In 1588, with England facing the threat of Spanish invasion, Elizabeth I visited her troops assembled at Tilbury to deliver some rousing words: ‘I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too.’ This assertion, the idea that the body politic was eternal and existed in a sacred realm beyond historical time, was ideally suited to a moment of national crisis. But rhetorical force notwithstanding, Elizabeth was propounding a fiction. In Shakespeare’s Tragic Art, Rhodri Lewis explores how William Shakespeare was able to use the tragic form to interrogate those ‘fictions of order, stability, and perpetuity’ that humans deploy in their desire to make sense of a random universe. Beginning with Titus Andronicus and ending with Coriolanus, Lewis shows how each play is a response to a particular set of aesthetic challenges. Shakespeare’s motivations lay in exploring the possibilities of the tragic genre. Through plays as various as Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, and King Lear, he explored ‘never-settled notions’ of what tragedy could achieve.

We all know not to judge a book by its cover but sometimes the temptation to be at least a little influenced by it can be hard to resist. This is especially so when an author (or, in this case, editors Amanda Harris and Clint Bracknell) draws particular attention to it. 

Last month’s remarkable federal election result has produced a metric plethora of articles explaining how it was achieved and what it means for the government, for the electorate, and for elections to come.

Looking down on Athens from the Acropolis, a first-time visitor observed, ‘So all this really does exist, just as we learnt at school!’ As he noted later, ‘the person who gave expression to the remark was divided … from another person who took cognizance of the remark’. The first person was surprised to see something whose reality had seemed doubtful, the second astonished that the reality of the Athenian landscape could be in doubt. Both people were named Sigmund Freud.

The new edition of Searching for Charmian, Suzanne Chick’s autobiographical account of discovering her birth mother’s identity, is published at a moment when the reputations of two of the book’s subjects are in their ascendency.

Red maya birds that are not
maya birds, but sparrows and munias.
Words for the kind of rain that will leave us
without power for days, then the kind that sprinkles on

For almost fifty years, Alan Wearne has been one of Australia’s pre-eminent users of dramatic monologue. Since The Nightmarkets (1986), he has also become one of our most persistent and accomplished writers of verse novels. It is a form which to many seems paradoxical (how can something be two contradictory things at once?), and yet it is undeniably capable of producing fast-moving and powerful narratives which remain vividly present in the mind.

By the end of April 2020, more than 600,000 Australians had lost their jobs as the economy was locked down in response to the emerging Covid-19 crisis. Images of long lines queuing outside Centrelink offices inspired despondent think pieces and tweets. Here was proof of what had become of Australia’s welfare state – not quite dead but hollowed to a shell after decades of retrenchment and privatisation driven by a neo-liberal ideology embraced by both major political parties. Amid a national shutdown, the social security net appeared to have been cut to shreds.

From whiskey priests and crazed conquistadors to sun-maddened tourists, stories of white exile in South America are staples of Western literature and film. Such tropes are productively complicated in an outstanding début novel by Rachel Morton.

Why read a dystopian novel when the present already feels dystopian? In a round-up in The New Yorker of speculative fiction released during the first Trump administration, the historian and critic Jill Lepore criticised the ‘radical pessimism of an unremitting dystopianism … [which] cannot imagine a better future’. Her point was that the genre had become mired in despair and hopelessness; that what had once been a literature of resistance in the age of George Orwell and Aldous Huxley had descended into a ‘fiction of submission’. In her masterful new novel, Salvage (2025), Jennifer Mills offers the antidote that Lepore sought: gleaming speculative fiction with a core of humanism and hope.