Archive

Chameleons are the ultimate multi-taskers. With distinctive eyes that can rotate and focus separately, these fascinating creatures can spot future trends while winking a fond farewell to past achievements. They can blend in with their surroundings if the mood takes them, or they can adopt a crimson flush to underscore their need to communicate. And when they write, they publish five books across several genres in one year, and look just like Sean Williams.

'These stories were all written on the 7.22 between Normanhurst and Central,’ reports the author. I find it eminently pleasing to learn that a writer is so driven to create that he will suffer through even the lurching ignominies of train travel to get words on the page. It speaks of a higher purpose, one that most commuters, hard-wired to their iPods or up to their eyeballs in Sudoku, will never recognise. So, hats off Mr Gaunt, for bucking the trend. His stories – there are three in this collection – all bear the mark of a writer with an instinct for narrative; they are the right shape.

A journal with an ego, Going Down Swinging (GDS) is not afraid of blowing its own trumpet. There are two editorials: Steve Grimwade’s, written in the voice of his infant son, claims that GDS is the ‘finest literary journal on the planet’ – but this is cheeky enthusiasm, not arrogance. Lisa Greenaway’s editorial is best summed up thus: ‘we want the people who never pick up a literary magazine to pick up GDS’.

Detective Rubens McCauley has recovered almost fully from a gunshot wound suffered while exposing corrupt Melbourne cops: see Head Shot (2005). Colleague Cassie Withers supports McCauley, but his superior officer wishes him elsewhere. His private life teeters on the brink: he has neglected his mother who suffered a stroke; he has unresolved issues with his father; his brother wants him to counsel his niece about the dangers of party drugs; and he hopes to revive his relationship with his estranged wife.

Andrew Rotter does not usually write about nuclear weapons. The Colgate University Charles A. Dana Professor of History is known for his works on twentieth-century American diplomatic history. He was approached, ‘out of the blue’, by David Reynolds in the summer of 2001, just before the attack on the Twin Towers. Reynolds, well known for his writings on the so-called ‘special relationship’ between the two English-speaking powers on either side of the Atlantic, was advising Oxford University Press on its series of the significant events of the twentieth century. Few events were more significant than the use of a nuclear weapon on Hiroshima in August 1945.

In 1964, newly appointed to the Department of English at the very new Monash University, I was uncertain about nearly everything. But as I unpacked my books in a pristine, sparsely furnished office, I found reassurance in the empty filing cabinet. I knew exactly how to fill its three drawers. As soon as I had some notes and a stack of manila folders, I would put poetry in the top drawer, fiction in the middle and drama down below. These three genres corresponded with the three terms of the academic year, as I had known it as a student. It was the natural order of things. That there might be a fourth drawer for biography, or even a space in the lecture programme for life writing, would not have occurred to me. This was the Leavis era – late Leavis indeed, but still preoccupied with close reading of literary texts. D.H. Lawrence’s mantra ‘never trust the teller, trust the tale’ seemed sufficient warrant for bypassing the teller altogether.

Henry Bolte and Bob Askin were the ‘big men’ of state politics in the 1960s, when I was a young political scientist. Bolte I never met, and Askin I met only once, but I knew the latter’s deputy premier, Charlie Cutler, quite well. I grew up in northern New South Wales and throughout my life, it seemed, we had only ever had Labor governments. The premiers cycled by with an air of inevitable succession: McKell, McGirr, Cahill, Heffron, Renshaw. Yet all five had been there in 1941 when the rejuvenated Labor Party, free both of Jack Lang and the far-left opposition to him, trounced the Mair–Bruxner government at the polls. For anyone who had been through that quarter of a century, Labor’s narrow defeat in 1965 was a shock. How could it have happened?

Why are there so many books about death and dying appearing at the moment? Is it about the baby boomers facing up to their mortality? It is certainly a subject that interests me, and Debra Adelaide’s novel should be compelling. Unfortunately, I found its determined flippancy laboured and grating. The first-person narrator, Delia, a writer of household guides, is not yet forty. Given a bad prognosis for her breast cancer, she decides that her last work will be a guide to dying, in which she will record her physical and emotional journey.