Another review... this time from neglected South Australia
Even though the fair state of South Australia, land of churches and serial killers, was ommitted from my round Australia and New Zealand book tour that doesn't seem to have coloured the views of its independent-minded journalists and news outlets.
During a moment of shameless self-googling I stumbled across this review of SILENT PREDATOR in the high quality and emminently readable Adelaide journal, the 'Independent Weekly'.
It's written by an obviously astute and well-read young lady by the name of Georgia Gowing. I commend this fine review, worthy publication, and stellar jounalist to you all.
During a moment of shameless self-googling I stumbled across this review of SILENT PREDATOR in the high quality and emminently readable Adelaide journal, the 'Independent Weekly'.
It's written by an obviously astute and well-read young lady by the name of Georgia Gowing. I commend this fine review, worthy publication, and stellar jounalist to you all.
Comments
Loved the Predator, your accolades are deserving and your modesty overwhelming, so I penned the following with apologies to The Banjo.
I had written him an e-mail which I had, for lack of snail mail
Sent to where I met him down the Club of Rugby, years ago,
He was drinking when I knew him, so I sent the e-mail to him,
Just `on spec', addressed as follows, `Parky, of The Bent Elbow'.
And an answer came directed in a e-mail unexpected,
(And I think the same was written on a Blackberry left in bar)
'Twas his drinking mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
`Parky’s gone to Zimbabwe writing, and we don't know where he are.'
In my wild erratic fancy, visions come to me of Tony
Gone a- writing down the Zambezi where the Eastern writers go;
As the words are slowly stringing, Parky types behind them singing,
For the writer’s life has pleasures that us townies never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river, in its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my (Mac) mansion, where the kids hold me to ransom
to go bowling, surfing, swimming any place but stay at home,
And the noisy air’s a pity at McDonalds in the city
Through the open window floating, spreads its loudness over all
And in place of lions growling, I can hear the fiendish crying
Of the SUBs and the 'buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of McDonalds children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless chump of beef
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Tony
Like to take a turn at writing where the plaudits come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the children and the journal --
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Parky, of `The Bent Elbow.
The Prof
With apologies to the Banjo.
Neigh, moved to a manly lump in the throat that can scarce be scoured by a chilled Foster's.
The last line of Clancy of the Overflow has e'er been a favourite of mine and I thank you for doing it such justice. (stop rolling, Banjo, this is the 21st Century).
As ever, I salute you.