Bridge of Clay

Bridge of Clay
Markus Zusak
Picador 2018


As a fan of Markus Zusak’s previous work (The Book Thief, The Messenger, and When Dogs Cry) there was no doubt in my mind I’d love Bridge of Clay when I read it. Yet Bridge of Clay raised a number of questions about the book and the evolution of Zusak’s prose style. For me, this book was a change from his others by the sheer literary feeling of the writing. If you’re unsure what I mean by “literary”, perhaps the simplest way to describe it is writing that screams writing. The first page caught me off guard, but it didn’t take long to appreciate the style and story.

If I weren’t a fan of Zusak—or if I’d read the blurb before I jumped in—this is definitely a book I would seek out and read. I am one of six children and so I’ve always been fascinated by large families in fiction and on screen (Cheaper by the Dozen, Septimus Heap, etc.). Seeing someone portray the lives of five brothers is fascinating to me. A lot of these moments and interactions just felt truly authentic and familiar. Although, my family was never quite so wild.

The story is told by Matthew, the eldest Dunbar brother, and follows the younger brother, Clay. Clay has spent his life training, but training for what? This question appears at the beginning of the novel and is repeated throughout. While the others drive, he runs. While jockeys ride horses on the nearby racecourse Clay creates his own race-course or obstacle course, complete with local tough guys charged with keeping him from completing his race. But Clay doesn’t care about winning—the only race he cared about was won and done, the family reluctantly one mule richer for it.

About a third of the way through it becomes clear that Clay’s training isn’t to win at anything, it’s simply a way to help him survive the ‘murder’. The boys, much like Justin Torre’s We the Animals, are a united front against their remaining (and absent) authority figure, their father, who they refer to as the murderer. When the murderer returns, he upsets the entire household, effectively tearing a brother away with his plea to help build a bridge. Clay makes the decision to leave Matthew, Rory, Henry, Tommy, all the animals, and his almost-girlfriend, Carey, to build a bridge with his Dad.

While the novel tells the story of Matthew, Clay, and their brothers, it also delves back into history to bring the story of their parents, Michael Dunbar and Penelope Lesciuszko.

Zusak creates a full and authentic story with his Dunbar boys and the stories of their parents. This is a book that will stir your emotions; it will call up fear and anger and grief. You will grow to adore the Iliad and Odyssey, fall in love with Carey, and wish you could know the Mistake Maker, just as I did.

For readers of The Book Thief, particularly for any readers who dislike or struggle with literary fiction; I would approach this with awareness that this is quite a large book and it may take a chapter or two to find the rhythm. Regardless, this is an utterly beautiful testament to childhood and simply being Australian. This is the story of boys, horses, and surviving whatever life has in store for you.

3.5/5 stars


Words and photography by Kayla Gaskell

‘Our Nation’s Infrastructure is Crumbling’ by Charlotte Hammond

I was born in a golden age. Progress, prosperity, steel grazing the sky. Because I come from that time, I think, I have immense pride in what I do. I’m no beauty; I’m no masterpiece. But. I’m solid. I’m vast. I have multitudes coursing through me.

That’s not to say it’s been easy. I’ve known hardship, known abuse. Fourteen major hurricanes. Fifty-three blizzards. Unbearable heat, fire, smoke. Exploding glass and metal. Screams. Obscenities. Cigarette butts and beer bottles to the side. And worse.

I’ve known love, too. Or, I’ve contained it. I’ve felt it come, watched it go. Seen a man help a despondent woman to safety. Housed families of birds. Carried people singing to each other at the top of their lungs.

From my place, I can see a tall lady in green. At night she glows. I’ve never seen her face, but I think I might love her. Or maybe I just love that she’s always there, always staring into the distance at something I cannot see.

I woke at dawn to a sharp ache in my middle. Then very intense pain. Part of me fell. No one was hurt, but it caused a serious delay. It lasted hours and hours and then people were furious. That was when I heard the radio of a man in a Chevy Impala. It was me they were talking about. My name, for the first time. The Newark Bay-Hudson Extension Bridge. I’m not surprised I was never popular with a name like that.

After a full night of drilling and grinding, I’m back on again. It’s bitter cold and frost creeps all around me. The pain hasn’t gone away. The part of me that collapsed feels like it won’t ever heal completely.

I used to hope that a golden age would come again. More than for myself, I wanted it for the people I see every day. For the families of birds and the trees and the city and the tall, noble lady. I wanted it for me, too. I wanted to feel new again. I dreamed of a long-lasting spring.

I don’t know how much longer I can stand.

The winter is a busy time and sound, I’ve noticed, carries best when it’s very cold. The air is sharp and the echoes are bold, insistent. I tune out everything else and listen. That sound is me. I’m reverberating music. It’s steady, gentle, connective. The percussion echoes off the water below and creates wonderful rhythm. In this song, briefly, I feel vast.

Multitudinous.

Everlasting.


Words by Charlotte Hammond

Art by Rhianna Carr

JuanitaHong_4Charlotte Hammond is a writer living in New Jersey with her husband and one-eyed cat. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Capra Review, River River and The Blue Hour.