"Prefect, ask yourself this: what could I possibly stand to gain from lying now? My crew has been slaughtered, burnt alive aboard their own ship. They let me hear their screams, their pleas for mercy. My vessel has been rippped apart like a rapid animal tossed to the wolves. I have been tortured and welded to the hull. Very shortly I am going to die."
Alastair Reynolds, The Prefect.
How do we parlay the author of one great book into "a great author"? It's easy to stick to the great book, which you can read over and over, but you're left with the problem of one. It's odd to think how much a literary reputation depends on the author's implicit offer - or threat - to do it again.
In the case of Malcolm Lowry, I've tried it both ways. I get out Under the Volcano, at least once a year and, starting either somewhere in the middle or (and this is a little unusual) at the beginning, read for a day or a week, really for the pleasure of the consciousness and the way with words. It's like being in a hothouse with someone who knows what everything is, and can charm the birds out of the trees by whistling. I first read it when I was 15, put on to it by my English master, TJ Park - like Lowry, a St Catharine's, Cambridge man, who also drank a little more than was good for him. As Lowry himself knew, how you come at a book is almost as important as the book itself.
http://books.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,2223817,00.html
He was so sorry for what had happened. It was beyond embarrassment, to an appalling neglect. The old matriarch of the bar, the notorious Rex Hotel at the Cross, always let the kids in because they were good for business. Jail bait, literally. But where the young men went, the old queens followed. There were blizzards of colour and emotion on the side walk. There were offers. I'll be your sugar daddy. They didn't care much, they just got drunk, very drunk. And did crazy things. Hitch hiked out of town, no money, no love, scraggly teenagers who should have been having their first experiences in the 'burbs.
But instead, they were drunk, pathetically drunk, even though they were no where near old enough to legally enter the bar. Francine, her pert, sharp, almost vicious little face ruled the bar with an iron fist. If you wanted a drink you had to be on her right side. And they all wanted a drink. Brandy and lemonade, it was the most sophisticated drink they could think of. Or beer, lots of beer. That gloomy bar, those gloomy men, perched like old eagles hovering over their drinks. They were like diamonds in the gloom, their age set them apart so much. There was the stale smell of alcohol and cigarettes from the night before.
The smell was distinctive, it belonged to that bar. Allan was always laughing, rough as guts, troubled, they were always troubled. He'd let the clients fuck him because he could never get it up. That was one thing you learnt about him. I'll do this or you, he said, but he had no choice, nothing else worked, he was so screwed up in the head. And Brett, handsome handsome Brett, on the way between reform school and jail. Sometimes there were these giant parties. They would send a car to collect us; and we would get drunk around some rich person's pool, the music blaring, the lads daring.
Things going on in other rooms. He wasn't blessed. Much as he sought amnesia, it avoided him. He kept waking up compromised, utterly compromised. There was the smell of spring, the city's dreams. They renovated the park, disturbing our pattern, hanging out at the fountain. Waiting for ten o'clock, when the bar opened and we could get off the street. Waiting for the first drop of alcohol to make us feel normal. Crying for a long time, from a tortured path, let us in, let us in, we haven't done anything wrong.
Francine would check us out sternly, were we dressed alright, were we out of it, would we embarrass the management? Those were the moments when the whole day lay ahead, here in this secret, dark cave. Here where sadness and abuse was part of every one's history. Here where the black poison of the atmosphere rained down, where we were protected by our looks, our age, even Francine. Those were the days when he would stumble into Oddy's at 3am, the city's only 24 hour cafe, and the original owner would feed him black coffee and ice cream, and he would slump against the wall and not know where he was.
One day he and Allan decided to hitch hike to Melbourne. There was nothing else doing, things were getting uncomfortable. Broke, they tried to find the same bar in Melbourne which provided them with such sustenance in Sydney. Nothing was the same, but they found a man who paid for a room for the night. He was so drunk he couldn't remember what happened, whether the client was even remotely satisfied. But when they woke up in the morning the punter had gone off to work, and they could just hang out and watch TV and have much needed showers before they were tossed out at 10.
