Book Review: Bridge of Clay
Markus Zusak brings to the table in his novel Bridge of Clay a beautiful blend of poetry and prose.
It tells the story of five Australian boys as they grapple with the death of their mother and disappearance of their father, focusing on the character of Clay Dunbar, a quiet and introspective boy who at once runs himself to a pulp and sleeps with a peg in his pocket. We are firsthand witnesses to his war with rage, grief and love.
Bridge of Clay really does pull on the Australian heartstrings, bringing to life with such vibrance the hair-brained life of the Dunbar boys and their various pasts, futures and rag-tag animals. For being about five delinquent Australian boys, Zusak is surprisingly colourful with his words: his language is like scrolling open a large, exotic fan and having its scented air waft towards you. It is clear that each sentence has been constructed with care and intent, and if this weren’t a novel it would certainly be poetry.
That being said, often that poetry is an excuse for action; flowery descriptions replacing true plot and wonderful phrases (such as “ecosystems in their armpits”) painfully that remind us “not yet, not yet”. The story will always come later in this book, with half a flashback being told before popping to the present and back again. Therefore, you must be of a particular mindset when you read Bridge of Clay. If you long for fast-paced action, wait. If you wish to breeze alongside the Australian suburbs and simply enjoy a beautiful story with enviable writing, read it now.
After all, the biggest struggle in getting through this book is the constant pulling-back. Right as you think that you’re nearing the summit, lines like “in months ahead, she would push too soon” and “we loved what you did next” remind you that no, you’re only at the foot of the mountain. I think that for many readers, Zusak’s insistence that you continue to climb without even a ledge to rest on is a little too much to ask. But on the other hand, I wholeheartedly enjoyed the poignant and clever one-liners that made for a somewhat masterful concoction of Australian staples and lush embellishment. Sometimes I felt truly like a Dunbar boy myself, and craved those little titbits of “ah! I get what’s happening now!”.
It is surely a slow-paced book, but I never could put it down in finality. Though it was a longer slog than I had intended, my sheer interest and admiration of Zusak’s writing kept my feet moving forward. Surely Bridge of Clay is an investment of time and mind, but worth the read.