Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Discerning readers will notice that ABR has undergone a modest cover redesign, a literary nip-and-tuck, to coincide with the arrival of a new Editor. The format will allow ABR to feature the work of Australian artists and underline its fellowship with the visual arts world. Like writers, illustrators and cover designers in the book industry face challenges with the rise of AI-produced content. ABR, meanwhile, is for human-produced creativity. This issue we feature ‘Mother and Child Gaze at the Moon’, a paper collage by South Australian artist Alice Lindstrom, whose work can be found at alicelindstrom.com

Jenny Macklin was an unusual politician, so it should not surprise that hers is an unusual political memoir. Anyone looking to Making Progress for salacious tales from the internecine warfare of the Rudd-Gillard Government, in which Macklin was a senior minister, will be disappointed. Macklin is widely regarded as the most serious policy thinker among her generation of Labor politicians, and this account of her career, written in collaboration with Joel Deane, will only enhance that reputation. It is a book for policy wonks, and one that is perfectly timed to remind readers that, for all the sound and fury of the recent election campaign, government is a serious business.

Susan Hampton began her writing life as a performance poet. Her latest book is a memoir called Anything Can Happen, published by Puncher & Wattmann in 2024. It recently won the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Non-fiction.

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.

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

When teaching the history of medieval Europe it is hard to resist regaling students with lurid accounts of some of the extreme devotional practices performed by medieval women mystics. Saint Catherine of Siena, so it was claimed, drank the vomit of lepers to abase herself before God. Marie of Oignies, apparently, refused to eat anything but the consecrated host and died of starvation. Julian of Norwich lived in seclusion, inside a cell attached to a church, having renounced all things of the world including the opportunity to go outside. These women’s lives, in the retelling, can offer a visceral sense of the strangeness of medieval religious culture, and can also provide a sense of the particularity of gendered celebrity in pre-modernity. As a teacher, however, I am loathe to lean too heavily into the ostensible spiritual otherness of the Middle Ages. I worry that presenting these women as freaks risks alienating students from the historical work I am training them to do; to make sense of historical difference on its own terms.

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.

To attack a pinata

Having just seen Bell Shakespeare’s Henry 5 in Melbourne – where it has this week opened – and reading so many flattering reviews of the production, I was beginning to wonder what I’d missed. It was therefore heartening to read Jonathan Ricketson’s (online) review which, for me, encapsulated the many flaws of the production as well as its few inspired moments. This was a king who did not seem to have the vigour to attack a pinata, let alone the Kingdom of France. More egregiously, this was a production that appeared to have nothing at all to say.

A book written by an English author and published by an English academic press with first-page references to New Labour, Conservative austerity, and Brexit might seem, at first glance, of little interest to or relevance for Australian readers. Yet anyone concerned with or about the state of the arts in this country and further afield will find much stimulus, provocation, and food for thought in the latest work of a prolific academic-activist entrepreneur who has occupied posts in three Australian universities since 2008, besides presenting at conferences and consulting widely with UN agencies and local and national governments throughout Asia, Europe, and the Pacific.

Some readers will know me as the author of Romulus My Father (1998). Romulus is not a book of philosophy, but it was obviously written by a philosopher profoundly affected by painful events in his childhood and the influence on him of his father and his father’s dear friend Pantelimon Hora, who helped raise him. Many people who have read the book said that it is obvious why I became a philosopher.