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The Degenerates
Following the interwoven lives of four characters across India, Australia and the United States, the novel takes root in Melbourne and brings its streets, shopping centres and laneways to life with astounding originality—the city may never be the same again.
The Degenerates radiates with Titch’s fanaticism and Ginny’s obsessions. Somnath’s devastating history reflects every life divided around the globe. And Maha, the heart of the novel, is an extraordinary creation, an abiding figure of modern salvation. Brimming with vitality, humour, intelligence and brilliant writing, The Degenerates engages with the realities of modern loneliness and every form of departure—from our homes, from our families and even from life itself.
In propulsive prose, The Degenerates summons the power of storytelling, disrupts conventional narratives and pays tribute to those lives often lost in the margins.
The Degenerates radiates with Titch’s fanaticism and Ginny’s obsessions. Somnath’s devastating history reflects every life divided around the globe. And Maha, the heart of the novel, is an extraordinary creation, an abiding figure of modern salvation. Brimming with vitality, humour, intelligence and brilliant writing, The Degenerates engages with the realities of modern loneliness and every form of departure—from our homes, from our families and even from life itself.
In propulsive prose, The Degenerates summons the power of storytelling, disrupts conventional narratives and pays tribute to those lives often lost in the margins.
320 pages, Paperback
Published September 3, 2024
52 people are currently reading
1783 people want to read
About the author
Raeden Richardson
3 books13 followersRaeden Richardson was born in Melbourne, Australia, where he spent his childhood in the city’s southeastern suburbs. He now lives in New York.
A graduate of Yale-NUS College in Singapore and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Richardson’s work explores memory, grief, and the mythic dimensions of everyday life. His fiction and essays have appeared in Meanjin, Griffith Review, Kill Your Darlings, New Australian Fiction, and The Sydney Morning Herald, among others.
His debut novel, The Degenerates (Text Publishing, 2024), traces interconnected lives across 1970s Bombay, 2000s Melbourne, and 2010s New York.
He has held fellowships from Creative Australia and the Elizabeth George Foundation and has been an artist-in-residence at Yaddo and the La Napoule Art Foundation.
A graduate of Yale-NUS College in Singapore and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Richardson’s work explores memory, grief, and the mythic dimensions of everyday life. His fiction and essays have appeared in Meanjin, Griffith Review, Kill Your Darlings, New Australian Fiction, and The Sydney Morning Herald, among others.
His debut novel, The Degenerates (Text Publishing, 2024), traces interconnected lives across 1970s Bombay, 2000s Melbourne, and 2010s New York.
He has held fellowships from Creative Australia and the Elizabeth George Foundation and has been an artist-in-residence at Yaddo and the La Napoule Art Foundation.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 86 reviews
January 22, 2025
Holy hell, what a debut
---------
I knew this was going to be something special when a man starts breastfeeding a newborn and there’s just no commentary on it.
Let me backtrack a bit, the book opens in Bombay during the 1975 Emergency. Somnath is a Dalit man who dreams of family and legacy, but gets ensnared in a raid and undergoes forced sterilization. Moments later he finds his friend's orphaned newborn, names her Maha, feeds her, and gets on a boat to Australia (we never worry about the how here). We eventually realize that Maha is writing the story we’re reading, or at least part of it, as she becomes almost a medium to the lost and unheard- calling herself Mother Pulse and posting flyers around town letting everyone know she’s ready to ‘listen’.
I thought Somnath and then Maha would be the main characters, but we quickly move forward in time and expand to include Titch and Ginny - two Australians who feel abandoned and dream of more. Titch is grieving a friend's suicide, Ginny lives with her emotionally abusive family; both are seeking drastic changes and both end up with different obsessions. I expected a typical millennial novel dealing with loneliness, connectedness, and even gentrification in Melbourne, but with its touch of magical realism, wobbly time and reality, and experimental format -the words cascade over you, there are empty spaces for you to fill in, language eventually breaks down- this goes beyond that. The heart of this novel is storytelling: its need and its limits, the writer as a god and creator, the empathy and understanding needed to put a life on paper, the little things that are going to be missed.
With its immersive writing, control of voice, and such a specific sense of place, well, this is nothing short of impressive. I still can’t believe it’s a debut. While reading this, Zadie Smith’s White Teeth kept coming to mind; just that same feeling of discovery. I’m already champing at the bit to read Richardson’s next work.
---------
I knew this was going to be something special when a man starts breastfeeding a newborn and there’s just no commentary on it.
Let me backtrack a bit, the book opens in Bombay during the 1975 Emergency. Somnath is a Dalit man who dreams of family and legacy, but gets ensnared in a raid and undergoes forced sterilization. Moments later he finds his friend's orphaned newborn, names her Maha, feeds her, and gets on a boat to Australia (we never worry about the how here). We eventually realize that Maha is writing the story we’re reading, or at least part of it, as she becomes almost a medium to the lost and unheard- calling herself Mother Pulse and posting flyers around town letting everyone know she’s ready to ‘listen’.
I thought Somnath and then Maha would be the main characters, but we quickly move forward in time and expand to include Titch and Ginny - two Australians who feel abandoned and dream of more. Titch is grieving a friend's suicide, Ginny lives with her emotionally abusive family; both are seeking drastic changes and both end up with different obsessions. I expected a typical millennial novel dealing with loneliness, connectedness, and even gentrification in Melbourne, but with its touch of magical realism, wobbly time and reality, and experimental format -the words cascade over you, there are empty spaces for you to fill in, language eventually breaks down- this goes beyond that. The heart of this novel is storytelling: its need and its limits, the writer as a god and creator, the empathy and understanding needed to put a life on paper, the little things that are going to be missed.
