Visceral description has its place, but it needs to be used sparingly. This guy's prose runs so purple it verges on eggplant (or, as he'd probably say, aubergin

Visceral description has its place, but it needs to be used sparingly. This guy's prose runs so purple it verges on eggplant (or, as he'd probably say, aubergine). And the various slips in and out of Aussie vernacular are jarring. I understand the intended effect, but it's like salt on your scrambled eggs: a little bit goes a long way. Too much, and the salt's all you can taste. He can turn a clever phrase, but he tends to indulge himself. When he does, he gets way too cute. He's got the descriptive power to be a great writer, but he needs to be a better self editor. Reading this story reminded me of my endurance-slog through the first few chapters of A Game of Thrones. George R. R. Martin is a fantastic storyteller, but he's also a serial adjective abuser. Same thing here. The story almost gets lost in the words. What we gain in postcard moments, we lose in pacing and flow.