This book is absolutely essential in answering questions about administration and scoring. It also does a fantastic job of explaining the theory behind the C-H-C theory and how it is used in the WJ-III. Finally, it gives great pointers in interpretation. It does a thorough job of explaining GAF, clusters, and subtests.

This is a delightful book that teaches children resourcefulness and persistence. The whimsical illustrations mesh with the text to create a story of just the right length for young listeners. The author's note to parents is insightful and essential for those rearing a family. A fun and purposeful book!

Aljaz Cosini, a Tasmanian river guide, is trapped under water, his body wedged between rocks in the Franklin River, into which he has dived in an effort to save a reckless rafter. "I have entered the realm of the fabulous, of hallucinations, for there is no way anybody stuck drowning could experience such things," he thinks, as many generations of his family history pass through his mind. As this remarkable narrative unfolds, it alternates between Aljaz's dying, first person memories of his family's past and his objective, third person observations about life in contemporary Tasmania. Through Aljaz's memories, the reader learns the sad history of the island, a former penal colony for the most hardened criminals, the site of total genocide for the aboriginal natives, a remote colony with little hope and no tolerance for differences. A bright boy, Aljaz himself has intentionally failed everything in school, because "by failing, Aljaz begins to fit in with people...there is a camaraderie amongst the ranks of the fallen....They expect to be failed, to be unemployed, to be pushed around, to know only despair."

This is a story of abject hopelessness, the misery of Aljaz's family continuing through the four or five generations we meet during Aljaz's final moments and culminating in Aljaz's own predicament. The author does not even hold out the hope that Aljaz himself will be rescued, choosing to confirm the death in the book's title, before the reader even opens the book. What unites the generations (and keeps the reader going) is the clear and abiding respect for nature we see throughout the book--for the power of the river, for the unique animals of the island, for the stories and myths of the old people--and the belief that there is a unity of man and nature. And Aljaz experiences the ultimate unity with nature in his death in the river, as he becomes one with the sea eagle who "carries the spirits of the ancestors."

The characters one meets in this book are memorable, as they survive the best way they can. The tales of nature and the mystical moments that Aljaz experiences are vivid and uplifting, a fitting contrast to the reality of life. The action on the river is realistic and exciting, and there is a thematic unity which connects the generations of the past with the action in the present. It may be self-defeating, however, to create a novel in which the reader is asked to become personally involved with a main character whose death is foretold from the outset. Though that confirms and reinforces the point the author is making about the hopelessness of Aljaz's life, it certainly makes this novel a depressing ride for the reader.

Richard Flanagan has an almost unexcelled capacity to weave historical threads into his fiction. In line with many writers of the Australian scene, he deftly conveys his awareness of the Aborigine condition in this story. Despite his name, Aljaz Cosini, born far away in Trieste, yet manages to return to his ancestral homeland. Ancestral roots bear little, if any, sway on our monotheistic world. In other cultures, however, forebears are the foundation for existence, a tradition widespread and of extended duration. Flanagan's awareness of that cultural milieu is forcefully portrayed in this story of a man's final living moments.

Flanagan's method is subtle. We mourn for the drowning guide as the story opens. His fate is clearly inescapable. Strangely, he condemns neither his situation nor the river that is taking his life. The attitude is far from fatalism, however. His circumstance is opening a new realm of Aljaz' awareness. As he confronts the inevitable, Aljaz comes to perceive his ancestral roots. Visions arrive of events he could not have witnessed, yet bear no skein of fabrication nor the supernatural either in Aljaz' mind or in Flanagan's depiction of them. There are no deities or spirits here. Aljaz resents that at first - "visions ought be given you by divine beings, not ... marsupials and their mates". Yet these visions are events from the reality his ancestors experienced. They are also of those real people - his father, grandmother, and most importantly, his former girl friend and the child they lost. Flanagan accepts the Aborigine view of children - love them intently, but if they are lost, long-term grief is too debilitating a luxury. The white world didn't understand this view when they first encountered it, and it remains enigmatic even now. Aljaz meets death calmly after a tormented life, but it's not release from suffering he gains, but a fuller understanding of who he really is. He is joining with a lost heritage.

