Emerald Blue was the only remaining book of Gerald Murnane’s that I hadn’t gobbled up until very recently, when it arrived in the mail with his signature and a Post-It note referring to his full head of dark hair and his genetic luck in that regard. I think I’d made a comment that he looked the same today as he did in a documentary 15 years ago.
Despite being a huge fan in general of his obsessive, autobiographical style and continual references to Victorian places and topography, a couple of these stories were overly layered, and even nonsensical to me in parts. And occasionally annoying. Whilst other writers would quickly assume the role of narrator and define a subject in a short story (and get on with telling it), Murnane continually redefines and repeats roles and statements to the point of ludicrous stylisation. He refers many times to the main character as (and it’s not a real quote) “the person referred to in the previous paragraph as having an interest in the persons mentioned in the second paragraph in this story”, so it all gets a bit silly after awhile. But I still loved it.
For me, his writing is like junk food because I grab all the tasty factoids about his teenage dating efforts and frugal living habits and just eat it all up. I know I’m missing out on some of more subtle landscape references and wish I too could believe that there is no unconscious thought, just forgotten thoughts. But he’s a unique man, and they broke the mould after crafting Gerald. It takes astonishing honesty as a 55 year old in 1995 to write about falling in love with a 20 year old bank teller. I think he’s a National treasure! 4 stars.