After the Fire, a Still Small Voice

After the Fire, a Still Small Voice by Evie Wyld is a very accomplished début that I savoured slowly towards the end of 2009. I knew from early on that it would become a favourite book from the year; I also thought that it had a beautiful cover. Set in Australia, the novel tells the stories of two men, Frank and Leon, with no apparent connection, separated by some decades. Frank has moved to coast-line country following the deterioration of his current relationship to live in a shack-like house in New South Wales that once belonged to his parents; his narrative charts settling into that stark landscape whilst flash-backing to his turbulent relationships with both his ex and his father. Leon's story recalls growing up in Sydney in a bakery run by his European-immigrant parents, his father's enlistment in the Korean War and his own conscription to Vietnam, his subsequent time there and acclimatisation upon his return.

I enjoyed the alternate narratives; the key to a working structure of this kind is when both compel you so much that when one ends you want it to continue but then are fully engaged in the other as soon as it switches. Where the structure was strong, the richness of description was astonishing. I found the evocation of Australia striking; the starkness of the landscape and organic wildness seemed to capture the rawness of the emotions, the violence and rage that permeates the text. There is an intensity to After the Fire, a Still Small Voice and a resounding savagery but ultimately this story about violence is also one about communication. This section of the dust-jacket's blurb is one of the most appealing and succinct descriptions that I must quote it:

[T]his beautifully realised debut tells a story of fathers and sons, their wars and the things they will never know about each other. It is about the things men cannot say out loud and the taut silence that fills up the empty space.

"The taut silence that fills up the empty space"- isn't that an elegant description? It is true; Wyld achieves a credible fictional study of masculinity and how the male psyches communicate in a world where violence is often the means to articulate themselves. After the Fire, a Still Small Voice is an original novel and one that I thoroughly enjoyed and thought deserving of its John Llewellyn Rhys Prize win. From Frank's awkward yet touching friendship with seven year old Sal to his rage at his father and girlfriend and Leon's sculpting of sugar dolls for cakes to his role as machine-gun runner in Vietnam, there is a balance and contrast between gentleness and violence that is well-realised. After the Fire, a Still Small Voice is an impressive début with two complex and tormented male leads and beautiful prose; I predict that it will receive more accolades and that there will be promising things to read from Evie Wyld in the future.