Describing Flanagan's style as "powerful" is frail praise. "Formidable" might be something of a start. This is not a book to rush through, or if done, one to turn back to again. Flanagan wants to confront you with the realities of history and become aware of the long-term effects of lack of cultural awareness. These aren't lessons acquired at one sitting. He knows there are deeply set roots underlying behaviour and this book is attempt to reveal some of these to us. He has accomplished this effort with vivid imagery and exemplary characterisation. We must applaud his effort with enthusiasm. [stephen a. haines - Ottawa, Canada]

perhaps i found this book enjoyable because i have been a river guide and also because i enjoy magical realism. the sense of time and space throughout this book captures not only a family history but the essence of a river itself, and being caught up in it. as i began reading, i found myself hating the main character for his apathy towards his own life. i resented that i would have to wait until the end of the book for him to finally end his miserable existence and drown. but then as i read on i wasn't so sure what i wanted for the main character. a very satisfying read.

This is an impressive novel. The story of a post-war Slovenian immigrant family whose lives gradually fall apart. The journey of the main character (Sonja) and her father (Bojan) towards some kind of redemption, and a regaining of some meaning in their lives. (See other reviews for fuller plot descriptions). The quality of the writing occasionally reaches a quality I can only call stunning. Having said this, Flanagan's literary aspirations almost fail to come off in some passages as he seeks to wring every nuance of emotion out of a scene. This is far outweighed by the positives however, and I would rate one chapter in particular (I won't tell you which!) as one of the finest pieces of prose I have read anywhere!. As another reviewer has noted, this is a 'literary' read and not for the faint hearted. Those of us who actually live where the novel is set have the added bonus imagining the action in the precise geographical context that Flanagan himself had in mind. An appreciation of the harsh contradictions in Tasmanian history, climate and geography goes a long way to enhancing the appreciation of this fine novel. Regardless of this Tasmanian setting (which is extremely important in all Flanagan's work) any serious reader will be well rewarded by a careful reading of his fine literary craftsmanship.

The story begins with Maria, who is leaving her daughter, Sonja, and husband, Bojan. Forever. The images and sounds of the snow falling as she leaves her daughter are absolutely one of the finest passages I have read in a long time. I went back to it after I finished the book and it meant so much more. I could feel the snow and the despair of this family acutely the second time. Richard Flanagan takes us through present and past to tell this story, using prose that speaks like poetry. There were sentences I just read repeatedly because they were written so well. It is a sad book, beyond heartbreaking at times when we see how much hurt each member of this family has borne. There were times when I hated Bojan as much as his daughter did, but when his full story is revealed, he must be understood and forgiven.
The book ends with hope and redemption, and it is believeable and welcome. This book, its characters, images, and symbolism in the writing, are unforgettable.
This is another example of a superior novel that begs to be read by a larger audience.

Bojan Buloh isn't a cheery bloke. A "reffo wog" [immigrant from Southern Europe] in Tasmania, he lives a disenchanted life. His taxing job is meaningless, his quarters squalid, his friends and co-workers equally hopeless. His wife, Maria, has disappeared into a blizzard, leaving him with three-year-old Sonja.

Bojan's grief at the loss of Maria is compounded by memories of his early years. As a young Yugoslav partisan messenger, he witnessed war in all its viciousness. These aren't the fond childhood recollections of most of us. In Tasmania, he confronts the realities of immigrant life - exploitation, scornful neighbours, reduced status and few opportunities. A lesser man might cave in under such pressures, but Bojan is a tough bloke. Being tough, however, makes him neither happy nor successful. He survives with the help of the bottle, all the while expressing his resentment at the vagaries of his life. Some of that resentment falls, as it must, on Sonja. She represents the missing Maria.

Maria Bull's fading into a snowy Tasmanian night triggered dark guilt in Sonja - which she carries through her life. Their shared grief doesn't bring Sonja and Bojan closer. His drinking and violence only compounds Song's sense of detachment. She withdraws, although the spark of affection for Bojan never quite expires. Fleeing to Sydney, Sonja tries to shed the past, living the present intensely. Her grief is little assuaged as she uses a succession of men to compensate for, in effect, the loss of both parents. The ember of regard for Bojan dims feelings she might hold for another man. Cruel, drunken, cynical as he is, Bojan remains the one solid aspect of her life. It is to this lodestone she returns at last, in an attempt to take charge of her life. If "it is written," she determines at last to do her own writing.

