Sound of One Hand Clapping

Reading the literary accomplishment of this, the artistically arranged words full of alliteration, symbolism, grace and circular phrases which clung to one another in tendrils and curling, looping ribbons, the story finally slipped slowly out. And it was good, but hard-won.

Boring!!!!! - I just could not get into this book. Blah, blah, blah - to much ranting on and on about nothing. I couldn't wait until I was done with this book so I could start another and I couldn't just stop reading it because I'm one of those that have to finish what I started. Don't waste your time!

To my mind, great literature is best defined by the visceral reaction it triggers and its stubborn lingering effect. After the plot has faded, the names of the characters erased, and the book itself diminished by passing time into a sort of vague mental snapshot of its encounter, the way a great novel makes you feel while you read it cuts a kind of indelible groove that resonates long after the cover is closed. That is not only fine writing: that is art. And that is the art in the novels crafted by Tasmanian author Richard Flanagan.
My first encounter with Flanagan was Gould’s Book of Fish, a stunningly original and brilliant blend of satire, heartache, love, cruelty, comedy, and existential tragedy, tossed with a superb use of magical realism. Think William Faulkner, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and John Irving, all stirring the same pot with different shaped spoons. Originally published in 2001, I consider it the finest novel of the millennium to date. I have since read five of the six books Flanagan has written, including The Narrow Road to the Deep North, winner of the prestigious Man Booker Prize in 2014.
The Sound of One Hand Clapping is a much earlier work, published in 1997. The central character is Sonja Buloh, a strong but troubled woman in her late-thirties who returns to her birthplace in Tasmania. The novel’s title–adapted from the famous Zen kōan–evokes the bleak narrative that marked the formative years of Sonja’s life, abandoned at three years old by a mother who disappears into a blizzard, and thereafter shuttled between various temporary households by her often alcoholic and sometimes violent father, Bojan Bojan, a Slovenian immigrant whose parenting ranges from adoration to abuse. Flourishing a technique reminiscent of André Brink in A Chain of Voices, Flanagan skillfully moves between moments in time without losing anchor to the present, exploring Sonja’s childhood and, significantly, Bojan’s young manhood, which smacks of memories littered with atrocities and corpses of Nazis and Slovenian partisans. This is a book of much tragedy, of much disappointment, yet also one of hope and redemption. There is just a hint of the magical realism later manifested Gould’s Book of Fish. But there is here, as in all of Flanagan’s fiction, an abundance of fine prose as well as a masterful use of the objective correlative–a literary device that conjures emotion in the inanimate–often seen in the works of Hemingway and Garcia Marquez.
The Sound of One Hand Clapping has much of the feel of a first novel, although it is not. Flanagan’s first novel was the magnificent Death of a River Guide, which was no doubt a hard act to follow. One Hand Clapping seems rougher and less sophisticated than River Guide. There are portions that seem extraneous and beg for edit. It can be slow-going, especially because the elements that make you want to care about the characters are not fully fleshed out until the last third of the book. On more than one occasion there is the thud of the anticlimactic dully falling flat. And yet …
And yet the quality of the prose never disappoints; warts-and-all this is a novel that generously rewards the reader for patience and loyalty to the narrative. After it is done, there remains a powerful urge to read it through again. There are few writers of contemporary literary fiction that can deliver at this level, something a review like this can certainly attest but by all rights demands to be heard in Flanagan’s own voice:

In the great forests beyond, the devils and quolls and possums and potaroos and wombats and wallabies also came to curious life in the night, and they roamed the earth for what little they could scavenge to keep themselves alive, and when they mistakenly ventured onto the new gravel roads that were everywhere invading their world, it was to be mesmerised by the sudden shock of moving electric light that rendered them no longer an element of the great forests or plains, but a poor pitiful creature alone whose fate it was to be crushed between rubber and metal. Having being shown by the electric light to have no existence or meaning or world beyond a glaring outline upon the gravel, each animal was killed easily by the men who drove drunk to and from their place of work, heading to or from the whores and grog and the card games of the bigger towns. By day the roads were speckled red with the resultant carnage and startled hawks feasting on the carcasses would hastily rise into the air dragging rapidly unravelling viscera behind them, a shock of bloodied intestine stretching across the blue sky as if the world itself were wounded. Jiri had told Bojan some people believed that the animals reincarnated as spirits or other animals or even as people. But when Bojan hit a fellow animal he hoped he had done it a favour and relieved it of the burden of life forever. [p268-69]

That is great literature. That is art. That is why, even if it is not his finest novel, The Sound of One Hand Clapping should be penciled into everyone’s to-be-read list.

