If Peter Carey (Australia, 1943) were a ‘rock star’ he would, without a doubt, be David Bowie. Because of his talent, yes, but ‘also’ because of that adjective that was always attached to the creator of Ziggy Stardust: ‘chameleon’. Because a quick review of Carey’s work—entering and leaving numerous editorial boxes in Spanish and now racing for the noble Piel de Zapa team—tells and demonstrates his mastery of narration and, furthermore, that nothing that can be narrated masterfully it is foreign to him. Thus – with two Booker prizes in his honor – Kafkaesque obese, digestive automatons, Macondian glass churches, computer worms, expatriates in America, legendary gunfighters, Tocqueville in the New World, rewriting of Dickens, divorce forgers and even a weekend script for Wim Wenders.NOVEL ‘Very far from home’ Author Peter Carey Publisher Piel de Zapa Year 2024 Pages 350 Price 22 euros 4 With ‘Very Far From Home’—novel number fourteen, last to date—Carey turns the steering wheel again and accelerates fully to convey the traffic of Irene Bobs (wife of Tich Bobs, the best car salesman from Victoria) with his melancholic and somewhat tortured co-driver and map lover Willie Bachhuber running the demanding Redex Trail race around the Australian continent in the years ’50s of the 20th century where Ford and General Motors models dueled. Almost 20,000 kilometers in seventeen days maintaining average speed to avoid losing points. An odyssey along dusty roads, dry riverbeds, cliff edges with rockfalls and kangaroos to avoid. Participating was equivalent to being famous, winning was equivalent to becoming a living legend. And through all of that, finally, Carey—after wandering around everywhere—takes the very sharp and dangerous curve of racism in his land. Agreed: Carey always explored the Australian, but he never did it like this. Restless ‘road novel’ but, also, firm and thoughtful reflection on the relations between imperials and aborigines. Alternating first-person voices (Irene’s and Willie’s), ‘ Very Far From Home’ is a restless and adventurous ‘road novel’ in its entirety but, in addition, it is a firm and thoughtful reflection on the relations between imperials and aborigines with more than one ethnic surprise that does not It will be wise to reveal before the reader reaches the finish line. And—it should be noted—Carey assumes all of the above by returning to his origins: his parents ran a mechanical workshop in Bacchus Marsh and in these pages one perceives an almost Proustian adoration for the roar of engines during his childhood. Those who have already enjoyed other Carey rallies will find here reflections of two of his greatest prix: the almost magical-realist ‘Oscar and Lucinda’ and the twilight western ‘The True Story of the Kelly Gang’. And warning: the race occupies the dizzying first two thirds of the novel; then everything seems to break down and stop. But, in truth, that stop and fork in the road and return home is what elevates and accelerates the entire novel, taking it from absurd picaresque to deep rumination on the differences to collide and overturn, the distance of a historical checkered flag, and—as Bowie sang—that consolation prize in which one reaches the certainty that one can be heroes at least for a day.
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