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The story runs like this: our protagonist, Nora, lives with a group of other bohemians and their children in a succession of houses. Occasionally she works on a newspaper or chats about feminist issues at the pubs and cafes. She drifts from one male lover to the next. A burnt-out young man named Javo takes her fancy. We don't know what his game is precisely; he does a little acting, a little writing, a little drawing. He also does a lot of smack. This upsets Nora vaguely, but she doesn't mind so long as he's around for her. Javo, you see, is great in bed. He goes away and gets himself arrested in Bangkok. Nora pines for him. He returns and she is happy. He drifts away again, returns, leaves, hangs around, quits heroin for a few days, shoots up again. Sometimes they hitchhike to Sydney or visit Tasmania, where Javo's mother lives. Nora gets a part in a film about junkies. Javo gets a part in a play and another minor film. All the while they're surrounded by dozens of interchangeable and unmemorable characters.
Two things are immediately apparent about this book: 1) an editor's blue pencil could have improved it enormously by condensing the longeurs and repetitions; 2) the panache of the book is pure old avant-garde from the Paris of the 20s and 30s. The plot is there but instead of being strung between the two ends of the book it cycles over and over like the refrain of a song. If you want a straightforward story, you'll find this novel extremely irritating.
The book was made into a film a few years ago. A friend in the Australian film business gave me her copy after I'd returned from Melbourne (her own hometown) and raved about what a swell place it was. A tiny smile played at the corner of her mouth as she handed me the book. Was it all a great leg-pull or was she was really curious to know what I'd think of this dreary but fascinating little tome?
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