Set in Tasmania, this novel is centred around Sonja Buloh and focusses on three periods of her life: as a very young child, living with both of her parents in a remote construction camp; as a slightly older child after her mother disappears; and as an adult who, full of questions about the past, returns to Tasmania.

Sonja Buloh remembers little about the night that her mother Maria walked out of their hut at the construction camp at Butlers Gorge in 1954. Maria never returned, leaving both Bojan and Soja bereft. For Sonja, it is both mystery and tragedy. For Bojan, it is a tragedy he is unable to move beyond. As a lone parent of a three year old daughter, with memories of wartime atrocities, recruited to Tasmania to do ‘the work of dam-building’, Bojan is unable to deal with the pain he feels other than by trying to anaesthetize it with alcohol.

‘There were horrors that Bojan kept within him without even a story to enclose them, that he kept shapeless in the hope of dissolving them.’

After a difficult childhood, Sonja eventually escapes to mainland Australia and is estranged from Bojan. But, 35 years later and pregnant, she returns to Tasmania, full of questions about herself and her past.

The novel takes the reader on a journey, through the past and present, of both Bojan and Sonja. For Sonja to make decisions about her future, she needs to try to explore the past. And this requires Bojan’s help. For both of them, this is a journey which involves both courage and pain. The novel moves between the present and the past, filling in the gaps in our knowledge of both Sonja and Bojan. Can Bojan move beyond the past? What does the future hold?

I found myself torn between wanting to read ahead, hoping that Sonja and Bojan could find happiness, and wanting to read slowly in order to appreciate just how well Richard Flanagan crafted this story. For me, while the novel was centred around Sonja, it was Bojan Buloh’s experiences in Tasmania as a migrant from Slovenia after World War II that held my attention. Tasmania, too, has a role to play. I found this a very moving story, and one which I want to reread.

‘They were drinking not to enjoy the present, but for the more urgent reason of wanting to forget the past and deny the future.’

Jennifer Cameron-Smith

This is the story of the long-term emotional effects of World War II on a Serbian family, who tried to escape their horrific lives by fleeing to Australia. A new location meant a new life of physical hardship and poverty, but as many in similar situations before them have discovered, relocating did nothing to erase the emotional wounds of war for Maria and Bojan Buloh, or its effects on their daughter, Sonja.
When Maria walks out on three-year-old Sonja, she is raised partly by foster parents, partly by her emotionally tortured father, Bojan, who, in desperate need of solace, turns to alcohol. Sonja desperately needs comfort, love and reassurance, which Bojan is too unstable to give, and beats her mercilessly instead. At sixteen she too leaves home, and the cycle of hardship repeats itself.
Sounds sad and depressing? It is, but there is light at the end of the tunnel as Sonja and Bojan finally come to appreciate one another after Sonja falls pregnant and Bojan seeks her forgiveness and a closer father-daughter relationship with her.
I can’t say it’s a feel-good read, but Richard Flanagan writes well, the story is absorbing, and the pace is steady. Some scenes are lyrical and beautifully descriptive.
The eighty-six chapters are unusually short – good for a few minutes of sleepy reading before bedtime - but irritating if what you want is a get-comfortable, escapist afternoon read, as they tend to break the flow of the writing. The songs and snippets of Serbia add an interesting cultural aspect to the writing, lending a real sense of background to the story.