With its immersive writing, control of voice, and such a specific sense of place, well, this is nothing short of impressive. I still can’t believe it’s a debut. While reading this, Zadie Smith’s White Teeth kept coming to mind; just that same feeling of discovery. I’m already champing at the bit to read Richardson’s next work.
July 19, 2024
The Degenerates is wild. If you have ever bemoaned conformity in contemporary publishing, or the rise of the MFA novel, or books written with an agenda, then this book is for you. In the vein of Midnight's Children, White Teeth, and Bliss, this is one of those books where you lose yourself into the language of the novel, suspend concerns of realism, and lock yourself in for the ride. The Degenerates is gritty. It's shop talk, on the ground floor, behind the scenes and in the trenches: full of nuffies, derelicts, down-and-outers and filth, yet matched with hope, dreams and heart. A book that isn't afraid of the void, but also offers a light out of it. I had an especially soft spot for Titch and I won't be forgetting him anytime soon.
October 10, 2024
Nothing pleases an avid reader more than the discovery of an author writing an exciting book that isn't like anything else around.
The writer of the blurb has done her best:
But that description, enticing though it is (which is how I discovered the book), doesn't hint at author Raeden Richardson's style. That style is uniquely itself, but it bears resemblance to the best of writing from the Indian sub-continent, and it was no surprise to me when I visited Richardson's website to find that he was currently reading authors such as Nabarun Bhattacharya and UK/Delhi-based Rana Dasgupta. He's also reading Kenzaburō Ōe who won the 1994 Nobel Prize in Literature for creating an imagined world, where life and myth condense to form a disconcerting picture of the human predicament today.
With a voluptuous narrative where words and images tumble over each other to bedazzle the reader, Richardson has somehow realised a disconcerting picture of the human predicament today in the pragmatic city of Melbourne. My city. And not the city visitors and its inner-city residents might recognise: not the 'destination' Degraves Street where you might party but rather Degraves Street the way I remember it from the 1970s, a dingy, deserted place where a solo woman taking a shortcutmight did feel vulnerable. It's not far from Flinders Street Station and its iconic clocks where the novel's characters bound across space and time to catch a train into the suburbs. The oldest railway station in Australia that harbours the urban myth that hints of India in its design derive from plans that were meant to be for the Bombay station in British India.
The story begins with 17-year-old shoe-shiner Somnath Sunder Sonpate birthing ambitions for a dynasty. After work, at the Anglican night school he learns to write cursive paragraphs in proper British English, to read without touching the page, to tally lists and make receipts. An end-of-year project sees him labelling his future family tree:
Alas, for Somnath, it was police quotas of a different kind that ruined his dreams. He was, like millions of lower-caste men who lived on the streets, caught by the campaign to reduce India's population with forced vasectomies. In despair, clutching Maha. the orphan baby of his only friend Preeti, he stows away on a container ship bound for Melbourne.
Richardson's style does not concern itself with immigration procedures. And why should it? In the 1970s The Ex and I had a friend who had jumped ship and was running a successful tyre shop. I don't know how he did it, or if he ever 'regularised' his residency here. What I do know is that authorities have always fought a losing battle against illegal immigrants...So Somnath arrives in Melbourne, wounded in mind and body, and sets up shop as an underpriced mechanic in Degraves Street.
To read the rest of my review please visit https://anzlitlovers.com/2024/10/10/t...
The writer of the blurb has done her best:
The Degenerates follows the lives of four characters: Somnath, a mechanic fleeing a cruel fate; Titch, a teenager lost to the outer suburbs; and Ginny, a dreamer who longs to escape her family.
At the heart of the novel, Maha pens the lives of these and other outcasts who wander Melbourne’s streets.
Her fame grows. Maha journeys to the edge of the city, reaching the end of reality itself.
But that description, enticing though it is (which is how I discovered the book), doesn't hint at author Raeden Richardson's style. That style is uniquely itself, but it bears resemblance to the best of writing from the Indian sub-continent, and it was no surprise to me when I visited Richardson's website to find that he was currently reading authors such as Nabarun Bhattacharya and UK/Delhi-based Rana Dasgupta. He's also reading Kenzaburō Ōe who won the 1994 Nobel Prize in Literature for creating an imagined world, where life and myth condense to form a disconcerting picture of the human predicament today.
With a voluptuous narrative where words and images tumble over each other to bedazzle the reader, Richardson has somehow realised a disconcerting picture of the human predicament today in the pragmatic city of Melbourne. My city. And not the city visitors and its inner-city residents might recognise: not the 'destination' Degraves Street where you might party but rather Degraves Street the way I remember it from the 1970s, a dingy, deserted place where a solo woman taking a shortcut
The story begins with 17-year-old shoe-shiner Somnath Sunder Sonpate birthing ambitions for a dynasty. After work, at the Anglican night school he learns to write cursive paragraphs in proper British English, to read without touching the page, to tally lists and make receipts. An end-of-year project sees him labelling his future family tree:
This Somnath sketched most carefully, tensing his toes in concentration as he wrote, scrawling lineages down every page of his notebook, penning Somnath Sunder Sonpate, at the top of the chart in his finest cursive as his forthcoming sons spilled from page to page. There was nothing more worthy than an heir, yaar, and nothing more desirable than a hustling, bustling bloodline. If one day he should have his own empire, he would need more sons than fingers and toes. Night school lessons ran until ten, payments sliding into a wooden box on the druggist's counter. Unless the police arrived: a silhouette across the dusty window; a bang-bang against the roller door; a whisper from the sisters to toss their books under the shelves, switch off the lamp and begin reciting their prayers. 'We are not illegals,' said a maa to her whimpering daughter. 'We are not enemies in the Emergency. All madness, my sweet. All idiocy. These policeboys will do anything to fill their quotas, I tell you.' (p.6)
Alas, for Somnath, it was police quotas of a different kind that ruined his dreams. He was, like millions of lower-caste men who lived on the streets, caught by the campaign to reduce India's population with forced vasectomies. In despair, clutching Maha. the orphan baby of his only friend Preeti, he stows away on a container ship bound for Melbourne.
