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Archive

Almost thirty years on, in a post-Samaranch age, when the wealthy Olympic movement mimics the United Nations in world affairs, the 1980 Moscow Games resemble prehistory, especially for Australian athletes, officials and spectators still revering 2000 Sydney successes. Yet as Lisa Forrest recounts, the Moscow boycott shredded the traditional views of Australian sports people, ensured national sport would become more politicised, and produced shameful behaviour all round.

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sampling Jeffrey Harrison’s ‘Danger: Tulip’,
from Ploughshares, Winter 2006–07

Was I hoping to find my way to the creek, loud
with unseasonal rain, and to see, perhaps,

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Fear of Tennis is David Cohen’s quirky and absurd first novel. It features the obsessive Mike Planner, whose interests include court reporting and bathrooms. When he bumps into Jason Bunt, his best friend from high school, Mike recalls how they fell out.

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As survival memoirs go, Lifelines is unusual in at least one respect. Peter Couche has managed to write this book over a period of thirteen years, while almost completely paralysed and unable to speak after a stroke. With the small amount of movement left in his index finger, he uses a computer to write.

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The first of Western Australia’s 9,000 or so adult convicts were not transported there until 1850, but 234 boys from the Parkhurst Reformatory, on the Isle of White, had been sent to the colony in the 1840s. Classified as ‘Government Juvenile Immigrants’, they became apprentice settlers. Among them was fifteen-year-old John Gavin, the first European to be executed in Western Australia. David Hutchison’s novel Many Years a Thief evokes the crime from the perspective of the fair-minded government guardian to the boys, John Schoales, who, wracked by guilt, begins an investigation that will, in turn, bring about his ruin. ... (read more)

This review of some contentious criminal cases in Australia over the last thirty years purports to demonstrate how the processes of the criminal law may, if mishandled, produce an unsafe conviction. The author has made her own investigations into most of the cases. She outlines her own discoveries and compares these to the findings of the police and the courts.

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It is hard to become excited about Peter Carey’s new novel, and that is a hard notion to entertain. We are used to being tested, and vastly entertained, by Carey. For a quarter of a century he has written distinctive and highly original fiction, including two or three books (notably True History of the Kelly Gang [2000] for this writer) that triumphantly fulfilled the novel’s enduring claim on our attention. This new work – though comparably imaginative in places – seems to mark not so much a falling-off as a kind of marking time.

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The tasteful title of this autobiography echoes the story once told of how the ebullient Italian producer Filippo Del Guidice performed the same disservice to J. Arthur Rank and survived to become a force in the British film industry. David Stratton, after looking sideways in a Venetian toilet, never looked back – despite Fellini’s understandable choler.

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Travellers who go to Beijing usually visit the Great Wall. Along the way the government tour operators often take them to the Ming tombs, the final resting place of thirteen of the sixteen emperors of the Ming dynasty (1368–1644), three of which are now open to the public. The underground mausoleums have been cleared of all the grave goods and works of art that were set there to accompany the dead.

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Defending Darleen Bungey

Dear Editor,

To write the biography of an artist as prolific and complex as Arthur Boyd is an ambitious undertaking, as Ian Britain notes in his review of Darleen Bungey’s account (February 2008). Her book took seven years to research and write; it underwent considerable peer review.

As its commissioning editor, I was delighted by Bungey’s highly original, imaginative and evocative prose. If Britain prefers, as he states, ‘the austerities of Franz Philipp’s seminal study ... Janet McKenzie’s beautifully economical monograph ... the poised, elegant restraint of Brenda Niall’, then he is so patently lacking in sympathy with this endeavour that he is unlikely to be fair to its author. And he isn’t.

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