Review: David Foster’s “The Glade Within the Grove”
A resolutely erudite and blokey paean to … I’m not sure what. Dreams? Godhead? Masculinity? Nature? Home-grown construction methods in a forest? Intentional hippy communities? Foster’s learned postie narrator constructs a novel in dialogue and diatribe that tells of the foundation of the Eunungarah commune on the far south coast of NSW. The men are champion blokes or intellectual wooses. The women are largely available for shagging, breeding and misguided renegade philosophy. The style is dense, prolix; the structure complex and requires a considerable number of pages to get a handle on; it’s ambitious and evidently the author relished his swooping melodramatic history; I finished it out of curiosity rather than actual enjoyment.
Where it came from: Opshop
Time and manner of reading: Bed, armchair, café and sunny verandah reads
Where it went: Home
Best line of the book: —
Who I’d recommend it to: Men’s men after an ego massage
Also reading: Being Alive edited by Neil Astley; The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton; Burial Rites by Hannah Kent