Thirty years in the works, Mattinson’s fiction debut tells the story of two twins touched by trauma – and the grandmother seeing them through
Imagine a novel that a publisher, in their own words, “would walk over broken glass” to release. We Were Not Men is being sold as “the next Boy Swallows Universe” that “punches you in the heart”, by the same publisher that launched Trent Dalton’s juggernaut debut. (Dalton himself adds “gut-punching” and “soul-restoring” to the ledger of ecstatic praise.)
In an industry so dependent on hype (as has been much and recently discussed) you have to find cut-through somehow, but the publicity for Campbell Mattinson’s fiction debut is particularly breathless, with comparisons to Australian heavyweights Richard Flanagan, Tim Winton and Christos Tsiolkas. And there are obvious parallels – evocative scenes of country life and bodily effort, of men who struggle to articulate their inner lives, and channel their grief/rage/ambition through water-based activity (surfing, swimming, fishing etc). But these effusive comparisons distract from an intimate, warm-hearted story.
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