His writing is sometimes compared to that of Andrew McGahan, in particular McGahan’s coming-of-age novel Praise, but Scoundrel Days spends little time examining the consistency of its author’s bodily fluids. Instead, he uses that nervy present-perfect tense to take us further, faster, harder. It has more in common with the hyperbolic, ugly-beautiful prose of Kathy Acker.
Does Frazer ever stop running from love? The ending, fittingly, arrives so breathlessly as to leave us unsure.
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