The good (great even)
I loved Adrian Hyland’s Gunshot Road and feel very privileged to have read it. I have already told you all to read it but it warrants repeating.
Read it. Now. All of you. Yes even you over there in the corner.
Since finishing it a week ago I have started 4 books and finished none of them; leaving them all lying about the place in various states of non-completion. I am quite sure that none of them are especially bad and one or two of them might even be excellent. But special books like Gunshot Road are as rare as honest politicians and it seems the price one pays for discovering them is a few days (weeks?) of dull reading where things pale in comparison.
Don’t get me wrong though: the price is worth paying.
My reading slump is not being helped by having suffered the mental trauma of watching our country’s former prime minister’s sex life writ large on our television screens on the weekend. In both a dramatised tele-movie and the interview with the man himself which followed it, Bob Hawke’s contribution to Australian public life was boiled down to the fact that he liked to bonk someone other than his wife. A lot. Regardless of who was in the bathroom next door trying desperately not to listen. Although a Rhodes Scholar in his younger days Hawke apparently never got as far as D in the dictionary because neither discretion nor decorum are concepts he is familiar with. Oh how I long for the days when the only acceptable topics of conversation for Australian men in public were the prospects for one’s footy team and the likelihood of rain.
How can a girl concentrate on reading when images of these two at it like rabbits are running through her brain?
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
So today I undertook the kind of therapy that any self-respecting book addict would endure to get herself out of a reading slump. I toddled off to an actual bookstore (something I do only once or twice a year since discovering online shopping) and bought a book I know absolutely nothing about.
It’s fairly large and heavy. If reading it doesn’t work at least I can beat myself in the head to stop the continuous loop of images of Bob and Blanche bonking.