twenty-six lies/one truth - Ben Peek

From Silence Without

buy - author site

There's a pile of books on my desk, each of which I've read, each of which I have not yet written about. It has become a health hazard. It's going to topple and crush me. It's so big it's become too big to contemplate, so I keep letting it grow instead of dealing with it.

This particular book I read last year. That's how long it's been. I am a bad person.

Also, it is fucking freezing in here. I'm not mimicking Ben on the cover there. I'm dressed to survive freeze slower.

This book is fucking OARSUM.

I was greedy and devoured it too fast. I inhaled it, taking tokes on it at work when the supervisors weren't on the prowl. I finished it far too quickly, well before I was ready to stop reading, and so went back and flipped through the pages, rereading bits and pieces on whim.

It's a bit of a masterpiece of juggling and jigsaw. Three distinct threads present themselves in the pages; that of his relationship with Geraldine, that of his own personal history and place in what he knows as Australia, and a third, tongue-in-cheek look at author forgeries, and the general question of truth in the written word. It's a topic toyed with to great affect, as he uses himself as the vessel to carry these three narrations, and the title alone is enough to make the reader pause at the other end, and wonder what the lie was.

It's fiction. It's all true.
Or; it's autobiography. It's all lies.

I've chewed on the subject, having used myself in fiction recently. Does it lend some extra authenticity, knowing that the author is leaving themselves truly bare instead of hiding pieces of themselves in a cast of characters? I don't know. I suspect that's something for the reader to decide. Maybe there's some greater sense of connection to be had, as with the more personal of personal blogs. I don't know. I just know it felt right at the time. (Like so many things that later aren't.)

Does it matter? Perhaps, if you buy into the notion that authenticity leads to authority.

Does it matter to me? Yes. But no. Regardless of where this book is pigeon-holed, it remains fucking OARSUM, a little book of brilliance. Ben is a master at playing with structure, and has done so to great effect here, striding through the alphabet and giving the reader a neat catalog of his life and thoughts and opinions. The mosaic is superbly balanced, and the pieces bounce of each other with an ever-growing resonance.

People often talk about the next Great Australian Novel. When I'd finished it, I sat on the train, full of all the meat contained in this slim volume, and thinking of everything it had to say about Australia here, now. I think this is that long awaited Great Australian Novel.

It is only fitting it be written by a white heterosexual middle class male, one who recognises how he fits in the world around him. It is only fitting that this book not be published or available within Australia, and as with the majority of Australia's culture, must be imported.

Whether you agree with me or not, it remains an amazing book.

Verdict: Let me say FUCKING OARSUM a third time. Also, illustrated by the amazing Anna Brown who went on to draw Nowhere Near Savannah, which is equally as brilliant.

I, PIMP

• That most wretched wench, Nadine, has been writing for firefox.org for some time now, and appears to be having a gay old time digging up creepy stories. The last article scared the shit out of me, and because I'm a suckah I listened to those clips over and over. Jolly old town!
• That most torrid trollop, Deb, has roped a two book deal with Angus & Robertson. Which is old news, but my pimping has been lacking of late. PR MACHINE GOGOGO. I had the honor of reading her baby before she sent it out, and it was one of the best things I read last year. Unfortunately, I can't tell you when it will be coming out. Or what name she'll be writing under. Or what the title will be. BUT IT IS MADE OF OOOOAARSUM. (Also, 'ware her blog, she keeps posting large photos of spiders AUGH)
• That sordid scallywag, Jeff, wrote a Predator novel, which I also had the honor of reading. It is also made of OOOOOAARSUM, but a different sort of oarsum to Deb's novel, being as there are no golems in this, nor any Predator's in that. But there is a GIANT FUCKING CROCODILE, how can you resist? September for birth, I think.
• He also wrote this other thing, 'The Situation', and fed me a copy of that too. It's exactly the sort of thing you don't read at 4 am, because, my god, it's a nasty horrible piece of work. Beautifully written and fantastically fucked up. It deals specifically with the horrors of office politics, but sits solid upon the more general theme of bullying. It's powerful stuff, took me back to primary school. Love the beetles. Love the fish. Love the headfuck. Had to watch The Wizard of Oz as a chaser.
• That rascally rascal, Ben, has a weekly comic going on over at his livejournal. Nowhere Near Savannah needs more attention. It amuses me greatly, methinks it'll do the same for you. If you haven't already rubbed your nose in it, I recommend you do.
• A mysterious stranger emailed me after my a softer world reference, and said I "might also enjoy the webcomic "Tiny Ghosts", which has similar sensibilities." The mysterious stranger was right. I ate the archive, which was too small, and made me sniffle and snort and smile, sometimes all at once. Thank you, mysterious stranger.