Richardson's style does not concern itself with immigration procedures. And why should it? In the 1970s The Ex and I had a friend who had jumped ship and was running a successful tyre shop. I don't know how he did it, or if he ever 'regularised' his residency here. What I do know is that authorities have always fought a losing battle against illegal immigrants...So Somnath arrives in Melbourne, wounded in mind and body, and sets up shop as an underpriced mechanic in Degraves Street.
To read the rest of my review please visit https://anzlitlovers.com/2024/10/10/t...
September 17, 2024
This was really exceptional, and I'm gonna need to find and foist physical copies of this book onto some of my bookish friends so I have people to discuss it with. Indelible characters, stories and settings, and I can't wait to read more from this very strong storyteller. Hard to believe this was a debut!
December 26, 2024
Lost me at the magical realism.
September 14, 2024
How spectacular it is to see this city so richly rendered.
November 14, 2024
Fantastic for the first 4/5ths but totally lost me at the end. Really unique characters, plot and writing style.
November 30, 2024
I really enjoyed the start but then it just lost me. I found the style of writing confusing and tricky to read.
Read
July 4, 2025The following reviews have been shared by Text Publishing - publisher of The Degenerates:
‘The Degenerates is going for broke. It’s that rare thing: a wholly original novel told in a fantastically propulsive prose, rollicking, robust, swerving between the comically weird and the direly tragic, taking risks, talking dirty, and ending in a vision that will reduce its dazzled readers to tears. Melbourne has never been so lurid and hallucinogenic, seen through the grimy lens of a hidden garage in Degraves Street: more goon than any Goon Squad, more hoon than celebrations of the AFL Grand Final of 2017, more goon bag realist in its bold and wildly confident hyperrealism.’
Gail Jones, author of One Another
‘In The Degenerates Raeden Richardson creates a world much like ours but filled with dark magic and coincidences of the wildest kinds. A magpie steals valuable pens, fortunes are made on Bitcoin, drugs are injected into tampons, ants bring wisdom, stardom is just a step away, the dead never leave. Richardson’s prose is filled with glittering moments, his plot with dazzling twists and turns. The Degenerates is a brilliant and transporting debut.’
Margot Livesy, author of The Boy in the Field
‘The Degenerates is a buoyant, macabre, subversive love song to the art of storytelling, a playful, visceral flight of language that rises from the muck of commerce and Bitcoin and junk food and the inevitable decay of bodies into utopian narrative glory. The joyful darkness of Richardson's inventiveness reminds me of Trainspotting, The Horse’s Mouth, and The God of Small Things.’
Kate Christensen, author of Welcome Home, Stranger
‘The Degenerates is vivid, wild and even prophetic. It left me in awe. Raeden Richardson is the real deal.’
Robbie Arnott, author of Limberlost
‘A remarkable tale of departure and displacement. It’s authentic, vivid and a stellar first act for the writer.’
Jack Callil, Guardian
‘This is a narrative both pacey and immersed in the specifics of everyday life...settings and scenes develop by accrual of almost hallucinogenic detail….A novel that grants dignity to the lost and troubled, and whose vivid stories are conveyed with humour, insight, and empathy.’
Australian Book Review
‘The Degenerates makes a spirited case for capturing human individuality through storytelling...With its casual magic realism and multiple coming-of-age arcs, this ambitious debut never plays it safe.’
Big Issue
‘While the originality and confident clarity of voice in The Degenerates would be astonishing from an experienced writer, the fact that it’s Raeden Richardson’s debut novel is little short of miraculous. Taking you from Mumbai to Melbourne, this propulsive work dances between the interwoven stories of its characters.’
Michael Williams, Qantas Magazine
‘[Dis]connection, loneliness, transformation: these are the novel’s pulsing themes, and Richardson evokes them elegantly and with a striking voice and sense of authenticity…Diasporic storytelling that grapples with the limits of storytelling itself…If writing is listening, The Degenerates has heard both an orchestra of voices and the silences they inhabit.’
Guardian
‘With a voluptuous narrative where words and images tumble over each other to bedazzle the reader, Richardson has somehow realised a disconcerting picture of the human predicament today in the pragmatic city of Melbourne…Remarkable.’
ANZ LitLovers
‘Extraordinary. Raeden Richardson has a truly original voice.’
Alice Pung author of One Hundred Days
‘This novel takes root in Melbourne and brings its streets, shopping centres and laneways to life with astounding originality…[The Degenerates is] brimming with vitality, humour, intelligence and brilliant writing.’
Readings
‘Richardson’s use of language is extraordinary, and he wields words expertly to enhance the absurd. The Degenerates will resonate with readers who enjoy complex novels and writing that strains against norms.’
Good Reading
‘One of the most compelling Australian debuts I've ever encountered.’
WellRead
‘I was rapt as soon as I started reading Raeden Richardson’s The Degenerates. Vivid, vulnerable and voluptuous, The Degenerates is stylish and bold story telling. Profound in its unpredictability and remarkable in scope, you will surely enjoy the ride.’
Mirandi Riwoe, author of Stone Sky Gold Mountain
‘Raeden’s talent shines in this bold debut. The Degenerates is an ambitious and passionate ode to language, storytelling, and the places that shape us.’
Ennis Ćehić, Australian author of Sadvertising
‘Strikingly inventive…The language is risky, lustrous and often comical, and the writing is a rush of words and images where stories of cultural separation and loneliness are told with a light magical brush.’
MUD Literary Prize
‘Richardson’s prose dazzles…Its rare gifts are humour, perversity, syncretism and empathy for those marginalised, and their stories.’
