the narrator's true religion of horseracing

This may sound strange to say so, but readers want to know Gerald Murnane distinctive fictional method must first turn their attention to striptease, especially those who work at bada ice! " The energetic bar, Tony soprano and his cronies run their on HBO known in long-term TV series.
At first pole - expression, dancers in ice is mechanical pneumatic cliches, constantly to cater for New Jersey's right. In later years, however, in many tragic turn leave characters darkness and bloody burden, bearing camera, residues in of the woman umpteenth time reveals a change: they greatly under different light. Weekly scene has worn by purer forms the similarities and differences between the expensive reality. For me, at least they finally mythical figure, desires, sirens incarnation.

Murnane is also such repeated mistake. His writing, especially the tendency to return to landscape, subjects, detail evidence or events le careful eccentric calibration option. His polish reality fold or object gloss, His words agglomeration, carving general experience into a few pure line. What w. b. Yeats writes about an early digital "(William Blake/beat on the wall until truth obeyed him call") that can be easily to Murnane, with his combination of visionary pitch and single-mindedness.

Barley Patch, which is Murnane's first extended creative effort in almost two decades, follows on from the author's earlier fiction in revisiting certain details from the his early life. But it is fierce in asserting that even the most exact memories are mere traces of the real, evanescent as perfume. To prove it, the narrator (who is and is not author Gerald Murnane) opens the narrative by explaining that of 1000 or so works of literature read between 1960 and 1990, only 20 have left any lasting impression on him. This realisation led him, a decade and a half ago, to cease writing and reading literature:

I would devise a more satisfying enterprise than either reading or writing. During the rest of my life I would concern myself only with those mental entities that had come to me almost stealthily while I read or while I wrote but had never afterwards detached themselves from me: I would contemplate those images and yield to those feelings that comprised the lasting essence of all my reading and my writing.

"In the rest of my life," he concluded, "I would continue to read books from a great book is not a page, (I can write the sentence is complicated, the items other than words." the rest of the barley patch to follow the rules narrator. This is an advocate of those who thought the exhibition image from the narrator's past and have got stuck.
But why are these the narrator's memory, not simply Murnane? Well, if ego only a past, gathered together, these memory exists only mental images - flower pressure in every sense - data page image, then must arrange in some larger symbolic structure (such as novels) in their meaning can be reopened. The author, then autobiography can view only through novel lens, Ego is a text, must be written, can read.
It is from this image sense of self and complex, barley patch is: this, build, the pressure generated novel, the author spends 266 page explain his renunciation of literature.
The result, which falls somewhere between philosophical essay and prose-poem, and which forms a sort of symbolic mirror or key to the autobiographical fictions Tamarisk Row and A Lifetime on Clouds, is the kind of uncategorisable document that can be compared only with similar hybrids: Marcel Proust's early By Way of Sainte-Beuve for instance, that remarkable blending of memoir and literary manifesto in which the Frenchman suggests:In reality, as soon as each hour of one's life has died, it embodies itself in some material object ... and hides there. There it remains captive forever, captive forever, unless we should happen on the object, recognise what lies within, call it by its name, and so set it free.

Proust's theory goes some way towards explaining the fetishistic quality of the later narrator's recollections: the hints and portents inspired by childhood gardens; the ambivalence occasioned by objects of Catholic ritual; and the love inspired by similar objects attached to the narrator's true religion of horseracing. Yet the author of In Search of Lost Time can take us only so far.