REVIEWS
Unwinding the rage of a teenage boy in trouble
Max Porter, writer-cum-saint of the experimental novella, has crafted a spectacular fourth novel, Shy. The narrative constellates around an evening in the life of Shy, a white British teen, deposited at Last Chance, a home for young men deemed too disturbed for society. Picture a ’90s kid stomping through the night, jungle music blaring on his Walkman, his pasty face ecstatic with syncopation. For Shy, music is a consolation amid the noise and haste, an escape from the muchness of a world beset by triggers.
Shy’s chaotic brainscape is presented via a typical Max Porter polyphony, the acrobatic prose nosediving off the page. His rage comes like clockwork. Constantly kicking off, he trashes rooms and personal relationships – royally titting up his hopes in the process. But Shy despairs at his own impulsive reactions. His shame is a sweating thing that crouches on his shoulders and mauls his dreaming.
