First published three years before Markus Zusak's innovative, impressive and occasionally indulgent The Book Thief, this novel now re-appears to reap its own benefits from the later work's acclaim. Nothing wrong with that. It's intriguing to see the similarities between the two. The same sort of introverted, socially maladroit protagonist,
eyes wide open and head well down. The same grey, glamour-free stratum of urban life.
A similar motif of talismanic words, in this case, runic messages on playing cards. The Messenger has more broad farce. Its anti-hero is Ed Kennedy, a 19-year-old taxi-driver, a useless lover, a slightly less useless gambler. His prospects, both short-term and long-term, are dispiriting.
Things change for the better and the worse when he thwarts an attempted bank robbery by an even greater incompetent than himself.
Suddenly, the playing cards start arriving in the post. Cards with addresses and times on them. The four aces, then the Joker - each leads Ed to be a sleuth, a saviour, a Joker himself. A torrent of odd-balls and oddities pours past - Sophie the barefoot runner, a strange film in an empty movie theatre, three major writers, a near-execution, a bitter old mum, eerie surveillance, a surfeit of punch-ups. They lead to an ending of high-octane happiness that will make you go "Awww!" Or possibly, "Awww, come on!"
Like The Book Thief, this novel traces a spiritual journey towards recognition and reconciliation. It's rendered with commendably little preaching, some unsettling violence and a good deal of self-lacerating humour.
The language takes leaps and chances, which don't always work, but when they do, the story glows with symbolism. Rich, risky and rewarding - dear, oh dear, another excellent Aussie.
I am the messenger
By Markus Zusak (Picador $24.99)
* David Hill is a Taranaki writer.
