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A review by readerstephen86
Illywhacker by Peter Carey
3.0
SUMMARY - I recommend making the cake, but despite Carey's beautiful writing, this early novel makes a bit of a meal of it.
Like 139 year old self-confessed liar Herbert Badgery whose journals form the tale, 'Illywhacker' itself felt like it went on twice as long as it might. This is a big and baggy story that continually segues into other lives. The histories interlock and loop, with some precision lathe-turned phrases, but words mount on words like the jerry-built 4+ storey emporium of Book 3.
Like a tall tale told in an outback bar, the yarns multiply. We are told up-front by Herbert Badgery that little is true, yet are forced to rely on him as our only witness. It is Badgery's journals that we are purportedly reading, and I did like the scene late-on where Leah angrily adds her drunken counter-testimony to the pages. Elsewhere we see vanishing men, dismembered fingers turning into dragons/foetuses, and a closing scene that is both incredible, and potentially a truer damning indictment on how western families treat the old.
Was this magical realism? It felt similar in some to Rushdie's work, and to Keri Hulme's Kiwi 'The Bone People' (which won the 1985 Booker Prize on the same shortlist as Illywhacker). Or was it a tale of self-deception by an old man claiming some omniscience to the thoughts of his fractured and dysfunctional family?
I would normally prefer a tighter compass for action, and a stronger sense of moral- and psychological-relatability than I found in Illywhacker. For this reason, anyone who likes more metaphorical narratives with blurier edges is quite likely to disagree with me, and wish the book were longer. There is depth to Carey's writing, with an extended play on themes of animal-human freedom, with Australia's fauna made emblematic of a fierce and unpredictable independence of spirit. The Americans are speered by Badgery as money-rentiers, and the Brits as slimey two-faced exploitative snobs. Because the book was so long, these themes could simmer in the stew and develop a fuller flavour, even if in my case my belly started to ache for an ending.
Another theme throughout - linked to that of the wild independence of the Australian nation - were the multiple sketches of entrapment in the world of eccentric (human) others. Rarely does anyone get their own way, and most end up ensnared in the prison of their own relationships. Phoebe is perhaps an exception, but it's not a book that offers warm views on most family relationships. In Carey's world, home often stiffles but escape is rarely possible.
One last word: about butter cake. I saw it mentioned, tried a receipe, and it is *delicious*. Basically it's sponge, but lighter than most cakes I tend to make. It's also wonderfully quick, so if you haven't got time for Illywhacker, then I can certainly recommend butter cake.
Like 139 year old self-confessed liar Herbert Badgery whose journals form the tale, 'Illywhacker' itself felt like it went on twice as long as it might. This is a big and baggy story that continually segues into other lives. The histories interlock and loop, with some precision lathe-turned phrases, but words mount on words like the jerry-built 4+ storey emporium of Book 3.
Like a tall tale told in an outback bar, the yarns multiply. We are told up-front by Herbert Badgery that little is true, yet are forced to rely on him as our only witness. It is Badgery's journals that we are purportedly reading, and I did like the scene late-on where Leah angrily adds her drunken counter-testimony to the pages. Elsewhere we see vanishing men, dismembered fingers turning into dragons/foetuses, and a closing scene that is both incredible, and potentially a truer damning indictment on how western families treat the old.
Was this magical realism? It felt similar in some to Rushdie's work, and to Keri Hulme's Kiwi 'The Bone People' (which won the 1985 Booker Prize on the same shortlist as Illywhacker). Or was it a tale of self-deception by an old man claiming some omniscience to the thoughts of his fractured and dysfunctional family?
I would normally prefer a tighter compass for action, and a stronger sense of moral- and psychological-relatability than I found in Illywhacker. For this reason, anyone who likes more metaphorical narratives with blurier edges is quite likely to disagree with me, and wish the book were longer. There is depth to Carey's writing, with an extended play on themes of animal-human freedom, with Australia's fauna made emblematic of a fierce and unpredictable independence of spirit. The Americans are speered by Badgery as money-rentiers, and the Brits as slimey two-faced exploitative snobs. Because the book was so long, these themes could simmer in the stew and develop a fuller flavour, even if in my case my belly started to ache for an ending.
Another theme throughout - linked to that of the wild independence of the Australian nation - were the multiple sketches of entrapment in the world of eccentric (human) others. Rarely does anyone get their own way, and most end up ensnared in the prison of their own relationships. Phoebe is perhaps an exception, but it's not a book that offers warm views on most family relationships. In Carey's world, home often stiffles but escape is rarely possible.
One last word: about butter cake. I saw it mentioned, tried a receipe, and it is *delicious*. Basically it's sponge, but lighter than most cakes I tend to make. It's also wonderfully quick, so if you haven't got time for Illywhacker, then I can certainly recommend butter cake.