My first response is to say, “It’s a great Aussie yarn!” and yet it is so much more. We anticipated a story about a car accident but discovered again, so much more. With his elegant style, Steve brings a community to life on Australian soil. It has a 1970’s or 1980’s feel about it and weaves between country, town and city life with a trip to Europe in the middle. Through Marty’s eyes, our hopeless but endearing protagonist, you see people grapple with relationships and the desire for them, cope with dreams and dashed dreams. The collective chaos of life seems to collide on these pages with a car accident in the background. I realised as I read, it reminded me of the Australia of just yesterday, the one I fell in love with because today it is truly changed. Thanks Steve for an intriguing and classy book which provided our book club with excellent ongoing discussions.
Stephen Newman has written a story of someone trying to navigate his feelings and emotions with no road map from the other male relatives around him. Beautifully written, Newman draws us a picture of the quintessential Australian male trying to come to terms with loss and grief unimaginable.
I have been moved by your book. Thank you.
I read a lot and enjoy all variety of literature – biographies, historical novels, thrillers you name it. Only a few leave a lasting feeling and yours did. Your way with words is superior to most. You create real atmosphere and the reader is engrossed.
I especially like the Frank/Marty parts – so authentic in my eyes growing up on a sheep cattle property with five brothers. My father had all of Frank’s characteristics, which suggests you have experienced such people.
Who stole the time
I was approaching, in my car, some months ago, one of those ubiquitous discount fuel outlets that have become symbolic of our consumer age. As I had a voucher handy I decided that I should probably refuel.
Theodore Claw
What was meant to be an evening of conviviality amongst friends and acquaintances amidst the deep furnishings, large squashy cushions, paintings and dark woollen wall hangings from Turkey in the living room lined by book shelves containing manuscripts and novels, texts and biographies of those who pleaded to have their stories told…
Collision (Chapter One)
The road from Hamilton to Melbourne has nothing to recommend it. Most of the time it’s the heat. It seeps and the wind, dry, ruins thoughts. It glints out over horizons, like a youngster peering through his neighbour’s window, but with sinister intent, to prize open pores and exhaust prior options. Grass screams for rain, earth begs for seed and the eucalypts and iron barks tilt against the wind and against the flattened nothingness of the land that they fete, to renounce former allegiances to protect the earth, that has, to this point, given them life. It’s where the omega light of morning stalks the unsuspecting like the jesting fiddler, playing tricks with his audience.