Reviews

Both Sides of the Moon by Alan Duff

nicolaanaru's review

 

This is the seventh of Duff’s many novels that I have read, and in many respects is his most complex that I have encountered. Here, Duff weaves together two strands of narrative - the modern-day story of Jimmy, and the pre-colonisation story of his ancestors. Jimmy’s narrative has elements of Dreamboat Dad and State Ward in it’s telling, and mention of trying cashew nuts for the first time is even present in One Night Out Stealing. At this point, Duff’s writing is a strange mixture of shocking and tired, as with other authors who do not evolve their craft (eh, Palahniuk?). Duff’s stories re-use the same themes over and over again, and I increasingly find them tedious to read. The ancestral story of Tangiwai Kotuku and whānau was very sad, and brutal, but at least it was a change of pace.

At this point, I don’t think I need to read any more of Duff’s works - at least not while there are still Māori authors who I haven’t read. Duff is a racist, and he doesn’t need my ebay purchases or library checkouts. But more than that, I don’t need him - Māori literature has progressed beyond Duff/Grace/Ihimaera/Hulme, and there are so many other books I can choose to read (or write) in my own spare time. However, if I do pick up his books again, I’ve made myself a bingo card, below. If that’s not enough, Duff really lays bare his thoughts:

Inadequate Maori warrior boys fighting in the school yard, in the streets, in backyards, on front lawns, in school toilets, behind school toilets, behind bike sheds, fight anywhere. Then one day in boys’ homes and then graduate on to borstal, to become big boy with big name if fight as warrior. One inevitable day become big man fighting with others of your ilk in a prison exercise yard, in prison toilets, shower blocks, behind anywhere the fight can’t be stopped by authority, fighting can’t bear to be stopped, it feels too good, feels like you’ve been released. Even when you’re in a steel-barred cage, even when you’re in an emotional prison, even when you know you’re dying or dead of something inside, fighting sets you free.  Or thinks it does.

The young don’t see the sneery smiles of studious types from another race, nor the contempt of true people, adequate people, nor see their own grim, hopeless future, nor inner brokenness, nor know why and what process has done all this. Warrior child says nothing. Nothing he’ll admit to.