Reviewing Flanagan inevitably evokes the tired clichés - "powerful" or "intense." While both terms apply, neither sufficiently addresses the quality of Flanagan's writing. One phrase, rarely applied to today's writers is "clarity." Although the story of Sonja and Bojan Buloh is told through broken chronology, Flanagan is able to hold the reader's attention throughout the tale. Skipping from present to past in a narrative is too often a distraction, but Flanagan manages the feat with unusal precision. Given the depth of feeling presented, he deserves high praise for his accomplishment. His story disturbs, sometimes repels, the reader, but the tale is never false nor the events contrived. His writing contains no cliches, nor is it tired. Only the reviewer is guilty of those sins.

Richard Flanagan conceals his thoughts on postmodern power and discourse, how they create prisons of identity, within a novel about the making of a book of fish--and he does it in the most entertaining way. With lyrical prose in the mouth and mind of a deviant, he shows the slow transformation of criminal, into artist, into writer, and, finally, into fish, which, as it turns out, is what humans have become in this day and age. Along the way, he lets his narrator discover the shortcomings of Enlightenment Reason and the danger of defining individuals around the concept of what is normal. That doesn't sound like the makings of a very good novel, but Flanagan is such a skillful writer that it all works, with all the various ideas being organic to the narrative. Altogether, imaginative, well-written, darkly humorous, it is a pure pleasure to read, one of the best books written in the past five years.

It's not easy, though, as the structure of the novel isn't linear and some of the events are grisly, but it's worth whatever effort you have to invest in it. Really, you should read this book.

Writing one of the must unusual and imaginative books I've read in a long time, Flanagan presents a multi-leveled novel which is full of wry, sometimes hilarious, observations about people and history, at the same time that it is a scathing indictment of colonialism's cruelties and its prison system, in particular. Almost schizophrenic in its approach, the novel jerks the reader back and forth from delighted amusement to horrified revulsion in a series of episodes that clearly parallel the unstable inner life of main character William Buelow Gould, who lives in "a world that demanded reality imitate fiction."

Sentenced to life imprisonment on an island off the coast of Tasmania, Gould cleverly plays the survival game, ingratiating himself with the authorities through his willingness to paint whatever they want-species of fish for the surgeon, fake Constable landscapes for the turnkey Pobjoy, murals for the Commandant's great Mah-jong Hall, and backdrops for his railroad to nowhere. It is through the fish paintings that Gould paints for himself, however, that he tries to hang onto his sanity against overwhelming cruelty, continuing to believe that life has meaning, though "[it] is a mystery...and love the mystery within the mystery."

This is not an easy book. The action, such as it is, is all filtered through Gould's mind, and that is shaky, at best. In a few passages, Gould (and Hammett, the speaker who opens the novel) describe dream-like reactions to events, reflecting their mental states (not magic realism). When the last hundred pages become surreal, the reader is well-prepared to accept the strange events which unfold. Flanagan's novel is very clever, and his use of specific fish as parallels to the people and events within chapters (especially the serpent eel) is particularly amusing. His characteristically 19th century list of topics at the beginning of each chapter, his duplication of the writing style of the period, his satire, his literary jokes (purple sea urchin ink for "purple prose," jokes about George Keats's brother, a failed poet), and his broad vision of what makes life meaningful are signs of a mature novelist who doesn't hesitate to take chances--5 stars for originality!

Gould's Book of Fish is one of the few books that left me filled with despair at the end. For, if this is what a novel is, I will never be able to produce something so delicious.

The ending was pure post-modern shock. Worthy of the love of Derrida and language theorists, at once showing the world to be everything and nothing at all. What is text? What is life? few books ask these questions. And fewer books answer them as well as this one.

Every book i ever read fell down one notch the day I put down The Book of Fish. Great books became Good books. and Ok books became bad or juvenile. Few authors spin theory elegantly with art. There was Chaucer, back in the day. Angela Carter and Bataille. And then there was Richard Flanagan, who took me to the enchanted depths of the sea and life filled with overgrown ruins, prisons, primal love and loss- and then blew it all up at once like so many soap bubbles. His unreliable island-bound narrator reminded me immediately of 'The Island of Doctor Moreau.' Flanagan's is a classic and fully realised character. The setting is masterful, crusted with the salt of the sea. The plot, imaginative and the themes more than consistent. No basic element of a great novel was sacrificed to explain Flanagan's love and yet feelings of terrible injustice for the mutable English language (mutable as his colonial country).

because, in the end, what books are... ideas are... they're nothing more than a jumble of abc's.