A Morrieson nightmare

Press, 22 October 1983, Page 18

A Morrieson nightmare

Pallet on the Floor, and Two Stories. By Ronald Hugh Morrieson. Penguin, 1983. 126 pp. $8.95 (paperback). (Reviewed by Owen Marshall) In recent years Morrieson has received considerable acclaim, and much of his work has been republished — too late, however, to give him any satisfaction. Peter Simpson, who is one of Morrieson’s most stalwart champions, and author of a critical study of Morrieson in the Oxford series, “New Zealand Writers and their Work,” provides an introduction to “Pallet On The Floor.” It is an introduction both perceptive and sympathetic, and one which enables the reader to gain some impression of Morrieson; one of the “outsiders” of New Zealand fiction.

“Pallet On The Floor” has a nightmare quality, presenting a nihilistic world in which violence is compounded and drives everything before it. Despite some telling characterisation this is a much inferior novel to “The Scarecrow,” and perhaps Simpson is right when he suggests that

Morrieson would have revised and strengthened it had be lived long enough. There are passages which are painly bad writing, and whether deliberate imitations of debased styles or not, they undermine any serious themes. “Inwardly he was terrified of the hulking bad tempered six-foot-one truck driver who weighed a good two hundred and fifty-seven pounds and was ten years younger than him. He had been the logical winner in

contending for Sue’s hand, but she had preferred Sam. The flame of hate had been fanned the day O'Keefe had ridiculed him into a show of cowardice. Jack Voot loathed Sam and still eyed Sue hungrily. He could have broken Sam like a twig. And Sam knew it.” There are places, however, in which Morrieson's original, disconcerting vision and the powerful language which was its vehicle, are plainly shown. Some of the finest writing occurs in “The Chimney,” a story of which Morrieson was rightly fond. It is free from the garishness which mars “Pallet On The Floor,” and has attitudes and dialogue which are utterly convincing in their New Zealand context. “Before he had been in the yard very long, he started jeering at something I had_ said,

‘Father Christmas’, he jeered. ‘What do you mean, Father Christmas. Don’t make me sick. Don’t tell me you don't know it’s just your old man and your old woman.’ he said, ‘You’ll be telling me next he comes down everybody’s chimney in the whole world at the same time’.”

The other work included, “Cross my heart and cut my throat,” is a humorous story with a satirical element, and a conclusion at once witty and wise. My impression is that the short novel and the two stories do not yoke well together, but they are all worth reading, and are all aspects of that important talent best displayed perhaps in “The Scarecrow.”