Conversation
‘The Degenerates is going for broke. It’s that rare thing: a wholly original novel told in a fantastically propulsive prose, rollicking, robust, swerving between the comically weird and the direly tragic, taking risks, talking dirty, and ending in a vision that will reduce its dazzled readers to tears. Melbourne has never been so lurid and hallucinogenic, seen through the grimy lens of a hidden garage in Degraves Street: more goon than any Goon Squad, more hoon than celebrations of the AFL Grand Final of 2017, more goon bag realist in its bold and wildly confident hyperrealism.’
Gail Jones, author of One Another
‘In The Degenerates Raeden Richardson creates a world much like ours but filled with dark magic and coincidences of the wildest kinds. A magpie steals valuable pens, fortunes are made on Bitcoin, drugs are injected into tampons, ants bring wisdom, stardom is just a step away, the dead never leave. Richardson’s prose is filled with glittering moments, his plot with dazzling twists and turns. The Degenerates is a brilliant and transporting debut.’
Margot Livesy, author of The Boy in the Field
‘The Degenerates is a buoyant, macabre, subversive love song to the art of storytelling, a playful, visceral flight of language that rises from the muck of commerce and Bitcoin and junk food and the inevitable decay of bodies into utopian narrative glory. The joyful darkness of Richardson's inventiveness reminds me of Trainspotting, The Horse’s Mouth, and The God of Small Things.’
Kate Christensen, author of Welcome Home, Stranger
‘The Degenerates is vivid, wild and even prophetic. It left me in awe. Raeden Richardson is the real deal.’
Robbie Arnott, author of Limberlost
‘A remarkable tale of departure and displacement. It’s authentic, vivid and a stellar first act for the writer.’
Jack Callil, Guardian
‘This is a narrative both pacey and immersed in the specifics of everyday life...settings and scenes develop by accrual of almost hallucinogenic detail….A novel that grants dignity to the lost and troubled, and whose vivid stories are conveyed with humour, insight, and empathy.’
Australian Book Review
‘The Degenerates makes a spirited case for capturing human individuality through storytelling...With its casual magic realism and multiple coming-of-age arcs, this ambitious debut never plays it safe.’
Big Issue
‘While the originality and confident clarity of voice in The Degenerates would be astonishing from an experienced writer, the fact that it’s Raeden Richardson’s debut novel is little short of miraculous. Taking you from Mumbai to Melbourne, this propulsive work dances between the interwoven stories of its characters.’
Michael Williams, Qantas Magazine
‘[Dis]connection, loneliness, transformation: these are the novel’s pulsing themes, and Richardson evokes them elegantly and with a striking voice and sense of authenticity…Diasporic storytelling that grapples with the limits of storytelling itself…If writing is listening, The Degenerates has heard both an orchestra of voices and the silences they inhabit.’
Guardian
‘With a voluptuous narrative where words and images tumble over each other to bedazzle the reader, Richardson has somehow realised a disconcerting picture of the human predicament today in the pragmatic city of Melbourne…Remarkable.’
ANZ LitLovers
‘Extraordinary. Raeden Richardson has a truly original voice.’
Alice Pung author of One Hundred Days
‘This novel takes root in Melbourne and brings its streets, shopping centres and laneways to life with astounding originality…[The Degenerates is] brimming with vitality, humour, intelligence and brilliant writing.’
Readings
‘Richardson’s use of language is extraordinary, and he wields words expertly to enhance the absurd. The Degenerates will resonate with readers who enjoy complex novels and writing that strains against norms.’
Good Reading
‘One of the most compelling Australian debuts I've ever encountered.’
WellRead
‘I was rapt as soon as I started reading Raeden Richardson’s The Degenerates. Vivid, vulnerable and voluptuous, The Degenerates is stylish and bold story telling. Profound in its unpredictability and remarkable in scope, you will surely enjoy the ride.’
Mirandi Riwoe, author of Stone Sky Gold Mountain
‘Raeden’s talent shines in this bold debut. The Degenerates is an ambitious and passionate ode to language, storytelling, and the places that shape us.’
Ennis Ćehić, Australian author of Sadvertising
‘Strikingly inventive…The language is risky, lustrous and often comical, and the writing is a rush of words and images where stories of cultural separation and loneliness are told with a light magical brush.’
MUD Literary Prize
‘Richardson’s prose dazzles…Its rare gifts are humour, perversity, syncretism and empathy for those marginalised, and their stories.’
Conversation
October 15, 2024
Just insane in a beautiful and literal way. This book really lends itself to singular adjectives; beautiful, surreal, psychotropic, weird.
I’m going to be thinking about this book and these characters for a while.
I’m going to be thinking about this book and these characters for a while.
Read
January 31, 2025A wonderful debut and gift from a friend. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this against the familiar backdrop of Melbourne (and chaddy)
January 30, 2025
I’m going to need someone to explain to me what I just read
October 23, 2024
3,5*
Thank you to NetGalley for allowing me to read this.
This is a fast-paced book with short chapters that make reading it easy. Though it is a unique story with interesting characters I did not find myself truly attached to the people we follow in the book. The stories of the main characters come together organically, so that was satisfying. The point is not quite clear to me and I probably would not reread the book (unless I really want to it click in my head).
Entertaining story, not a new favorite.
Thank you to NetGalley for allowing me to read this.
This is a fast-paced book with short chapters that make reading it easy. Though it is a unique story with interesting characters I did not find myself truly attached to the people we follow in the book. The stories of the main characters come together organically, so that was satisfying. The point is not quite clear to me and I probably would not reread the book (unless I really want to it click in my head).
Entertaining story, not a new favorite.
