Now, she seems like a musical note which has escaped into the air that is the river of all music. At night he goes into the dark, looks up at distant stars, miserable that knowledge has robbed us of the old certainties. Once we had souls, and souls went 'up there' when we died. Now, we have nothing, no souls, no destination, just an arithmetic of meaningless distances. An artist is commissioned to weave a tapestry for the council chamber of the town of Lost River. For this task, he must hear the stories of a random selection of the townsfolk - fifty-two in all, one for each week of the year - to discern the gestures by which he might define their lives. Their portraits represent an odyssey through humankind - the saintly, the insane, the larrikin, the prophet, the murdered, the murderer, the mindless materialist and the rich in spirit...people who ave caught a glimpse of something strange, perhaps the borders of a world behind everyday. His subjects are haunted by the death of one of their number in mysterious circumstances, while the artist is haunted by thoughts of Yarrow, the woman he loves but who is lost to him. Every page of this book offers a quotable gem, the most profound insights into the social, political, sexual, spiritual and humorous aspects of us all. This is vintage Ireland, possibly his best yet.
David Ireland was born in Lakemba in New South Wales in 1927.
Before taking up full-time writing in 1973 he undertook the classic writer's apprenticeship by working in a variety of jobs ranging from greenkeeper to an extended period in an oil refinery.
This latter job provided the inspiration for his second (and best-known) novel, The Unknown Industrial Prisoner, which brought him recognition in the early 1970s and which is still considered by many critics to be one of best and most original Australian novels of the period.
He is one of only four Australian writers to win the Miles Franklin Award more than twice
He was appointed a Member of the Order of Australia in the Queen's Birthday Honours of June 1981.
I’ve said this in other reviews of Ireland’s work: his novels are observations of people. He is the surveyor of us Australians. With that in mind, this has been a difficult book to review. I’ve done several drafts and kept changing my mind about what I think he set out to achieve. Hopefully, this makes some semblance of sense.
Davis Blood was the main character in Ireland’s previous novel, the excellent BloodFather. The Chosen, released ten long years later, continues Davis’s story. Now narrating his own journey to the NSW Tablelands town of Lost River, Davis, artisan weaver, is commissioned by the local council to create a tapestry representing 52 rate-paying individuals, drawn by ballot. His task is to bring these citizens to life through the tapestry. That’s the basic premise.
How does the narrator use his imagination to meld each individual into the tapestry? That depends on how David Ireland, through Davis Blood, uses his observational descriptors. Davis meets each of the Chosen to get an artistic feel for them, but also to understand them personally. In some cases, he interviews others to gain insight into the selected individuals. This is conceptual observation, and it makes for a deep understanding of the Chosen.
It’s also worth considering the use of animals—especially birds. Is this a book about the freedom to be what one wants? Or are we all animals, instinctively doing what we want, regardless of the consequences? The use of animal imagery begins when Davis interviews a character called Chokeback Jones, who immediately understands what Davis requires—just “...like the Huskisson dogfish that thinks it’s a shark and attacks anything.” From there, the conversation dives into life, the universe, and everything.
The Huskisson dogfish? Lost River and the Tablelands are full of these subgenres of birds and animals that seem free to be what they want. Occasionally, descriptions of such animals mirror the individuals about to be woven into the tapestry. As Davis notes, “Australia is not a melting pot, more a coleslaw.” So, are we looking at a novel that explores freedom and instinct? Do the animals represent both? The right of the Huskisson dogfish to be what it is not—even if that’s instinctive? Maybe Ireland is pointing out that we are just another fragmented society—more coleslaw than melting pot.
Throughout the novel, Davis Blood (and Ireland) nods to previous works. One of the Chosen finds his niche as an Unknown Industrial Prisoner and welcomes it. Davis mentions a red dog, which reminded me of the Red Setter from Archimedes and the Seagle. A Chosen, Leon Undermilk, calls his wife a Woman of the Future. Merle Bird is a Double Agent working for opposing sides—an idea Ireland has acknowledged in critiques of his work.
Ireland writes in his usual observational style but adds a depth of vernacular and experimental prose that demands the reader’s full attention. I’ve come to think this novel may be the culmination of all his previous writing and observations. It could be considered his rural Unknown Industrial Prisoner—the parallels lie in the community and the identity of individuals. I found this striking when reflecting on The Unknown Industrial Prisoner, a book that’s hard to forget.
As with all of Ireland’s work, there is no plot. This is 52 observations of others, interwoven with Davis Blood’s lament over his love for a woman named Willow. The final chapter, however, has left me befuddled. I just don’t know what it’s meant to represent in relation to the previous 509 pages—and not knowing is driving me to distraction.