I thought I had discovered all the Australian writers that I’d ever want to read, and there are only a few (Peter Carey, David Foster, Roger McDonald and Gerald Murnane), with borderliners Kate Grenville and Eliott Perlman hanging in there, but yesterday I added the exotic name of Venero Armanno to this group. Surprisingly I did what I said I would and read The Volcano whilst Kim was in hospital, which allowed me to rediscover the tram as my main source of reading time. Even so, the free MX newpaper continues to be a massive temptation of an evening. 
After sauntering through Giuseppe di Lampedusa’s The Leopard last year, I found the idea of reading another book about the recollections of an old miscreant appealing, and whilst the periods are different, there is a similarity in the way that both books convincingly describe Italy – at least for someone who has never been there. After 150 pages I was convinced this was going to be the best book I’d read in ages, but things took a Nino Cullotta style turn for the worse when Emilio arrived in Australia, and the author began to sink the boots in. There were lovingly composed chapters about the Sicilians being treated badly at the hands of 1950’s Brisbane working-class thugs, which made for cringeworthy reading. I got annoyed about the use of Emilio’s terrible mastery of english in one chapter, followed by his lucid thoughts in the next. I know this was meant to show that he was intelligent but unable to express this in his new country, but it didn’t work well for me. The middle section of the book felt more like an passionate, earnest history of Italian migration to this country than a story. Towards the end, the wonderful story of Emilio becoming a gardener, henchman and lusty playboy was a sheer delight, as was his triumphant return to the slopes of Mount Etna. It thoroughly deserves a solid 4 out of 5 stars.