January 9, 2025
There was nothing I could describe as endearing or entertaining about this book. The creation of a story through the networking of characters can create a rich tapestry if the characters have substance. Or not if they don’t. This book for me was very much the latter. I found the characters to be very one dimensional, plain vanilla people and in the main, annoying.
I’m not sure why the grungy urban mystic (I’m not sure how else to describe it) subplot was involved. It came across for me as plain ridiculous.
I’m not sure why the grungy urban mystic (I’m not sure how else to describe it) subplot was involved. It came across for me as plain ridiculous.
September 28, 2024
I found this book a little challenging - the prose and structure is beyond my capabilities right now and I wasn't able to finish. I've given a three as a neutral rating.
I've read reviews online and in newspapers and it is getting really positive write ups.
Thanks to Netgalley for the ARC
I've read reviews online and in newspapers and it is getting really positive write ups.
Thanks to Netgalley for the ARC
November 17, 2024
Richardson shows talent for quick, sharp and thoughtful writing throughout his debut. However, as much as I would have liked to, I struggled to connect with any of the characters throughout the story.
November 25, 2025
It gave nomadland vibes. Deserves more stars because parts of it were beautifully written but I'm rating it three stars because I struggled to get lost in the story.
February 6, 2025
This book was so different to what I usually read but I really vibed with it. The whole thing felt a bit random and kinda like a fever dream, but I think that was the point: it captured the essence of what it feels like to move through the world without any connection. You could really feel the emotions of the characters and I felt like I really got inside their heads. The ending was a bit chaotic and weird, but I think it created a full circle ending that was moderately satisfying.
Interesting quotes:
"Kids are the future, mate. She could be the next Mahatma Gandhi, you never know. Can't write off anyone in this town. - page 20
"So things are better in life if you accept your limitations. I agree." - page 47
"It's just another sign...that some of us are born to be embarrassed. Better we stick it out on the boundary, watching everyone else have a fine old time." - page 78
"...she wondered how her sister could live without trying to understand herself. There were so many things to learn, she thought. What else was the point of life?" - page 100
"She wore sunglasses and sunhats all year round; she longed to look without being seen..." - page 101
"If life teaches us anything...it's that families always unravel. Friends, though, they stick around. Friends are the family you create." - page 120
"There is one rule above all else. And only once we accept this rule can we take the steps towards liberation. All energy tends to zero. Here, gone. A motorcycle, when drained of petrol, slows to a halt and stops. A man's fortune, at the end of his life, passes from hand to hand and dwindles away. Bones aes brittle. The blood cools. We insist that life if about accumulation, yet the path always leads to zero. Growth is an illusion...We've arrived in degenerate times."- page 176-177
"In a certain light, all divinity was really a measure of monstrosity." - page 177
"Surely failure, she thought, was the most pathetic hallucinogen." - page 228
"It was his chance to be alone with no one looking, yeah. No comparisons to be made anymore. No one sizing him up. No more scripts to rehearse. Zero was everything, yeah, and he giggled at the thought of it, so free now with his head clear and no one on his tail...Just himself." - page 244
"Her degenerate following grew; in only two days, more than twenty people milled through the mansion, waiting at her side to speak their stories. They didn't want her advice or authority. They found freedom simply by being heard." - page 293
"She had waited in order to listen. She had waited to witness his anguish. But it was precisely in waiting that she had failed him, perpetuating his pain, ignoring what he needed: a leap into the next life, a chance to be remade." - page 297
"Then she opened her notebook and read the sections of Titch's story: the grog, the cryptos, the granny. For all of her care, and for all of their days together, she had misunderstood; his was a story of unbecoming, stuck for years loving an absence, wading through his days searching for , that nameless space that could never be filled. She could see this now, after letting him go, having witnessed his passing on." - page 304
Interesting quotes:
"Kids are the future, mate. She could be the next Mahatma Gandhi, you never know. Can't write off anyone in this town. - page 20
"So things are better in life if you accept your limitations. I agree." - page 47
"It's just another sign...that some of us are born to be embarrassed. Better we stick it out on the boundary, watching everyone else have a fine old time." - page 78
"...she wondered how her sister could live without trying to understand herself. There were so many things to learn, she thought. What else was the point of life?" - page 100
"She wore sunglasses and sunhats all year round; she longed to look without being seen..." - page 101
"If life teaches us anything...it's that families always unravel. Friends, though, they stick around. Friends are the family you create." - page 120
"There is one rule above all else. And only once we accept this rule can we take the steps towards liberation. All energy tends to zero. Here, gone. A motorcycle, when drained of petrol, slows to a halt and stops. A man's fortune, at the end of his life, passes from hand to hand and dwindles away. Bones aes brittle. The blood cools. We insist that life if about accumulation, yet the path always leads to zero. Growth is an illusion...We've arrived in degenerate times."- page 176-177
"In a certain light, all divinity was really a measure of monstrosity." - page 177
"Surely failure, she thought, was the most pathetic hallucinogen." - page 228
"It was his chance to be alone with no one looking, yeah. No comparisons to be made anymore. No one sizing him up. No more scripts to rehearse. Zero was everything, yeah, and he giggled at the thought of it, so free now with his head clear and no one on his tail...Just himself." - page 244
"Her degenerate following grew; in only two days, more than twenty people milled through the mansion, waiting at her side to speak their stories. They didn't want her advice or authority. They found freedom simply by being heard." - page 293
"She had waited in order to listen. She had waited to witness his anguish. But it was precisely in waiting that she had failed him, perpetuating his pain, ignoring what he needed: a leap into the next life, a chance to be remade." - page 297
"Then she opened her notebook and read the sections of Titch's story: the grog, the cryptos, the granny. For all of her care, and for all of their days together, she had misunderstood; his was a story of unbecoming, stuck for years loving an absence, wading through his days searching for , that nameless space that could never be filled. She could see this now, after letting him go, having witnessed his passing on." - page 304
October 5, 2025
Set mostly in Melbourne, this novel follows three characters, Maha, Titch, and Ginny, all portrayed as outsiders.