Still broke, or perhaps just not able to help himself, Allan stole an electronic jug from the hotel, and looked an absolute sight in his multi-coloured pants carrying this obviously stolen object around the manicured streets of stuffy old Melbourne. He tried three or four hock shops to no avail, nobody wanted an obviously stolen jug, they certainly weren't going to pay for it. So finally he left it next to a pole in the street, a momento to mad schemes, and we tried once more to think of ways to get money. They were out of their territory, off their own turf, away from the clients who queued up to provide comfort and cash. Allan was still full of laughter, mad scheme after mad scheme spilling from his mouth; and finally they found another bar, the secret little huddle, the huddled groups, the raised eyes as they entered, a barman approaching. They were home, in a world where exploitation was the norm and they had something everyone else wanted. Youth.
THE BIGGER STORY:
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-iraq19-2008jun19,0,2122559.story
U.S. blames bombing in Iraq on Shiite hard-liner
BAGHDAD -- The U.S. Army today accused a Shiite Muslim hard-liner of being responsible for a deadly truck bombing in a Baghdad neighborhood, with the aim of provoking a new cycle of sectarian war among Iraq's Shiites and Sunnis.
The death toll rose to 63 from Tuesday's blast, which had the hallmarks of an attack by Sunni extremist groups like Al Qaeda in Iraq. Residents of the Hurriya neighborhood had even blamed Sunni politician Adnan Dulaimi, whose guards have been accused of past violence in the capital.
But U.S. military said they believed the attack had been carried out by a "special group," its term for fighters who belong nominally to Shiite cleric Muqtada Sadr's Mahdi Army militia or have broken away.
The term, in effect, draws a distinction between the Sadr movement's moderate and more radical elements. The Americans accuse Iran of funding, supplying and training the "special groups," which Tehran denies.
http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/iemma-and-minister-fail-to-do-the-numbers/2008/06/18/1213770732810.html
JOHN DELLA BOSCA appears to have run foul of the Premier a second time over the Iguanas Waterfront affair, it emerged last night, after Morris Iemma denied he or his office had ever been told of three statutory declarations that Mr Della Bosca's wife, Belinda Neal, withheld from the public.
Mr Iemma told Parliament yesterday his office had been sent four declarations by supporters of Mr Della Bosca and Ms Neal last week, which sought to refute claims the pair had abused nightclub staff. Mr Iemma said neither he nor his staff was aware of the three declarations the Herald revealed yesterday had been withheld from release by Ms Neal.
Mr Della Bosca was stood aside as education minister last Friday, after it was revealed he had written the apology to himself and his wife, signed by Iguanas management, and had failed to tell the Premier he had done so.
Asked last night whether Mr Della Bosca could face further disciplinary action over the withholding of the declarations, a spokesman for Mr Iemma said the Iguanas issue was in the hands of the police.
At a media conference before his unequivocal statement in Parliament, Mr Iemma repeatedly refused to deny he had been involved in a cover-up by failing to authorise the release of the three statements - by Ms Neal's staffer Matthew Rigby, Melissa Batten, who quit her staff on Tuesday, and Ms Batten's husband, David.
All the statements are now understood to be with police.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/19/washington/19drill.html?ref=business
WASHINGTON — President Bush urged Congress on Wednesday to end a federal ban on offshore oil drilling and open a portion of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge for oil exploration, asserting that those steps and others would lower gasoline prices and “strengthen our national security.”
In recent years, the president said, “scientists have developed innovative techniques to reach Anwar’s oil with virtually no impact on the land or local wildlife,” referring to the wildlife refuge by its acronym. He continued, “I urge members of Congress to allow this remote region to bring enormous benefits to the American people.”
President Bush also urged Congress to approve the extraction of oil from shale on federal lands, something he said can be done far more economically now than a few years ago, and to speed the approval process for building new refineries.
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