Cirrus@Austlit

'When a novel invites me, as does the title section opening of Scott McCulloch's debut novel Basin — "Figure in Terminal Landscape" — to approach it as I might a piece of visual art or dance or theatre, or even as a piece of music, my whole heart gladdens Yes, and yes! Because this is what happens for me anyway when 1 read a novel, as I have always thought, since it will always be the thingness of the work and how that thingness affects (or not) my being in the world that tells me whether I am likely to keep that novel by me always or not. And so the felt experience of it first, and only later the thoughts. and between one and the other, often a long, slow crawling out into the air — or so I have had to remind my-self. because how else to account for all the difficulty, all the impossibility of working, of writing or even of thinking about this otherwise brilliantly realised novel Basin — all of the long non-writing then (or rather useless writing) that followed my experience of first reading it some time last year? Flow much easier it would have been, as I can only say now, just to have felt what it was like to read this novel — okay, to have felt it with all its force — but then to have wriggled on quick, either into the thoughts and words that most resembled others I have thought or written before — or else into the bliss of some sort of conferred permission to not have to think, to nor have to put into words this damnedest thing that — to stay as close to the truth of it all as I can — led to thoughts not so much about the novel itself but rather to ones that were saying over and over maybe this is it, maybe I will die where this experience of reading Basin finishes in me, wordless, stuck forever as it is inside.' (Introduction)