The style of this book is distinctive and I can't say I enjoyed it. Every scene extends over at most a few pages, and is written as a single unbroken paragraph. While readable, this structure made dialogue sections harder to follow and interrupted the flow at times.
Think what you will, I'm firmly in the camp that playing with structure is not cure, it's annoying.
The story itself is framed by magical realism, most strongly in Maha’s storyline. It appears at the start, then returns at the end, and I wasn’t convinced it worked. It overshadowed other elements and gave the book a sense of trying to be more literary than it needed to be.
On the other hand, I enjoyed the development of Titch and Ginny. Both felt authentic in their flaws and outlook, and their sections kept me engaged. At times, they had that exaggerated teen drama feel, but all in all, were enjoyable.
Overall, this is an ambitious debut with moments of strong character work, but the structural choices and reliance on magical realism made it less memorable for me in the long run.
The style of this book is distinctive and I can't say I enjoyed it. Every scene extends over at most a few pages, and is written as a single unbroken paragraph. While readable, this structure made dialogue sections harder to follow and interrupted the flow at times.
Think what you will, I'm firmly in the camp that playing with structure is not cure, it's annoying.
The story itself is framed by magical realism, most strongly in Maha’s storyline. It appears at the start, then returns at the end, and I wasn’t convinced it worked. It overshadowed other elements and gave the book a sense of trying to be more literary than it needed to be.
On the other hand, I enjoyed the development of Titch and Ginny. Both felt authentic in their flaws and outlook, and their sections kept me engaged. At times, they had that exaggerated teen drama feel, but all in all, were enjoyable.
Overall, this is an ambitious debut with moments of strong character work, but the structural choices and reliance on magical realism made it less memorable for me in the long run.
March 2, 2025
One of the more interesting books I’ve read in a while. The writing style was unique - thought it would deter me (like how I didn’t finish normal people bc of the weird structure lol) but actually got used to it very quickly. Melbourne as the backdrop was an enjoyable feature. Felt connected to the story especially as I grew up in the suburbs mentioned. Heart broke for Titch.
March 27, 2025
beautifully written prose that I think captures Melbourne so accurately and handles issues that can be stereotyped with so much empathy. so much of this book had potential and there were chapters that were definitely five stars but for other parts of the book it was really very hard to follow and understand. still a super interesting debut and was a big fan of the really short chapters too
February 2, 2025
Someone might need to explain to me what I just read and maybe I will like it more. 2.5 ⭐️
July 4, 2025
I loved this, it was sad, funny and beautiful.
September 21, 2025
DNF :( sorry Bridget
September 26, 2024
What a weird, wacky, wonderful book. Enjoyed every minute reading this. Very impressive
November 29, 2024
A brilliant debut novel set in Melbourne in 2016 and 2017. Weaving together the live of 4 young people trying to find themselves and their way in the world, hope and redemption become possible as they connect with each other. There is more than a hint of magic realism in the storytelling. This book would make an ideal present for anyone of my generation wishing to encourage young adults to the joys be open to the joys of reading good fiction.
January 8, 2025
I found this hard to follow, amazing writing though !
January 19, 2025
Really clever, interesting, woven stories of four lives. Enjoyed, an intricate and beautiful image
September 27, 2024
It's been a long time since a book has made me feel like I was actively participating in the story, the way The Degenerates does. Every location and character is vividly and beautifully described; I could see every scene play out before my eyes, as if I were there beside them.
At its core, the story is about loneliness, in which the characters seek connections and understanding. It's a story I think many can relate to in one way or another.
This is a stunning debut, and I hope it receives all the praise and recognition it deserves. Raeden Richardson is a talented writer and storyteller whose work and career I'm excited to follow from here on.
At its core, the story is about loneliness, in which the characters seek connections and understanding. It's a story I think many can relate to in one way or another.
This is a stunning debut, and I hope it receives all the praise and recognition it deserves. Raeden Richardson is a talented writer and storyteller whose work and career I'm excited to follow from here on.
February 17, 2026
An excellent debut novel. It is very original, not like anything I have read before. The book blurb did not reveal much so I just travelled along with each character, along with their hopes and dreams and their tragedy's. The book is a story of departure and displacement, of the benefit of telling our stories and the power of being heard. The magical realism amidst the realities of life added another aspect to the book, and it mostly worked. It does this cleverly, engaging the reader. As the blurb states 'with the realities of modern loneliness. and every form of departure— from our homes, from our families and even from life itself'. The story starts in the turbulent years in the 70's India, during what is known as The Emergency, a tragic time for people. We learn of the life of Somnath Sunder Sonpate. Despite his situation Somnath is able to adapt going from one trade to the next with a happy demeanor until he is tragically caught up in The Emergency, accused by a policeboy of working without papers, dire consequences occur. 'One dream ends another begins' the narrator tell us - Somnath and a baby he rescues are on a ship on their way to Melbourne. Their remarkable story continues at a fast pace. In the next chapters we are introduced to some new characters, it is now the 2000's Melbourne and New York. Here dysfunctional families, friendship, grief and the messiness of life is explored.
These two statements sum the book up well.
‘This is a narrative both pacey and immersed in the specifics of everyday life...settings and scenes develop by accrual of almost hallucinogenic detail….A novel that grants dignity to the lost and troubled, and whose vivid stories are conveyed with humour, insight, and empathy.’ Australian Book Review
‘The Degenerates makes a spirited case for capturing human individuality through storytelling...With its casual magic realism and multiple coming-of-age arcs, this ambitious debut never plays it safe.’ Big Issue
Some favourite quotes
She learned that all being came and went out of this form and into the next. And yet she found that books held infinite worlds within their pages, that writers were gods who wrote other humans into being, that every creator would find her readers, her true believers amid the loneliness of her life.
