In the quiet years between my father’s death and my stepfather’s eruption into our lives, my mother, my sister, and I lived with my grandparents for the longest time in the last of the houses that look like that. You know, little and squat, red brick with a red-tiled roof and a wooden sunroom-cum-sleepout propped against the back wall and, all about, when you spread your arms and spin, red roses and metal-blue hydrangeas and pumpkins on hairy stalks and a red incinerator made of tin and fruit trees shining with apples and oranges and loquats with big pips.

What was the point of a landscape’s allegories,
or the show of fractured bedrock in Bellini’s
Transfiguration, the way it caught the folding
and tightening, the rough-shod squeezing of old
strata, and the intrusion of the igneous, ferns’

Australia is a weird place. A backwater colonial outpost settled by racist squatters and their indentured convict servants, it is a country forever defined by its isolation, in every sense, from the rest of the world. Faster than Barron Field could say ‘kangaroo’, an Empire crashed onto the shores of the First Peoples who had been cultivating a narrative tradition since time immemorial, and set about writing a (manifest) destiny of its own.

The enduring legacies of Covid-19 have been linked to a post- or new-normal era defined by everything from chronic debt to the rise of Big Data and the lingering unease any of us might feel in a crowd. Those transformations are placed in fresh perspective by Sheilagh Ogilvie’s reminder that humanity has experienced a severe pandemic roughly every five generations since the Black Death scythed across Europe for nearly a decade from 1346. ‘History seethes with epidemics,’ Ogilivie writes. Her interest is in how societies have responded across that long time span. What resources have been mobilised to ‘control contagion’? What changed with, and can be learnt from, those cycles in humanity’s extreme if episodic vulnerability to microbes?

‘The time is out of joint,’ says Hamlet. And, as Jacques Derrida tells us in Specters of Marx (1993), it is also ‘deranged, both out of order and mad. Time is off its hinges … off course, beside itself, disadjusted.’ If time was deranged thirty years ago amid the AIDS crisis and the Balkan wars, in the wake of Francis Fukuyama’s ‘end of history’ and the first Gulf War, the times have now mutated, become radically other again and again. There is before Covid-19 and after, before generative artificial intelligence and after. There is time before the return of fascism as a global phenomenon and time after: time now as authoritarians surge to power on promises of a return to pasts not only unreachable (and, for many, undesirable) but which never existed in the ways they are now imagined.

Peter Rose, the editor, for just under a quarter of a century, of these pages, has put down his scissors and pot of glue to turn seventy (in June) and step back into civilian life. Coincidentally or not, he has also just put out another book of poems, Attention, Please!, his first since The Subject of Feeling in 2015. The new title – a softened imperative – speaks aptly and cannily for the contents.

The First Cold War is an account of 300 years of British-Russian relations, from mutual incomprehension to the Anglo-Russian Convention of 1907, which reached an accommodation between the great powers. This proved remarkably stable and provided the basis for resisting German aggression in the twentieth century. It only ended in 1949 when the next cold war began.

Imagine having a performance review conducted by your employer while you were in a coma and on maternity leave and being told on your return to work that your responsiveness was found wanting. This anecdote is related straight-faced by Sarah Wynn-Williams in her whistleblowing account of the multinational technology giant Facebook. Based on the author’s seven-year tenure as Facebook’s Director of Global Public Policy, which ended in 2017, Careless People provides new insights into Facebook’s treatment of employees and users alike. As Wynn-Williams recalls: ‘A quick google search confirm[ed] my suspicions that you are not supposed to be given a performance review on your maternity leave. In fact, I understand that pushing someone to work during their maternity leave is against the law.’ A chilling picture is constructed of the human cost of the company’s lawless commitment to power, profit, and a galactic technocracy, the Metaverse.

The history of the Pilbara is distinctive, but its contours are those of Australian history in miniature. Successive resource booms have saddled that part of Western Australia with the weight of immense national expectation. The rise and fall of trade unionism was compressed into a few short decades in the Pilbara’s iron ore mines, where compulsory unionism once made workers immensely powerful, and where the decline in union membership now leaves them highly exposed to managerial agendas.

For a long time, Antigone Kefala was thought of as a migrant writer. This lens confined discussion of her work to the territory of biography and witness and obscured the migratory poetics of the writing itself. In her spare, bristling poems and candid journals, and across her non-fictional prose and fiction, Kefala’s restive work hinges on precision and vision.