Fiction

One of the advantages of the novel, and a major reason for its endurance into this messy century, is its elasticity. The novel’s willingness to contain a multiplicity of forms can defeat even the most radical attempts to shatter its structure. Another, perhaps contradictory advantage of the novel is its capacity for direct insight, opening a portal into another human mind at a particular time in human history.

‘Maybe narrative structures didn’t work at all in the world of nature, the real world. Story arcs, character development. Maybe that was part of the problem – our need to make everything a stupid story, to narrativise, when really all this wasn’t a “story” at all. It was something else altogether.’

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.

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.

In one of the later short stories in Michael Farrell’s The Victoria Principle, a man anonymised as ‘Bill’ is prompted by an anecdote recounted in a university swimming pool change room to reflect on possible excuses not to arm-wrestle. This does not seem to have been a topic of interest for Bill previously. Indeed, the narrator concedes that for Bill’s ‘milieus (overlapping academic and creative)’ arm-wrestling was given little thought, if any.

Crime fiction is one of the most popular genres worldwide. It caters for a variety of audiences: readers who launch themselves into an intense competition with the detective for who is going to identify the villain first; those who enjoy being thrilled from the comfort of their armchairs; and those who like to be immersed in the social and political issues that arise from confronting investigations. Author of the acclaimed The Mother (2022), Walkley Award-winning journalist and social commentator Jane Caro returns with a second crime novel, Lyrebird, that will appeal to crime fiction enthusiasts interested in delving into major issues of our times, such as gender violence and climate change. The titular bird first appears in the Prologue, when student ornithologist Jessica Weston films its mating dance and song in the remote New South Wales Barrington Tops National Park. Suddenly, a lyrebird mimics an unknown woman screaming for her life in what sounds like Spanish. Terrified, Weston goes to the nearest police station but nobody accepts her video as evidence that a crime has been committed, apart from a junior police detective, Megan Blaxland, who is then asked to close the case. The ‘lyrebird case’ is ignored for twenty years until a landslip reveals a woman’s skeleton in the Burraga Swamps, exactly where the lyrebird danced. Now a retired senior sergeant, Blaxland returns to the police force as a consultant to reopen the case. Blaxland teams up with her original partner, Philip Arlott, and a small team of eager young cops. She is also helped by Weston, who, in the meantime, has become a biology professor and is also the mother of a rebellious daughter, fifteen-year-old climate activist Sheridan. Soon, other bodies are discovered in the Burraga Swamps and the search for a possible serial killer exposes horrific crimes, such as illegal sex work and human trafficking, as bushfires close in on the investigators and suspects.

Isabel Allende’s My Name is Emilia del Valle begins in the Mission District of San Francisco in the late nineteenth century and vividly evokes life among ‘that multicolored, polyglot multitude of emigrants’.

An unknown woman – traumatised, amnesiac, unable to speak – is found just north of Broken Hill in western New South Wales. Who she is and what happened to her is the question that drives Gail Jones’s twelfth novel, The Name of the Sister.

A scanning of programs on any streaming service will reveal that the phenomenon of the cult, both real and imagined, continues to fascinate the public imagination. One notorious historical example, and the subject of recent documentaries and a gripping TV series, is a group called The Family, which operated undetected from the late 1960s for over twenty years in a secluded rural property near Lake Eildon in Victoria. What makes this case so unusual is the fact that its leader was a woman: the glamorous, pathologically narcissistic Anne Hamilton-Byrne. Shockingly, as many as twenty-eight of the victims were children who were subject to brainwashing and sustained physical abuse. Discovered and released in 1987, many of those children suffered lasting trauma and some committed suicide. In a stroke of terrible irony, Hamilton-Byrne never faced justice for her heinous crimes because the law judged the testimony of the children to be unreliable.