began to think about how to write this review. Then it struck me: nothing happens.
As with most damning statements, this one is not entirely true. More specifically, what does happen feels unsubstantiated by the plot. The only hint of conflict for our two main characters occurs toward the end of the book, where Sophie storms into the shed full of Wesley's papers and accuses Erica of sleeping with Sophie's father. Erica admits that she has been, and Sophie intentionally or accidentally spills her coffee over a number of the pages of Wesley's tract.
I was taken aback—not over Erica's misdemeanour or the coffee spilling incident, but because I didn't see this coming. It was entirely unexpected because I had sense of the relationship between Erica and Sophie's father. The only hint we got was when Sophie's father phones her only to ask to speak to Erica. Maybe I'm dense, but I don't always assume that if a father wants to speak to one of his daughter's friends he is sleeping with that friend. . . . Moreover, we never meet Sophie's father or her evil step-mother. All we know of them comes from Sophie herself. I feel like I'm missing an entire layer of story that would have made The Pages more interesting.
This conflict between Sophie and Erica never gets resolved. Sophie ends up leaving, taking Erica's car back to Sydney. I realize that this is a trend in literary fiction, this idea that "life goes on" after the story, but now I have to ask what the point was of having Sophie discover Erica and her father's relationship. How does it affect the story? Erica doesn't really seem to change much, and I don't know what Sophie does, because we don't hear from her after she leaves. As beautifully established as these characters are, neither of them has any development.
The same goes for poor Wesley's philosophy. Here I was shallowly expecting to actually learn about it before the end of the book. I wasn't expecting some revolutionary secret to the meaning of life, but I wanted to see something . . . different. Instead, not only does Erica avoid Wesley's philosophy for the majority of the novel, but we get a serious of disjointed statements at the very end of the book, with very little moderation or interpretation. So I'm left to interpret things for myself—always a dangerous task—and conclude that the moral of the story is that amateurs don't make good philosophers!
Really, the entire exploration of philosophy and its juxtaposition with psychoanalysis is shallow and pretentious. I can say this because I have examples of literary fiction that does exactly this and does it well. Take, for instance, any novel by John Irving, who demonstrates that a fascinating plot is not anathema to deep characters with psychological issues. More appropriate even to our discussion would be the Deptford trilogy by Robertson Davies, which draws heavily on Jungian psychology, and features actual scenes of psychoanalysis in the later books. Davies uses a full cast of characters to illustrate his themes on psychology and philosophy. Bail's minimalist and tightly lyrical approach, while artistically intriguing, is not as successful nor as satisfactory.
I can't, in good conscience, recommend it, not when there are so many better executions of similar themes in the works of Irving, Davies, et al. Yet you may decide otherwise. I'm finding that the statement "your mileage may vary," while applicable to any matter of taste, is doubly applicable to taste in works of literary fiction. Judging from the blurbs on the back of this edition, Bail has a strong following—and all the more power to him. I won't be joining that following, however. The Pages didn't strike any chords with me.
Erica and Sophie are gal pals, the former a philosophy and the latter a psychoanalyst. When a recluse named Wesley Antill dies, his surviving siblings invite someone from the University of Sydney's philosophy department to read over his epic philosophical tract and determine which bits are worth publishing. Sophie tags along for the ride, because she's got a hole in her schedule of having affairs with married men. Instead of getting to work, however, upon arriving on the farm, Erica does everything she can to avoid revealing Wesley's philosophy to us even as she stokes some sexual tension with Roger Antill, Wesley's brother. Oh, and she was sleeping with Sophie's dad.
There's a certain sense of majesty in the way Murray Bail describes both the setting and its characters. I love his descriptions of Sydney in the second chapter, the way he explains that it's a city that embraced psychoanalysis instead of philosophy as a result of how it grew from the forced immigration of convicts and other social misfits. This descriptive quality stays constant throughout the book and testifies to Bail's abilities as a writer. In fact, Bail's ability to make Australia come alive for me not just as a setting but as an atmosphere almost makes this book a worthwhile read:
Travellers and strangers to all parts of Australia, especially away from the coast, can expect wonderful hospitality. The coutnry has its faults, as any country does, but lack of hospitality is certainly not one of them. Only when hospitality is little more than an excessive informality, when an entire nation breaks into premature smiling and all-teeth, small-talk mode—which betrays an absence of philosophical foundations—does it appear as nothing more than an awkward type of lightness.