While I didn't think this was author Richard Flanagan's best work, it was still very, very good - 4.5 stars in my opinion. His prose draws the reader deeply into the scene. I had no trouble painting a mind's eye view of everything that went on in the book. His stories are imaginative and engrossing. His characters are unique and interesting. The dialog is crisp and fits the characters and story. This book in particular is dark and sad (heartbreaking), but he keeps your interest all the way through. The one minus for me was when he would occasionally use 25 words where 12 or 15 would have been more than adequate. That made for a few inordinately long sentences which caused a bit of reader confusion.
The story takes place in Tasmania between 1954 and 1990. It is about an immigrant family (father, mother, and daughter). They have come from Slovenia after the parents had witnessed unspeakable atrocities during World War II. The move was an escape from the despair of the Old World. Unfortunately, they find enough despair to go around in the New World. The parents are obvious victims of PTSD, with tragic results. The story is told through the eyes of Sonja, the daughter, and is about her struggle to cope and come to terms with her sometimes brutal circumstances.
I recommend Richard Flanagan's works.

Bojan Buloh isn't a cheery bloke. A "reffo wog" [immigrant from Southern Europe] in Tasmania, he lives a disenchanted life. His taxing job is meaningless, his quarters squalid, his friends and co-workers equally hopeless. His wife, Maria, has disappeared into a blizzard, leaving him with three-year-old Sonja.
Bojan's grief at the loss of Maria is compounded by memories of his early years. As a young Yugoslav partisan messenger, he witnessed war in all its viciousness. These aren't the fond childhood recollections of most of us. In Tasmania, he confronts the realities of immigrant life - exploitation, scornful neighbours, reduced status and few opportunities. A lesser man might cave in under such pressures, but Bojan is a tough bloke. Being tough, however, makes him neither happy nor successful. He survives with the help of the bottle, all the while expressing his resentment at the vagaries of his life. Some of that resentment falls, as it must, on Sonja. She represents the missing Maria.
Maria Bull's fading into a snowy Tasmanian night triggered dark guilt in Sonja - which she carries through her life. Their shared grief doesn't bring Sonja and Bojan closer. His drinking and violence only compounds Song's sense of detachment. She withdraws, although the spark of affection for Bojan never quite expires. Fleeing to Sydney, Sonja tries to shed the past, living the present intensely. Her grief is little assuaged as she uses a succession of men to compensate for, in effect, the loss of both parents. The ember of regard for Bojan dims feelings she might hold for another man. Cruel, drunken, cynical as he is, Bojan remains the one solid aspect of her life. It is to this lodestone she returns at last, in an attempt to take charge of her life. If "it is written," she determines at last to do her own writing.
Reviewing Flanagan inevitably evokes the tired clichés - "powerful" or "intense." While both terms apply, neither sufficiently addresses the quality of Flanagan's writing. One phrase, rarely applied to today's writers is "clarity." Although the story of Sonja and Bojan Buloh is told through broken chronology, Flanagan is able to hold the reader's attention throughout the tale. Skipping from present to past in a narrative is too often a distraction, but Flanagan manages the feat with unusal precision. Given the depth of feeling presented, he deserves high praise for his accomplishment. His story disturbs, sometimes repels, the reader, but the tale is never false nor the events contrived. His writing contains no cliches, nor is it tired. Only the reviewer is guilty of those sins.

