THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT 
              Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: Sunday, February 16, 1997             TAG: 9702130527
SECTION: COMMENTARY              PAGE: J2   EDITION: FINAL 
TYPE: BOOK REVIEW 
SOURCE: BY PHILIP WALZER 
                                            LENGTH:   60 lines

LINE BETWEEN RIGHT AND WRONG IS TOPIC OF "CONVERSATIONS"

THE CONVERSATIONS AT CURLOW CREEK

DAVID MALOUF

Pantheon. 233 pp. $23.

David Malouf's The Conversations at Curlow Creek is a gloriously profound and rich novel - rich in language, rich in scope, rich in meaning.

The novel is set in early-19th-century Australia. Michael Adair, an Irish officer, is guarding Daniel Carney, a ``bushranger'' accused of inciting blacks to rebellion, the night before Carney's execution.

Throughout the night, they engage in cryptic yet deep conversation, which draws Adair closer to the prisoner. For Adair, Carney's questions - such as ``Do you think that there is such a thing as forgiveness?'' - ``went straight to the centre of his own thoughts, his own confusions, as if this illiterate fellow had somehow dipped into the dark of his head. . . .''

Toward morning, Adair confesses to a long-ago murder in which he seems more a hero than a villain. The message, which veers a bit too close to moral relativism, is the thin line between good and bad, between a life of lawlessness and a life of propriety.

Carney, like Adair, emerges as a seeker of truth, always possessed of dignity. Before the moment of execution, Carney announces: ``I reckon, sir, it must be about time.'' Adair admires ``the grace that had saved him from having to announce the moment himself.'' He comes to see Carney as ``a man in good health who might, if the world were kinder and more just, be of some use to it, and whose dignity, I do believe, is the equal of those who have judged . .

Whether Adair will eventually set Carney free - which preoccupies some of Adair's assistants - is the mystery that propels the novel. But the book rises far above this, primarily because of its formal, artful prose.

Malouf, a past recipient of the Commonwealth Writers Prize who lives in Australia and Tuscany, Italy, brings even minor events to life with his full-bodied, unrestrained language. For instance, this richly drawn scene - showing the passion that Adair's friend Virgilia harbors for his stepbrother, Fergus - is a portrait of desire far more vivid than most bedroom scenes in modern fiction:

``Virgilia, her knees drawn up under her skirt, had laid her book aside and was staring with a dreamlike fixity at the muscles of Fergus's throat, which tensed, went lax, then tensed again, as with his limbs flung out and bare chest lightly heaving, he slept. Her lips were parted. Her teeth glistened.''

And here is Carney relishing his pre-execution bath in the creek: ``He stood, his feet firmly placed on pebbles, and sluiced the glittering water over his neck and shoulders; for no reason now but the small pleasure it gave him, the touch of something alive and unconstrained.''

Unfortunately, Malouf's precision and verbosity at times lead to impossibly convoluted sentences.

Conversations is distinguished but uneven. Readers never get to know Carney as well as they do Adair. Nor is Adair's relationship with his underlings explored to the fullest advantage. But Malouf has aimed high. That he hasn't succeeded completely doesn't seriously diminish this rich work. MEMO: Philip Walzer is a staff writer.