I could go on and quote more of the opening to chapter 8, which establishes a character to Australian life even as Bail continues his thematic contrast of philosophy and psychoanalysis. And to some extent, Australia becomes a better-realized character than either Erica or Sophie, for we at least better understand it. While Bail provides plenty of pithy descriptions of his other characters, there's very little conflict to accompany these pictures, and what conflict there is feels contrived and very confusing.
It's a sneaky thing, a novel without conflict. Hard to accomplish, of course, because a story needs conflict, but doable when you can distract with description and dialogue. I didn't notice it until after I finished the book and began to think about how to write this review. Then it struck me: nothing happens.
As with most damning statements, this one is not entirely true. More specifically, what does happen feels unsubstantiated by the plot. The only hint of conflict for our two main characters occurs toward the end of the book, where Sophie storms into the shed full of Wesley's papers and accuses Erica of sleeping with Sophie's father. Erica admits that she has been, and Sophie intentionally or accidentally spills her coffee over a number of the pages of Wesley's tract.
I was taken aback—not over Erica's misdemeanour or the coffee spilling incident, but because I didn't see this coming. It was entirely unexpected because I had sense of the relationship between Erica and Sophie's father. The only hint we got was when Sophie's father phones her only to ask to speak to Erica. Maybe I'm dense, but I don't always assume that if a father wants to speak to one of his daughter's friends he is sleeping with that friend. . . . Moreover, we never meet Sophie's father or her evil step-mother. All we know of them comes from Sophie herself. I feel like I'm missing an entire layer of story that would have made The Pages more interesting.
This conflict between Sophie and Erica never gets resolved. Sophie ends up leaving, taking Erica's car back to Sydney. I realize that this is a trend in literary fiction, this idea that "life goes on" after the story, but now I have to ask what the point was of having Sophie discover Erica and her father's relationship. How does it affect the story? Erica doesn't really seem to change much, and I don't know what Sophie does, because we don't hear from her after she leaves. As beautifully established as these characters are, neither of them has any development.
The same goes for poor Wesley's philosophy. Here I was shallowly expecting to actually learn about it before the end of the book. I wasn't expecting some revolutionary secret to the meaning of life, but I wanted to see something . . . different. Instead, not only does Erica avoid Wesley's philosophy for the majority of the novel, but we get a serious of disjointed statements at the very end of the book, with very little moderation or interpretation. So I'm left to interpret things for myself—always a dangerous task—and conclude that the moral of the story is that amateurs don't make good philosophers!
Really, the entire exploration of philosophy and its juxtaposition with psychoanalysis is shallow and pretentious. I can say this because I have examples of literary fiction that does exactly this and does it well. Take, for instance, any novel by John Irving, who demonstrates that a fascinating plot is not anathema to deep characters with psychological issues. More appropriate even to our discussion would be the Deptford trilogy by Robertson Davies, which draws heavily on Jungian psychology, and features actual scenes of psychoanalysis in the later books. Davies uses a full cast of characters to illustrate his themes on psychology and philosophy. Bail's minimalist and tightly lyrical approach, while artistically intriguing, is not as successful nor as satisfactory.
I can't, in good conscience, recommend it, not when there are so many better executions of similar themes in the works of Irving, Davies, et al. Yet you may decide otherwise. I'm finding that the statement "your mileage may vary," while applicable to any matter of taste, is doubly applicable to taste in works of literary fiction. Judging from the blurbs on the back of this edition, Bail has a strong following—and all the more power to him. I won't be joining that following, however. The Pages didn't strike any chords with me.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
June 8, 2017
Another goodreads review complains that this book isn't ambitious enough, despite being about the entire history of Western philosophy. That is a gross misreading: the book is about the very important differences between the third person perspective, here understood as essentially philosophical and analytical, and the first person perspective, assumed to be revealed by psychoanalysis.
