His Illegal Self by Peter Carey (2008) 272 p.

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Not one of Carey’s best efforts; indeed, one of his weakest. For the first few pages it seems like his writing might have finally caught up to his life: New York City, the Upper East Side, Bloomingdale’s, Lexington Avenue. A young boy in the 1970s, Che, being raised by his grandmother because his parents have waltzed off to join the Weathermen. Then the narrative twists and turns its way very shortly down to Queensland, where Che and his adpotive new mother Dial spend the next two hundred pages in a hippie commune near Nambour, as Carey himself did in the ‘70s.

Part of what made His Illegal Self a slog was that Carey’s prose seems to lack its usual spark. He writes from the perspectives of both Che and Dial and his characters have lost some of that loquacious charisma that always lets you know – whether it’s 19th century England or contemporary Australia or some completely fictional country – that this is a Peter Carey novel; give or take a few lectures Dial receives about American arrogance, or the occasional observational gem:

Then she waited for the lawyer, watching him stroke his mustache like a fool. She could not imagine how this man had ended up in this crappy little office with felt tiles on the floor. All those years in law school and then spend your life in fucking Nambour, staring through the window at the Woolworths loading dock.

Overall, though, this is a strangely flat outing from an author who is many things but rarely boring.

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