“This is the truth.” And so opens this captivating tale of Jim Bloke, an orphan without any sense of belonging. This is his journey…
It’s no wonder Pascoe’s work has garnered such critical acclaim. His prose sings, the words leaping off the page. Added to that is his vivid turn of phrase:
“When I woke up that first morning in Nullakarn I was in someone’s holiday house that was beyond holidays. The stumps at the back were trying to lie down, they were sick of it, eighty years of kids and dogs, just sick of it. They rested, sighed, reclined so that you walked uphill from the back of the house to the front. The walls had been painted in a green someone five decades ago thought was sea-green, but which now, aged and with damp rising from where the floor kissed the earth, looked like the vomit of a dog who’d been eating grass. Deliberately. To achieve this very effect.”
…
“I picked up the kettle and something sloshed. So I emptied it and noticed a hint of rust and a few blubby bits that could have been anything – corpse particles, mouse shit.”
And that’s just in the first two pages.
I laughed, sighed, winced and gasped my way through this poignant and deep novel. Highly recommended.