She felt an ancient solitude, a celestial ache known only by the sun and the moon; human lives never did last for long. Then she opened her notebook and read the sections of Titch's story; the grog, the cryptos, the granny. For all her care, and for all their days together, she had misunderstood; his was a story of unbecoming, stuck for years loving an absence, wading through his days searching for , that nameless space that could never be filled.
'You don't want to go honey'. 'But of course I do. Excelsior'. 'What?' 'Ever Upward'. She said.
All she ever wanted was elsewhere. On an evening months ago, across the world in her Manhattan, she had tricked herself into seeing somewhere to belong. But it shouldn't matter where she ran. Really, it never had. All that mattered was moving. As she melted out of Maha, the ache left her scalp, and she was overcome by the truth of escape. Ever upward. She was held in the blue tint of Maha's sunglasses, like take-off in and endless sky.
On the last Saturday of September, the clouds broke above the Dandenong Ranges and rain sluiced over southeastern suburbs. Swallows swooped in the spring humidity as the rain fizzled in the sky, stretched above the city like a carnival tent, hovering over the people pacing along foot paths, squatting at bus stops and stalled in the cars at traffic lights....
...A rascal cannonballed into the water swinging his Tigers jersey over his head, wetting Titch on the bridge and bellowing, 'We won the fucking granny'.
The pressure on the street was becoming palpable. When the people woke up to their suffering, when they learned the true nature of their pain, all the unrest in this glittering city would overflow. Their dull comforts would erode, leaving them wondering how to be and what to do.
A man's fortune, at the end of his life, passes from hand to hand and dwindles away. Bones are brittle. The blood cools. We insist that life is about accumulation, yet the path always leads to zero. Growth is an illusion', she said. 'We've arrived in degenerate times'.
His story ran and retreated between his memories and his living grief.
You looking for a gift hun? That's generous of you. This writer's disrupting the scene. Award-winning. I'm surprised you haven't heard of her yet.
Her mothering was a rotten web, stinking of suburbia, woven with shame, and would be overcome at all costs.
Loneliness, she told herself, was the key to freedom, the underlying inspiration needed to leave. One day, the whole sad house would sit snugly in her rear-view mirror.
After Ginny dumped the books back in Reynolds, doubting anyone had noticed their absence from the store, let alone their presence, she wondered how her sister could live without trying to understand herself. There were so many things to learn she thought. What else was the point of life?
The first lesson Ginny had learned, sometime in her childhood, was that invisibility would be her only means of survival in the Anton house.
She became numb to the world, as if she were watching from outer space.
'We should just christen you "Ant". From here on out, you're the kind of man who'll carry ten times his own load.'
He was consumed by his own mind, like a yellow-bellied black snake eating itself.
The condition of entry into Sonpate's Squad was simple. 'Leaky lips sink ships' he would say. 'Trust is number one, more important than any technical proficiency'. And he wanted devotion, a love of engines that trumped any interest in girls or footy.
Their Australian twang sounded so unruly, like squawking seagulls trapped in a milk crate. But for all their oddity, Maha found herself smiling at their curious phrases, their odd diction.
Ginny's patience for life, with its waves of expectation and failure, was gone. She wondered how, as a child, she had decided to go on living when she first befriended death, all those years ago, sitting in the bath with her pills peeking out from their bottle.
Maha listened to the story of every living animal outside her window. She heard the histories of pigeons, rats and dogs, and every evening, without fail, she listened to the fruit bat clinging to the tram wire and traced its past and future between skyscrapers, over gushing creeks and across dry, parched fields. All the city’s incarnations waited to be heard. After a year, the construction ended and the trams trundled up Swanston Street, spooking the critters from her window.
But one afternoon, she noticed a pair of dusty feet paused outside her window, scuffed and bruised, toenails painted red, yellow and indigo, and she scrambled outside to find a young man. Instantly she glimpsed his past: a weatherboard house in Footscray, a rusted basketball ring in the driveway, a man hurling thick textbooks across a living room, a fist on a cheek, a shattered tooth. ‘You think I come to Australia to raise a poofta?’ And a scramble through broken glass, up the Metro overpass, to await the Flinders Street express. A runaway.
… was no surprise to Titch. He had known the truth before too. He’d seen the proof that ‘s Facebook friends, and before his parents, had decayed long before he tanked his final exams or guzzled his savings.
Maybe, in fact, there were ways of being she could never record, infinite moments that escaped articulation. Maybe words had their limits. But to write until the end of language, over and over, broaching the border of nothingness, was the only reason to write at all. This Somnath sketched most carefully, tensing his toes in concentration as he wrote, scrawling lineages down every page of his notebook, penning Somnath Sunder Sonpate, at the top of the chart in his finest cursive as his forthcoming sons spilled from page to page. There was nothing more worthy than an heir, yaar, and nothing more desirable than a hustling, bustling bloodline. If one day he should have his own empire, he would need more sons than fingers and toes. Night school lessons ran until ten, payments sliding into a wooden box on the druggist's counter. Unless the police arrived: a silhouette across the dusty window; a bang-bang against the roller door; a whisper from the sisters to toss their books under the shelves, switch off the lamp and begin reciting their prayers. 'We are not illegals,' said a maa to her whimpering daughter. 'We are not enemies in the Emergency. All madness, my sweet. All idiocy. These police boys will do anything to fill their quotas, I tell you.
These two statements sum the book up well.
