. . . we are in adept and subtle hands. Dunedin author and poet Emma Neale is insightful and skilled when it comes to examining human emotions and experiences condensed in family life. She writes beautifully, perceptively and deceptively simply, whether it is about love and desire ("His hands were earth parched for the rain of her"), about the fear of parenthood "Then came the eponymous, quintessential, most pregnant of pauses. A woman waits on a fulcrum, feeling her life tip towards the maelstrom"), about the joy of parenthood (a "toddler puddling about like a penguin, leaving surrealist art installations all over the house"), about grief "they all lived saddestly ever after") and connection ("They sat there, pressed up against each other, primate to primate, as body warmth started its mending"). . . . Her characters are believable, fallible and lovable. Billy reminded me in turns of Alexander McCall Smith's Bertie and Kate de Goldi's Frankie. As in her poems, she shows how simple and complex, beautiful and ugly, funny and sad life can be. And, as usual, does it perfectly.
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