Night

I came across a strange article in the paper the other day which was concerned with why British people haven't forgotten WW2. After all, it was sixty years ago - why were there so many references to the Nazis after all this time? The writer decided there was something intrinsically odd about British people to make them still go on about the war so long after it was done.

Frightening. Could you forget London being firebombed every night for three months - every single night? Would you want to?

Elie Wiesel's story is well-known - his own story about being a child in the camps in the last few years of the war. He was beaten and starved, witnessed countless murders, saw his own father slowly die. It is a series of incidents, beginning with a witness to the deaths returning to his village to beg them to leave, simply to be mocked and disbelieved. This sense of disbelief of even what is right in front of their eyes flows through the entire story. In the end he does lose his belief - he was once deeply religious - unable to conceive that a loving God could see what was happening and refuse to intervene.

It wasn't so long ago. How could you forget, even if you hadn't been there? Why would you want to?

Remembering Babylon

Occasionally you do feel writing has moved along in the last fifty years. David Malouf is a fantastic Australian writer whose real gift is his language - he writes incredibly vivid prose. This particular story is about a bush community who discovers a young European man who has been raised by an Aboriginal tribe. Malouf explores the relationships between different people in the community as well as attitudes towards the Aboriginal people surrounding them. The visitor changes the dynamic within the village, but also transforms individuals who begin to see their landscape differently.

I've read Malouf before and enjoyed his work - I far prefer his work to the more well known writers such as Tim Winton or Peter Carey. This particular work was shortlisted for the Booker prize, and won a lot of local awards. It's very powerful in its evocation of the land - the detailed descriptions ensure you not only see but smell and feel it - as well as the different types of individuals. A wonderful read.

Eye for an Eye

Anthony Trollope had ten children and was a chief postmaster, and always wrote strictly between five and eight in the morning. I can’t say, after reading this, that he shouldn’t have stayed in bed instead. This is a well-written tale about an aristocrat who knocks up a young woman and refuses to marry her, leading to tragic consequences. Let’s face it – Thomas Hardy did it a whole lot better. The Irish-isms are cringe-worthy, and both the characters and writing are commonplace. Of course, this is probably not one of his better-known works – he wrote a whole series about troubles in the Anglican church – but that doesn’t really entice me to read it. Funny how some books last, and others don’t. I’m sure his stuff is well-written, but at the end of the day it’s boring, and there are too many interesting books to read to waste my time with boring.