‘This is a narrative both pacey and immersed in the specifics of everyday life...settings and scenes develop by accrual of almost hallucinogenic detail….A novel that grants dignity to the lost and troubled, and whose vivid stories are conveyed with humour, insight, and empathy.’ Australian Book Review
‘The Degenerates makes a spirited case for capturing human individuality through storytelling...With its casual magic realism and multiple coming-of-age arcs, this ambitious debut never plays it safe.’ Big Issue
Some favourite quotes
She learned that all being came and went out of this form and into the next. And yet she found that books held infinite worlds within their pages, that writers were gods who wrote other humans into being, that every creator would find her readers, her true believers amid the loneliness of her life.
She felt an ancient solitude, a celestial ache known only by the sun and the moon; human lives never did last for long. Then she opened her notebook and read the sections of Titch's story; the grog, the cryptos, the granny. For all her care, and for all their days together, she had misunderstood; his was a story of unbecoming, stuck for years loving an absence, wading through his days searching for , that nameless space that could never be filled.
'You don't want to go honey'. 'But of course I do. Excelsior'. 'What?' 'Ever Upward'. She said.
All she ever wanted was elsewhere. On an evening months ago, across the world in her Manhattan, she had tricked herself into seeing somewhere to belong. But it shouldn't matter where she ran. Really, it never had. All that mattered was moving. As she melted out of Maha, the ache left her scalp, and she was overcome by the truth of escape. Ever upward. She was held in the blue tint of Maha's sunglasses, like take-off in and endless sky.
On the last Saturday of September, the clouds broke above the Dandenong Ranges and rain sluiced over southeastern suburbs. Swallows swooped in the spring humidity as the rain fizzled in the sky, stretched above the city like a carnival tent, hovering over the people pacing along foot paths, squatting at bus stops and stalled in the cars at traffic lights....
...A rascal cannonballed into the water swinging his Tigers jersey over his head, wetting Titch on the bridge and bellowing, 'We won the fucking granny'.
The pressure on the street was becoming palpable. When the people woke up to their suffering, when they learned the true nature of their pain, all the unrest in this glittering city would overflow. Their dull comforts would erode, leaving them wondering how to be and what to do.
A man's fortune, at the end of his life, passes from hand to hand and dwindles away. Bones are brittle. The blood cools. We insist that life is about accumulation, yet the path always leads to zero. Growth is an illusion', she said. 'We've arrived in degenerate times'.
His story ran and retreated between his memories and his living grief.
You looking for a gift hun? That's generous of you. This writer's disrupting the scene. Award-winning. I'm surprised you haven't heard of her yet.
Her mothering was a rotten web, stinking of suburbia, woven with shame, and would be overcome at all costs.
Loneliness, she told herself, was the key to freedom, the underlying inspiration needed to leave. One day, the whole sad house would sit snugly in her rear-view mirror.
After Ginny dumped the books back in Reynolds, doubting anyone had noticed their absence from the store, let alone their presence, she wondered how her sister could live without trying to understand herself. There were so many things to learn she thought. What else was the point of life?
The first lesson Ginny had learned, sometime in her childhood, was that invisibility would be her only means of survival in the Anton house.
She became numb to the world, as if she were watching from outer space.
'We should just christen you "Ant". From here on out, you're the kind of man who'll carry ten times his own load.'
He was consumed by his own mind, like a yellow-bellied black snake eating itself.
The condition of entry into Sonpate's Squad was simple. 'Leaky lips sink ships' he would say. 'Trust is number one, more important than any technical proficiency'. And he wanted devotion, a love of engines that trumped any interest in girls or footy.
Their Australian twang sounded so unruly, like squawking seagulls trapped in a milk crate. But for all their oddity, Maha found herself smiling at their curious phrases, their odd diction.
Ginny's patience for life, with its waves of expectation and failure, was gone. She wondered how, as a child, she had decided to go on living when she first befriended death, all those years ago, sitting in the bath with her pills peeking out from their bottle.
Maha listened to the story of every living animal outside her window. She heard the histories of pigeons, rats and dogs, and every evening, without fail, she listened to the fruit bat clinging to the tram wire and traced its past and future between skyscrapers, over gushing creeks and across dry, parched fields. All the city’s incarnations waited to be heard. After a year, the construction ended and the trams trundled up Swanston Street, spooking the critters from her window.
But one afternoon, she noticed a pair of dusty feet paused outside her window, scuffed and bruised, toenails painted red, yellow and indigo, and she scrambled outside to find a young man. Instantly she glimpsed his past: a weatherboard house in Footscray, a rusted basketball ring in the driveway, a man hurling thick textbooks across a living room, a fist on a cheek, a shattered tooth. ‘You think I come to Australia to raise a poofta?’ And a scramble through broken glass, up the Metro overpass, to await the Flinders Street express. A runaway.
… was no surprise to Titch. He had known the truth before too. He’d seen the proof that ‘s Facebook friends, and before his parents, had decayed long before he tanked his final exams or guzzled his savings.
Maybe, in fact, there were ways of being she could never record, infinite moments that escaped articulation. Maybe words had their limits. But to write until the end of language, over and over, broaching the border of nothingness, was the only reason to write at all. This Somnath sketched most carefully, tensing his toes in concentration as he wrote, scrawling lineages down every page of his notebook, penning Somnath Sunder Sonpate, at the top of the chart in his finest cursive as his forthcoming sons spilled from page to page. There was nothing more worthy than an heir, yaar, and nothing more desirable than a hustling, bustling bloodline. If one day he should have his own empire, he would need more sons than fingers and toes. Night school lessons ran until ten, payments sliding into a wooden box on the druggist's counter. Unless the police arrived: a silhouette across the dusty window; a bang-bang against the roller door; a whisper from the sisters to toss their books under the shelves, switch off the lamp and begin reciting their prayers. 'We are not illegals,' said a maa to her whimpering daughter. 'We are not enemies in the Emergency. All madness, my sweet. All idiocy. These police boys will do anything to fill their quotas, I tell you.
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