Born in Auburn, raised in Liverpool, Carman describes this all with an insider’s eye. He knows the streets, the gangs, and the lingo (readers unfamiliar with ‘fobs’ or ‘shab’ may need access to an unconventional dictionary). His love of literature, however, marks him as an outcast. With imaginary friends, Carman discusses Dostoevsky and The Odyssey, while his real-life neighbour advises him to write a book called How to be Gay. No wonder Carman despairs: ‘I decided then and there, I’d never read another book.’

He may act the cynic, but the verve and exactitude of Carman’s best prose reveal him to be besotted with his art. He keeps his eye trained on life’s little details, even in the bleakest of situations. Gun to his head, he admires the antagonist’s ‘beautiful skin spoilt by strange scars’, and a street-fight blow is but a chance to trace the pain that spreads through his ‘cheek like an opening flower’. Though Sydney’s west may lack the romance of Kerouac’s, Carman shows that truth can be made ecstatic wherever good writers are found.