Other goodreads reviews complaint that the book isn't like Eucalyptus, which just makes me not want to read Eucalyptus, because it makes Eucalyptus sound like an unbelievably dull paeon to the landscape and the Great Australian Soul and so on.
More positively: two women, one a professional philosopher, the other a psychoanalyst, go to a farm to work out if a squatter's amateur philosophical work is worth publishing or not. Then we get the history of the philosopher who, of course, goes to Europe and comes back a changed man. But there's a problem trying to devote yourself to the life of the mind when you're a farmer, and even more so when you're Australian: Bail's version of Henry James' American-in-or-and-Europe business, which he really does very well.
So, is (this) philosophy worth publishing? The reader gets to decide, thanks to a few pages of aphorisms at the end. They're of variable quality, and presumably have their origins in Bail's 'Notebooks.' I did like 'The disturbance of mind is the mind.'
And who understands (this) man better, the philosopher or the analyst? I can't help feeling that we're meant to see the importance of both perspectives--the third-person and the first--but the philosopher, quite rightly, is more convincing.
Downsides: I'm pretty sure this is not an accurate depiction of heterosexual women's feelings about relationships and men, and the romance sub-plots are much less interesting than the philosophical reflections on emotions.
Other goodreads reviews complaint that the book isn't like Eucalyptus, which just makes me not want to read Eucalyptus, because it makes Eucalyptus sound like an unbelievably dull paeon to the landscape and the Great Australian Soul and so on.
More positively: two women, one a professional philosopher, the other a psychoanalyst, go to a farm to work out if a squatter's amateur philosophical work is worth publishing or not. Then we get the history of the philosopher who, of course, goes to Europe and comes back a changed man. But there's a problem trying to devote yourself to the life of the mind when you're a farmer, and even more so when you're Australian: Bail's version of Henry James' American-in-or-and-Europe business, which he really does very well.
So, is (this) philosophy worth publishing? The reader gets to decide, thanks to a few pages of aphorisms at the end. They're of variable quality, and presumably have their origins in Bail's 'Notebooks.' I did like 'The disturbance of mind is the mind.'
And who understands (this) man better, the philosopher or the analyst? I can't help feeling that we're meant to see the importance of both perspectives--the third-person and the first--but the philosopher, quite rightly, is more convincing.
Downsides: I'm pretty sure this is not an accurate depiction of heterosexual women's feelings about relationships and men, and the romance sub-plots are much less interesting than the philosophical reflections on emotions.
January 29, 2022
I found this a curious novel which explores the inner self through the competing lenses of philosophy (Erica investigating the found papers of Wesley) and psychoanalysis (Sophie). It seemed to me to explore themes of love and loyalty/disloyalty. The prose is sparse and a little disjointed. The characterisation is also sparse which I found a little unsatisfactory, and the philosophical incursions less than insightful. However it captures the Australian landscape well, particularly the physical and psychological contrast between town and country and the awkward relationship between friends whose lives become entwined and competing for attention. I will certainly read Eucalyptus, Bail’s more highly rated earlier novel, as my interest has been piqued.
July 21, 2017
I loved "Eucalyptus", and on the strength of that decided to read this. Bail has a unique way of describing people, landscapes and situations - and I frequently stopped reading just to savour the unusual description. I found "The Pages" a little slower to read than usual as the narrative itself is very slow, but very reflective of the actual events taking place and the thinking behind it all. Still, it is quite compelling and I enjoyed the underlying philosophical meanderings.
November 12, 2017
Started well. Interesting characters. Good story line. And I liked the way the chapters flipped between the two main characters: the researcher (in the present), and the author/subject (all in the past).
But then about 80% through, when a side-story grew, the main story began to lose its way. The ending was really quite a let down.
But then about 80% through, when a side-story grew, the main story began to lose its way. The ending was really quite a let down.
January 5, 2022
This book simply left me feeling cheated.
