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(Warning: mother post)

On Wednesdays, my son and I have a well-worn routine. He gets up at some point between 5.30 and 7.30. He comes into my bed and gives me a cuddle and before long says ‘I’m hungry, it’s brekky time.’ Sometimes I ignore him and pretend I am asleep, trying to get a couple of precious minutes with my eyes closed, but it never lasts long.

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The lowdown on: As a Man Grows Older

Have just finished reading Italo Svevo’s As a Man Grows Older. It’s a tightly written story about a man who takes a mistress who turns out to be, for lack of a better word, a slut. The man, Emilio, lives with his sister, a rather pitiful figure who seems to have no friends or no reason for living, except her brother. Emilio’s friend Balli is a bit of a womaniser who subscribes to the ‘treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen’ maxim. He’s an artist and his ego is immense. Balli thrives on being the centre of attention and always seem to be in a position of power, no matter his company. 

Conversely Emilio is a little unsure with the ladies. Although he knows his lover, Angiolina, is not afraid of shaking it about the town, his love of her doesn’t allow him to walk away. So he is strung along by her while all the while experiencing great turmoil in himself about her infidelities, real or not. He is forever in a highly wrung state where he argues with himself about Angiolina and what he should do. Initially he tries to elevate Angiolina to the role of Beatrice but this plan soon fails. Emilio is unable to leave Angiolina though and most of the book is taken up with an exploration of this state of indecision in which he finds himself.

I haven’t read a book of this type for some while. For a few years now I have shunned novels and when I did read them it was usually something easy, a crime novel or a more contemporary work. I found the Svevo a little hard going at first as I had to train myself into his style. Svevo gets into the head of Emilio very well. The book is a very focused study of Emilio’s emotions and his relationships with his sister, Balli and Angiolina. It is driven along by Emilio’s discoveries about Angiolina, about women and about his relationship with his sister rather than defined and defining action. Svevo’s exploration of Emilio in this microcosmos of a story is quite exceptional. I have just started Zeno’s Conscience and it’s looking as good as As a Man. I’ll let you know.

The Nash Cap

I have just spent the weekend in Canberra, visiting my sister. Every time I go to Canberra I find myself desperately wanting to love it, to take it to my heart and appreciate it.

Once we get out of Campbelltown on the freeway the space starts to open up, it becomes flatter and browner. The hill and mountains that do spring up are covered in trees with the odd gaping slash through them where huge towers run through them, carrying wires for something I no nothing about. I start to sense the space and suddenly feel free of Sydney, as if I am entering a totally different place. Once we get to Lake George I am always quite overcome. I find it spellbinding. I start looking forward to the different environment of Canberra, somehow thinking it’s going to free me of something, free me to do something, I have no idea what.

Then we enter the Australian Capital Territory. Northbourne St is wide and usually free of traffic (on the weekends when we visit). The ‘govvie’ blocks of units don’t set a good scene and I am always struck by their strange presence. In a city so obviously well organised they are ‘allowed’ to be there, it’s almost as if this is their proper place but if it is it’s according to a scheme that confuses me.

The inner suburbs of Canberra are like middle-ring suburbs of Sydney. Townhouse villages, small shopping centres, schools and a lot of space. Too much space. There are no houses crammed on top of each others, except for the socially townplanner-acceptable townhouses. Planned cramp. There’s no haphazard architecture, no spectacular graffiti, no dirt. There’s a lot of green, a lot of strategically placed parks.

To move to middle and outer suburbs you get onto roads where the speed limit is at least 80. The road runs between forest or what seems like National Park. Suddenly some houses spring up and I am always surprised to find that I am still in Canberra. I thought I’d left it.

I find this excess of space disturbing. I think it contributes to my inability to “get my head around” Canberra. In Sydney it’s easy to orientate yourself in suburbs through the predominant cultures and classes. There’s a ‘feel’ to places that enables you to form a picture in your mind, however wrong it may be, of the essence of the place. This is what I find so difficult about Canberra. I don’t dislike the place I just can’t come to grips with it and every time I go there I find myself struggling to pin it down and it just will not be pinned. I think it’s the space, the organisation, the formality of the place. I think it’s also the fact that I often go there on the weekend when it’s empty. I usually hang around the inner suburbs and I get the feeling that everyone empties out into the outer suburbs on weekends. The centre seems to be for work only.

So, I just realised there’s no mention of books in this post. Well, one of the reasons I go to Canberra, (aside from visiting my sister of course), is to visit the second-hand bookshops in Fyshwick. I love them. They’re cheaper than Sydney and the stock is usually of a high quality. You also don’t have to fight for good stuff like you do at Gleebooks et al. I’m not going to tell you their names as then you would know where the good stuff is – at least this way I will force you to do your own research.

This time we felt there should be a strict limit on what we spent so we came home with three verse novels (Les Murray, Dorothy Porter and Vikram Seth), a couple of Kurt Vonneguts and a hardcover copy of the Maltese Falcon. Not much at all really.

Oh, and I have just finished reading Helen Garner’s Joe Cinque book so the trip this time was shadowed with recollections from that book. We considered doing a ghoul’s run down Antill St in Dickson but quite sensibly decided against it.