A dark and compelling work by a new voice in Australian – and world – literary fiction
A nomad swallows poison and drowns himself. Resuscitated by a paramilitary bandit named Aslan, Figure is nursed back into a world of violence, sexuality and dementia. Together, Figure and Aslan traverse a coastline erupting in conflict. When the nearest city is ethnically cleansed, Figure escapes on the last ship evacuating to the other isle of the sea. Crossing village to village largely on foot, a slew of outcasts and ghosts guide him as he navigates states of cultural and metaphysical crisis.
Scott McCulloch’s debut novel, Basin, explores the axis of landscape and consciousness. Echoing the modernist tradition, and written in an incendiary yet elliptical prose style, Basin maps the phenomenon of a civilisation being reborn – a hallucinatory elegy to the inter-zones of self and place.
Indebted to Guyotat, Burroughs, and Beckett, Basin traces the social atrophy of civil war. In line with those authors, time, character and landscape are abstracted, and the book unfolds as a series of encounters from non-place to non-place, an 180p delirium of sexual neurosis and guerrilla crossfire. The writing is good - rendered lucidly with occasional resort to trauma-parataxis. McCulloch’s images are forceful, and vivid, and his dialogue is appropriately coarse and assured.
It’s difficult to find any information about the Melbourne-born author - he appears to have disappeared into the Heart of Darkness in Ukraine and Lebanon - but kudos to him for for working in a tradition that sticks out like a sore thumb in Australia’s generally risk averse publishing landscape. It seems to have excited a few Australian critics as well - see Jen Craig’s tour de force of moi-criticism: https://overland.org.au/previous-issu...
With that said, there’s something that chafes about a book charting the moral nether regions of ethnic conflict being published by Schwartz media. It’s hard not to read the book with an awareness that the company responsible for the book in your hand is a defender of the acts detailed inside of it: https://www.thesundaypaper.com.au/opp.... This doesn’t reflect on the quality of McCulloch's work, but the publishing house, and its politics, are unavoidably going to frame the contents of the book, and it does a disservice to its writer.
“I stand where I tried to die on the shore. I dwell on the respiratory death among the weeds and coral. Respiratory death was as far as I went over and into it, and now I mumble into the water in the meantime, dwelling on the countless ways of dying that don’t involve death, the river, the consant present”
Conferred the status of the living dead, the nomad ‘Figure’ traverses a world that is disintegrating around him. The constant imagery of fluids - water, gasoline, blood, spit, alcohol, semen, fermented and liquefied injectable drugs, vomit and bile - are effectively utilised for a morbid, provocative and engaging read. Whilst there are no real stakes, Basin offers an interesting take on destruction, decay and resurrection. There are, however, one (or two) too many unusual and tedious sex scenes which take the same form of a mysterious woman approaching the protagonist seemingly from nowhere.
No idea how to review this one. 0 stars? 5 stars? I did not like this. I did not enjoy it although the writing was lovely. I just got sick of human juices spilling over each page: no more semen and open veins please! No more mud, blood, fermenting alcohol, drugs and pain. The man can write, and he writes beautifully but humanity at its bleakest doesn’t do it for me. I love modernistic traits but this one wasn’t for me. Mandy, no wonder you gave it to me to read. I can’t wait to chat about it but I don’t know what to say!
This is an extraordinary book. I smashed it into my brain over two days. The look on my face must have been something, because my kids kept asking me, Mum, what the hell are you reading? I think my jaw literally dropped on more than one occasion . It is by turns, listless/maudlin/laugh out loud hilarious/ darkly absurd and fucking horrific. A great work of disintegration. I loved the frankness with which it was written and the sex scenes were beautiful. It reminded a bit of Burroughs, but it had more heart.
Initially I was really confused by this book, but so struck by the poetic nature of McCulloch's writing. I didn't need to understand what he was trying to say, because I could feel what he was saying.
This book was dark and sensory- his visceral writing was gorgeous. The ideas of memory and forgetting what really happens was an interesting take- how we suppress our memories and how when we are confronted with them, it takes over. Overall a complex book that is one I would recommend to lovers of the unknown
Read this because of Jen Craig's (equally challenging and enjoyable) review in Overland. A great book with lots of death and semen. Shades of Burroughs, Bataille, and Beckett are obvious, but I see Murnane's non-georaphy and even hints of Sam Delany's Dhalgren in here too. Would recommend it for people who like the bleak.
A menacing dream of wayward existence. Dream or death, it's hard to know the difference. But life is the point from whatever chaotic tangent the narrative stems from. It's exhaustingly beautifully written with phrasing that sends little splits of electricity up and down the spine. Often, I had to pull away to take a breath. What a magnificent book.
I did pick this up at the local library because I knew it was different (OK, very different) from what I usually pick, but I can't say I enjoyed it or would recommend it. I hope it finds its audience.