Let's play NAME THAT NOVEL game.

Yep, Ragtime, by E.L. Doctorow.

Ragtime

Your turn, Deb.

"London, Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall."

Sounds like Bleak House by Charlie Dickens. That it?

Bugger.


Should have picked something obscure!


Your turn.

You want obscure, wot? Well, here's something that should appeal to you wizards of Oz.

In Alice Springs -- a grid of scorching streets where men in long white socks were forever getting in and out of Land Cruisers -- I met a Russian who was mapping the sacred sites of the Aboriginals.


A hint, in case it's needed: It's not a novel, per se, but it reads like one, and a damn fine one, at that.

So, it is probably not, "A Town Like Alice."

No, but "A Town Like Alice" is a fine book.

As I said in the previous hint, this isn't a novel. It's actually of the travel book genre. The author (now deceased) is often compared with Paul Theroux and is generally given higher marks.

Anyway, here's Hint No. 2: The book, for the most part, is an exploration of the Aboriginal dreamtime concept.

Whenabout was it written?


I have no damn idea!

It better not be by that crazy woman who made up heaps of **** some time back!

Oh, is that a Bruce Chatwin book? Uh.... something Song..

Yeh.

Songlines

Since the quote by Debacle is in the a2k amazon link, I'll just go ahead.

And, by the way, such a delight to see Debacle here.




"They stood in the doorway and stomped the rain from their boots and swung their hats and wiped the water from their faces. Out in the street the rain slashed through the standing water driving the gaudy red and green colors of the neon signs to wander and seethe and rain danced on the steel tops of the cars parked along the curb.


According to google, the author now lives in my state, New Mexico.

Good to see you, too, ossobuco. And you're right; the book is Songlines by Bruce Chatwin. However, I'm pretty sure that Chatwin died in 1989. This is indicated on the COPYRIGHT page of Songlines.

Some amazing stuff in the book. I was impressed by the idea of an Aborigine dropping whatever he was doing to go trekking halfway across the continent just to say something to someone and then trek back to carry on with whatever he'd been doing. My life should be so uncomplicated. Still, I have email, which saves a lot of trekking.

So now, by the rules, it's your turn, ossobuco.

BTW, Deb ... what crazy woman was that?

Surely you don't mean what's her name, Dame Edna?

Though she does meet your criteria.

And Debacle has been back how long, without saying hello?

Hello, Roger. I'm not too long back; just this thread, mainly.

How have you been, and how now? I still remember our Saturday afternoon chat sessions, how by the time I got around to typing a reply, four more questions had been asked and answered, so that no one had a clue as to what I was on about. Hard to credit that I once had a job as a typist. Unfortunately, that firm eventually went under due to a failure to communicate.

Are you having any weather like Denver's recent blast? It's good to have a white Christmas, I suppose, but not a day such as the chap in this clip was having, what?

Agree, Debacle, that Songlines is interesting.
Knew Chatwin had died, but I forget the details.

There's a quote to be found on my last post...

Yes, I saw your quote, ossobuco. I really did enjoy the book. Here's one of my favorite passages:

. . . somehow I picked up an image of those `tame' Blackfellows who, one day, would be working happily on a cattle-station: the next, without a word of warning and for no good reason, would up sticks and vanish into the blue. They would step from their work-clothes, and leave: for weeks and months and even years, trekking half-way across the continent if only to meet a man, then trekking back as if nothing had happened.

I tried to picture their employer's face the moment he found them gone. He would be a Scot perhaps: a big man with blotchy skin and a mouthful of obscenities. I imagined him breakfasting on steak and eggs - in the days of food-rationing, we knew that all Australians ate a pound of steak for breakfast. Then he would march into the blinding sunlight - all Australian sunlight was blinding - and shout for his `boys'. Nothing. He would shout again. Not a sound but the mocking laugh of a kookaburra. He would scan the horizon. Nothing but gum trees. He would stalk through the cattle-yards. Nothing there either. Then, outside their shacks, he'd find their shirts and hats and boots sticking up through their trousers.

Aw, nobody knew what was going on in those chats, but as a result, Wilso sent me an Ausie tee shirt a few weeks ago. But no, this time, we're not a part of Denver's weather systems.

But I digress. . . .

I think this is the quote to which osso is referring. (Don't know the book though.)

So it was; guess I was a bit befuddled. But now thinking straight can say I don't recognize it either.

So did know. Only slowpokes dinna know.