The reviewer below who recommends that this novel not be read lightly or quickly has hit the nail right on the head. It's not so much that the subject matter is hard to grasp -- it's the fact that the author's well-crafted images, and the portrayal of the deep emotions experienced by the characters demand the reader's full attention. This is not something to be read lightly.
The novel is set in Tasmania, and centers around a young woman named Sonja Buloh, focusing on three periods of her life -- as a very young child living in the company of both her parents; as a slightly older child living with her father, after her mother walks out on them both during a fierce snowstorm; and as an adult, returned to Tasmania from Sydney, pregnant and filled with questions about her relationship with her difficult father, Bojan Buloh, an immigrant from Slovenia.
Much of the difficulty in their relationship stems from the intense pain and suffering experienced and witnessed by her father (and her mother, Maria) in their homeland, Slovenia, during World War II. The atrocities they have witnessed have scarred their psyches forever, like white-hot wires laid across their memories. Maria basically shuts down at long last, giving up on the dreams she has entertained about a 'new life' in Australia, seeing her husband slaving away on a hydro dam project -- work that seems to be reserved for 'wogs' like themselves.
Bojan has no idea of how to deal with the pain inside him. He feels inadequately eqipped to speak of it -- words mystify and then anger him in his inability to weild them to his satisfaction. After his wife disappears, he attempts to care for his young daughter as best as his abilities, finances and emotions will allow -- but his frustrations with his 'new land', his backbreaking work, and the horrors he has witnessed drive him to find a way to bury them all. He finds a way to do this by drinking himself into a stupor as often as he is able -- and when he gets drunk, the anger and pain find their way to little Sonja, who suffers terrible beatings at his hands. She resolves that when she can, she will leave and never return.
Sonja herself finds little to satisfy her emotionally in Sydney, where she settles as an adult. She has a relatively good job, working in a TV studio -- nothing glamorous, but steady -- but she feels that her life is empty, without direction. She returns to Tasmania, to visit her childhood home -- and Bojan, her 'artie' (in the old tongue) -- in an attempt to find herself, to answer some deep questions about her life.
The novel is mesmerizing, taking the reader on a journey both by Sonja and Bojan -- told in the present tense as well as in a series of flashback chapters, filling in the gaps, letting us in on the story of their lives, the whys and wherefores, the pain, and even a little joy. Working through their old memories and old issues -- and the disappearance of Maria, Sonja's mother -- is a painful process for them. Sonja almost gives up, then, almost on a whim -- or perhaps by instinct -- she decides to keep the baby she had previously decided to abort, and to stay in Tasmania.
The journey through all of this pain is a hard one to watch -- and it is a life-changing one for both Sonja and Bojan -- but it is a beautiful one, and inspiring. On p.358, it occurs to Sonja that perhaps she has misunderstood the concept of lost innocence: 'There was about Bojan Buloh that strange evening something that approached the most curious innocence. As if innocence, thought Sonja, were not something one had before it was lost, a natural state into which one was born before life sullied it forever, but rather something that could only be arrived at after one had journeyed through all the evil life could manifest. He was lost and condemned to loss, he was damned and lived with the damned, but somehow, somehow because of what he had lived through he had acquired an innocence.'
Finding innocence at the end of a road built almost exclusively on pain -- this is a blessing to discover.
This book is entertaining and well-written -- and well worth the time it deserves to experience fully.

The story begins with Maria, who is leaving her daughter, Sonja, and husband, Bojan. Forever. The images and sounds of the snow falling as she leaves her daughter are absolutely one of the finest passages I have read in a long time. I went back to it after I finished the book and it meant so much more. I could feel the snow and the despair of this family acutely the second time. Richard Flanagan takes us through present and past to tell this story, using prose that speaks like poetry. There were sentences I just read repeatedly because they were written so well. It is a sad book, beyond heartbreaking at times when we see how much hurt each member of this family has borne. There were times when I hated Bojan as much as his daughter did, but when his full story is revealed, he must be understood and forgiven.
The book ends with hope and redemption, and it is believeable and welcome. This book, its characters, images, and symbolism in the writing, are unforgettable.
This is another example of a superior novel that begs to be read by a larger audience.

Absolutely beautiful story of people who lose each other and the heartbreaking, vulnerable steps taken to find each other again.
I found that real emotion pored out of this book of real people, people with flaws, people who can't say the words that they know others need to hear. So much of the style reminded me of Alice Hoffman's books. An absolute beautiful story that I won't tire of reading.

The depth of individual feelings by father and daughter drills into the universal pathos of those who live isolated lives. The history of relationship between daughter and father seeped through this novel. Relationships like this, as in my novel Paid-In-Full, build on the effect of parent and child conflict. Take your time reading One hand Clapping and savour the character development.

This book is depressing. But what's worse, it strives to be oh so politically correct. I'll think twice before I read another book by this author, who seems to be trying to wring the accolades from award-givers by writing on a topic that's supposedly popular and frontline - the subject of migrants and the pain they apparently suffer in their new homelands. Oh, please.
To give it its due, though, it is well-written. I just found it pretentious and painful.