| This is a review I had to write for part of a university assignment. It's not really written in my style but I thought I'd put up here anyway... |
‘How strange it was to see men do something beautiful.’ So thinks the young Bruce Pike upon his first sight of men surfing in Tim Winton’s Breath. It’s a statement that could just as readily be made of Winton’s achievement with this new novel. There is a muscularity to Winton’s language that is softened by his remarkable ability to evoke place and feeling. Breath is a short novel that manages to pack more into its pages than most novels double or triple its length.
In the opening sequence we encounter an older Bruce in his capacity as an ambo called out to an apparent teen suicide by hanging. But Bruce knows something is not right with the mother’s story. It is clear to him that the scene has been sanitised. The older bruises on the boy’s neck tell Bruce (bruise…Bruce) another story. Winton’s economy of language and description in this scene is remarkable. The descriptions are like watching a room lit by strobe. Brief flashes illuminate different aspects that come together as a whole. Bruce’s unspoken perception about the boy’s real means of death creates a distinct sense of unease. There is something in Bruce’s past that is awakened by this death.
And it is to the past that Winton next takes us. Bruce is now ‘Pikelet’ and the setting is a lumber town on the West Australian coast. Pikelet and his mate Ivan Loon, always called Loonie, play dangerous games in the local river. They dive deep, holding their breath until their vision blurs and sparks, tricking passersby into thinking they have drowned. The exuberance with which the boys play this game is only matched by their desire for something more daring to play at. They become parent-defying surfers. A chance encounter with the mysterious older and Christ-like surfer, Sando, sets up the rest of the narrative.
Make no mistake; surfing is the central activity and theme of the novel. But this is not a ‘surfing’ book. Even if you have no interest in the sport it is hard not to be captivated by Winton’s wondrous descriptions of the surf and sea:
Ocean and air seemed hyper-oxygenated; everything fizzed and spritzed as if long after the passage of previous waves there was energy yet to be dissipated.
It is through Sando that Winton finds his best voice for describing the heady feeling of conquering a wave: ‘Like you’ve exploded and all the pieces of you are reassembling themselves. You’re new. Shimmering. Alive.’ Winton’s great strength has always been this ability to take you into his creations by pin-pointing detail that invokes your own memories. The description of Pikelet’s school bus journey is bound to be familiar to many:
The smells of vinyl and diesel and toothpaste, corrugated-iron shelters out by the highway, rain-soaked farmkids, the funk of wet wool and greasy scalps, the staccato rattle of the perspex emergency window.
The journey from school bus to ambulance for Pikelet is the journey that defines Breath. As a boy he encounters the wonders of the surf - of being so scared of the power of the ocean and his own power to master it - that he could shit himself. And he encounters the wonders of love and lust and sex in the form of Sando’s wife Eva. It is the memory of Eva’s bruises that the older Pikelet recalls. The journey from boy to man is not an easy one for Pikelet.
Winton skilfully manages these difficult themes. There is a generosity in the writing about Pikelet’s worshipping of Sando - and his young man’s desire to usurp him - that makes the story painful but beautiful.
Breath is about men and boys being men and boys. In an age where masculinity is perceived as in crisis it is refreshing to read such flawed, dangerous and likable male characters. Winton’s men are not afraid of admitting their fears. ‘Denying fear, well, that’s…unmanly,’ Sando ministers to Pikelet at one point. Breath is about ‘daring to try’ despite the fear. It is about men surfing beautifully and about the beauty in men that is just as much a part of them as each breath.