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FICTION BOOK REVIEW – ‘The Bible’

FICTION BOOK REVIEW: “The Bible”

Joe Greathead

Joe Greathead is a book reviewer, development editor (and occasional classical harpist). He has covered fiction and non-fiction for The New Yorker, Vanity Fair and Vice (amongst others). 

After recently concentrating my literary appetite upon the darkly realistic, Booker-Prize-winning Flesh by David Szaley, I thought I owed it to myself to dip my toes back into something less literary and more commercial for a change. Following the effusive recommendation of a dear friend, I have decided to read a book that has had quite strong international sales for actually quite a long time, apparently – an anthology-type text full of all sorts of different fantastical stories, ranging from the whimsical to the downright macabre. There are volumes of information similar in tone and content to a modern self-help book (but with some honestly quite startlingly off-kilter recommendations, such as removing the tip of a babies’ penis – gosh!). About halfway through, it reverts to the story of a young man from Galilee with a typical rags to riches story arc (though I won’t spoil the ending – suffice to say there’s a twist, and you won’t be ‘cross’).

Pictured: ‘Jesus Christ’ – the key protagonist of the second part of this book

As a work of fiction, it functions mainly as a work of magical realism; often in the naive style. Often it also veers into the realm of classic fantasy. Large portions have been written in a very basic cadence – almost childlike – and whether this is a conscious creative choice or indicative of the authors’ writing ability is anyone’s guess. In parts – I’m somewhat reminded of The Wind in the Willows; and I wonder if any of the authors had indeed read the works of J.M Barrie. Possum Magic is another story in which I recognise some similarity. Though I’m not – I’ll admit – very informed of when this book was written or indeed where (you’ll have to excuse my lack of research – I’m on a rather sharp deadline). But overall I would rate the linguistic and thematic complexity as considerably more basic than a typical Young Adult fiction novel (though some of the more gory moments might keep the more sheltered twelve year-old up at night).

Though simple as it may be – frustratingly that doesn’t seem to guarantee readability. I must admit, at multiple junctures while reading this tome, I was ready to throw the book in the slush pile. Finding out – after reading two of the ‘gospels’ – that they all tell slightly different versions of the same story – was frustrating to say the least. Stylistically to have multiple narrators of the same events is arguably an interesting and somewhat innovative choice; however there was very limited new information introduced with each retelling. It was – a little exhausting – to tell you the truth. The text could vastly benefit from a judicious editing, taking to heart Stephen King’s essential piece of writing advice – to ‘kill your darlings.’ Which means – if it doesn’t serve the plot – it shouldn’t stay on the page (even if you love the way the words sound – or you think it’s particularly clever – sometimes especially so).

Interestingly – The Bible has – I’m told – about 40 registered authors – so structurally, the book resembles somewhat of a short story collection. But that is only for the first half of the book. The second half then tells the story of a young man; a carpenter by trade, who somehow acquires magical powers, forms a rag-tag group of pals, travels throughout the Middle-Eastern world helping people – culminating in a rather tense stand-off with a public official (and then I really mustn’t spoil the ending – but it’s a doozy).

So – to brass tacks. I think – and I might be unpopular for this opinion – but you can probably find something better for your summer beach read. There are a few nail-biting moments (and not to mention a savage twist at the end) – but f0r me (and I like to think I speak for a somewhat considerable fraction of the reading community), I think if I was going for magical realism in my fiction, I’d be going for a Márquez, a Borges, or even a Salman Rushdie or Murakami. It’s a no for me.

Rating: two stars out of five

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Alfred J Dickhead of Dickery Town (a short story)

Alfred had lived his life exceptionally aware of his exceptionality. That he stood out. Marked out. Different.

But not for anything that he could be proud of particularly.

Alfred was a Dickhead. Not in the traditional sense – meaning a person who is annoying, rude or essentially obnoxious in the traditional Australian colloquial tongue.

He was a historical dickhead. He had dickhead lineage. His last name was literally Dick-head. Which was an unfortunate bit of plumage that haunted him in every aspect of his life; from the moment he woke to the last desperate sigh onto his pillow at night.

When the roll was called out in the morning at school, he would cop sniggers and guffaws. He’d even had teachers refuse to address him, convinced that it was an elaborate joke.

Sometimes Alfred felt like a joke.

