Parrot and Olivier in America
Peter Carey has written some challenging novels over the years - novels that require perseverance on the part of the reader, even though reviewers continue to talk about their ability to 'dazzle'. This reader is an unabashed fan of Carey, and so it was very unusual for me not to push myself a little and finish the novel. Indeed, I was half way through and more-or-less gave up and the hardback sat on the shelf for perhaps two years; in December I reorganised my bookshelves to include a section (indeed, a bookshelf) of unfinished readings. Parrot and Oliver in America emerged as one I definitely wanted to finish, and so, onto the second half!
I don't know if it was the Christmas spirit, but I thoroughly enjoying my second attempt. Fearing I would get shipwrecked a second time, I picked up from where I left off, and although I was initially a bit confused about the characters (particularly Parrot) I was quickly engaged in their American travels. Some familiar themes emerged from other Carey novels: deluded and yet wonderful Romance (French aristocrat Olivier falls for homespun American beauty) - compare Oscar and Lucinda; Herbert and Phoebe; Catherine and Matthew. Stories of masters and servants, and the relations between classes (Olivier and Parrot) - compare Jack Maggs, The True History of the Kelly Gang. Tucked into Parrot's reminiscences were convict tales and NSW scenes. In this sense, the Australian themes emerged more authentically in this American novel than in The Chemistry of Tears, a really British (and European) tale. The arts and the artist (Watkins) - compare Butcher Bones in Theft. The search for an authentic self and the need to tell the tale - this is probably an overriding Carey metanarrative - and it's here as well. Both Parrot and Olivier offer their perspectives, and while the love story of Olivier makes him a more sympathetic character in the second half of the novel, Parrot proves the more adaptable of the two, and his change of identity and station is for the better. That is, Parrot finds an American-self where Olivier cannot; perhaps Carey's sympathies for the underdog find a sort of American resolution here, impossible in Illywhacker, for example.
The joy of reading Carey is at the level of utterance, and the command of language that so suits the eccentric characters he brings to life. Just to take one example, a moment where Olivier sees himself (mistakenly) capable of rebellion against his own class (or the assumptions of that class, embodied in his mother):
'In my sleep everyone is speaking French,' [Amelia said].
It was then, before we reached the long curving drive into Old Farm, that I imagined my mother as she heard my beloved's way of speaking. As we opened the wide gate to the property, I pinched my mother's arm and watched her outraged eyes' (p.393).
The fact is, Olivier can do no such thing. Instead, he becomes a bedraggled creature after being ejected from Old Farm, and 'saved' by the hospitality of his former servant/assistant, Parrot - who has in the meantime, become a commercial agent of the fine arts. All this is typical Carey in the best sense, and my only regret is that I didn't tackle the whole book in one go, as it so thoroughly deserves.
I don't know if it was the Christmas spirit, but I thoroughly enjoying my second attempt. Fearing I would get shipwrecked a second time, I picked up from where I left off, and although I was initially a bit confused about the characters (particularly Parrot) I was quickly engaged in their American travels. Some familiar themes emerged from other Carey novels: deluded and yet wonderful Romance (French aristocrat Olivier falls for homespun American beauty) - compare Oscar and Lucinda; Herbert and Phoebe; Catherine and Matthew. Stories of masters and servants, and the relations between classes (Olivier and Parrot) - compare Jack Maggs, The True History of the Kelly Gang. Tucked into Parrot's reminiscences were convict tales and NSW scenes. In this sense, the Australian themes emerged more authentically in this American novel than in The Chemistry of Tears, a really British (and European) tale. The arts and the artist (Watkins) - compare Butcher Bones in Theft. The search for an authentic self and the need to tell the tale - this is probably an overriding Carey metanarrative - and it's here as well. Both Parrot and Olivier offer their perspectives, and while the love story of Olivier makes him a more sympathetic character in the second half of the novel, Parrot proves the more adaptable of the two, and his change of identity and station is for the better. That is, Parrot finds an American-self where Olivier cannot; perhaps Carey's sympathies for the underdog find a sort of American resolution here, impossible in Illywhacker, for example. The joy of reading Carey is at the level of utterance, and the command of language that so suits the eccentric characters he brings to life. Just to take one example, a moment where Olivier sees himself (mistakenly) capable of rebellion against his own class (or the assumptions of that class, embodied in his mother):
'In my sleep everyone is speaking French,' [Amelia said].
It was then, before we reached the long curving drive into Old Farm, that I imagined my mother as she heard my beloved's way of speaking. As we opened the wide gate to the property, I pinched my mother's arm and watched her outraged eyes' (p.393).
The fact is, Olivier can do no such thing. Instead, he becomes a bedraggled creature after being ejected from Old Farm, and 'saved' by the hospitality of his former servant/assistant, Parrot - who has in the meantime, become a commercial agent of the fine arts. All this is typical Carey in the best sense, and my only regret is that I didn't tackle the whole book in one go, as it so thoroughly deserves.
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