What was the point of introducing characters and scenarios? Why not stick entirely to “the pages”? I felt as though I’d been invited along on an interesting tour only to be abandoned completely alone in the middle of nowhere.
The last section left me looking for a grain of sense under a tidal wave of “philosophical ideas”.
What was the point of introducing characters and scenarios? Why not stick entirely to “the pages”? I felt as though I’d been invited along on an interesting tour only to be abandoned completely alone in the middle of nowhere.
The last section left me looking for a grain of sense under a tidal wave of “philosophical ideas”.
November 9, 2025
I really love his writing style and how he builds his characters- but this felt fanciful and went nowhere. I was genuinely interested in what she would find, and how things would progress, but I suppose… that isn’t the point.
December 31, 2025
The characters are so poorly developed (especially the ridiculous Sophie) that any meaningful attempt to get to the point of the story is sabotaged. The philosophy V psychology aspect is so amateurishly presented here its quite silly and underwhelming. Disappointing.
March 20, 2019
Tedious.
April 30, 2019
The Pages was a good read although it was hard to get into, slow beginning it seemed.
May 17, 2020
2.5/5
April 12, 2021
Not sure
April 12, 2021
Great description of landscape but the people didn't have any depth or believability. And what was the philosophy? I must haves missed that part and was disappointed by the lack of resolution.
June 16, 2021
At least it was short.
September 5, 2022
I posted my review of this mediocre book on my blog: https://strivetoengage.wordpress.com/...
December 18, 2022
A great stylist but I never really quite get it.
October 10, 2025
Beautifully written, rambling story with undertones of self-importance. Or not? Interesting characters, and the outback plays its part.
October 10, 2008
This was my first Murray Bail novel - an author who has been on my "must get around to" list for some time.
I really liked the writing - Bail seems to have a deep appreciation for language and is either very careful or brilliantly intuitive in how he uses it.
It can be very hard to produce deep and perceptive descriptions (especially of people) and still write in a way that is easy and enjoyable to read. I think this is especially true when writing for a modern audience - novelists from earlier generations often seem to have written in a more descriptive way, but today we find can their prose hard going (and yes, I realise there are exceptions, such as Somerset Maugham, who to me is the examplar of the smooth prose style that is effortless to read - bear with me).
It struck me whilst reading Zik's review of Moby Dick this morning that there is something about The Pages that reminds me of Melville, and on reflection I think it is this point about the language of description. I loved the way Melville did this in Moby Dick - it feels like you could tear great hunks of prose out of the book and chew over them for a while. However, I also found Moby Dick a very difficult read.
Bail seems to have managed a similar trick while making his book almost effortlessly readable - a very impressive achievement.
So why only three stars?
The story itself didn't take me as far as I wanted to go. As a meditation on the search for meaning and purpose it works very well, but the book ends very abruptly once the point is made. I wanted the exposition to go further, to show something of where the characters would choose to go next. To me the story felt unfinished.
I really liked the writing - Bail seems to have a deep appreciation for language and is either very careful or brilliantly intuitive in how he uses it.
It can be very hard to produce deep and perceptive descriptions (especially of people) and still write in a way that is easy and enjoyable to read. I think this is especially true when writing for a modern audience - novelists from earlier generations often seem to have written in a more descriptive way, but today we find can their prose hard going (and yes, I realise there are exceptions, such as Somerset Maugham, who to me is the examplar of the smooth prose style that is effortless to read - bear with me).
It struck me whilst reading Zik's review of Moby Dick this morning that there is something about The Pages that reminds me of Melville, and on reflection I think it is this point about the language of description. I loved the way Melville did this in Moby Dick - it feels like you could tear great hunks of prose out of the book and chew over them for a while. However, I also found Moby Dick a very difficult read.
Bail seems to have managed a similar trick while making his book almost effortlessly readable - a very impressive achievement.
So why only three stars?
The story itself didn't take me as far as I wanted to go. As a meditation on the search for meaning and purpose it works very well, but the book ends very abruptly once the point is made. I wanted the exposition to go further, to show something of where the characters would choose to go next. To me the story felt unfinished.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 65 reviews