He would have blonde-haired boys with aquiline noses yell out his name from across the tuckshop line, or from under their Florsheim boots after they had tripped Alfred over onto his decidedly more bulbous nose on the basketball court.

His grandmother would spout the story that the name came from a lauded ancestor – Richard “Dick” Griswalda, who was the head of the local chapter of the Boot-Mender’s Society – a prominent social society in 1500s Cardiff responsible for many of the men’s-only social gatherings and cheerfully-enforced institutional racism at that time. But Alfred knew better.

He knew that he simply came from a long line of dickheads. It was obvious.

His father, Heronimos, was a well-known dickhead; in name of course but also in temperament. He was the local council member for Dickery, and he was, while being necessarily popular enough to warrant reelection for the past twenty years, well known for his tacit support of the electorate’s millionaires and prominent businesspeople at the expense of just about anyone with a blue collar job, a lower income or who he deemed unhygienic for reasons that seemed to change with his mood. He had been publicly flagellated in the media several times for clumsy extra-marital affairs, taking a bribe from a prominent entrepreneur in the penis-sheathing industry inexplicably and uncommercially attempting to make paper condoms a thing, and for various utterances of bigoted viewpoints about left-handed people being naturally deviant and generally untrustworthy. But since he had always run unopposed, (the residents of Dickery were notoriously not civic-minded and often drunk) these grievances never stopped him getting back into power.

His grandfather Bertrand, while not publicly awful, was nonetheless a prodigious dickhead in his private affairs, including the capricious ways in which he chose to discipline his children (like confiscating their bicycle seats, or forcing them to skip school to listen to 6 hours straight of Rodney Dangerfield in the backyard shed), and treat his wife, who he cheated on religiously. A pathological gambler; he was known to find a bet so irresistible even to the point of famously placing a wager on the colour of the garbage collector’s slacks. He reportedly placed $4,000 on chanteuse blue, causing many to speculate that he didn’t actually love gambling – he simply loved losing. Confusingly, he was also an innovative and talented businessman, running several supermarkets and Dickery’s only brothel catering to men with foot fetishes; which was why society gave him the necessary social grace to carry out his more serious acts of dickheadery with limited consequence. Money was either feast or famine in the Dickhead house; for as impressive Bertrand was at generating hard currency, his ability to subsequently lose it at a withering pace and on ridiculous things was simply outstanding.

Whether or not becoming a dickhead was genetic or a result of living with such a crass and easily lampooned surname was a problem Alfred hadn’t been able to solve yet, but he was hoping there wasn’t something in his DNA that forced the issue. He had always wanted to live a life as whatever the opposite of a dickhead was. He wasn’t fussy, either. He didn’t have aspirations of power and glory – or money over and above what he needed to get by. 

He liked birds, scrabble and Dungeons and Dragons. He was well aware that no matter which order he combined those things, he wouldn’t logically be able to find a way to support himself financially. He would have to find something that he didn’t necessarily love as a job, if he wanted a family, and to have little Dickheads of his own one day. He knew he did – but he might consider being the first in a long line of Dickheads to take the considerably evolved and modern approach and allow his children to take his wife’s last name.

Unfortunately – in love as in life – fate seems to have a sense of humour, though it’s unclear in Alfred’s case who was laughing. Because on September 29th, 2025, Alfred met the love of his life. His soulmate, in fact.

And her name? Angela. Angela Ringstinger.

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The Ballad of Roxy (A Foxie Addicted to Coffee)

(inspired by the Larsen cartoon above)

As soon as they leave for work in the morning

I’m up with a start and jump over the awning

All the way into the kitchen to see

Lo and behold: the coffee machine is free!

I chew off my collar in anticipation

The first sip imbues me with swiftest elation

If my owners could know of my worsening fixation

They’d visit the shelter and make a donation

4 straight espresso’s or I simply can’t function

I’ve learned various methods to increase production

I add coffee bean powder to my kibble at night

When supply’s running low it will give me a fright

But I never let supply ever, ever run out

When it’s looking precarious, I give you a shout

See that invoice for last months’ arabica beans?

Placed just in view, with a pawprint unseen

When I smell that coffee whiff, first in the mor’

My art’ries constrict and my heart starts to soar

That gorgeous brown liquid from grinding to pour:

It’s that sweet coffee taste that I love and adore.