Memoir

The new edition of Searching for Charmian, Suzanne Chick’s autobiographical account of discovering her birth mother’s identity, is published at a moment when the reputations of two of the book’s subjects are in their ascendency.

If you were asked to come up with three cultural touchstones for the nation of Iceland, there’s a good chance that you would nominate Hannah Kent’s 2013 novel Burial Rites, perhaps along with the music of Björk and Sigur Rós. Burial Rites might be a bit of a cheat, given that Kent is an Australian novelist. Nevertheless, this novel, which tells the story of a woman executed in Iceland in the nineteenth century, has been an enormous success. Translated into more than twenty languages, it sold millions of copies worldwide and is set to become a film. It surely put Iceland on the map for many readers.

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.

There is no shortage of statistics pointing to the prevalence of misogyny and violence against women, not least the oft-cited figure that one woman is murdered each week in Australia. But sometimes anecdotes reveal the systemic nature of a problem in a way that figures cannot. In her memoir, Groomed, Sonia Orchard recalls attending a social gathering in St Kilda thirty years after she was abused as a fifteen-year-old high school student. At the party, she recognises a male teacher from her school, who, when he sees her, exclaims loudly in front of other guests: ‘I remember you! You used to think you were so hot, didn’t you? Strutting around in your little school dress.’

Erudition for its own sake is perhaps not as prized in the world of Australian letters as it once was; in an age when sparsity is king – where blunt clarity and a kind of punchy journalese dominate contemporary essay writing – loquaciousness and intricate wordplay are undervalued commodities. Feathery intellectualism of the type personified by Robert Dessaix might not be much in vogue, which is precisely why it feels so joyful and necessary. Chameleon, his latest work of memoir, is discursive and prismatic, wise and worldly. For the shambolic musings of an esteemed octogenarian – ‘now at the end of my life, at the fraying, but suddenly illumined, highly coloured end of my life’ – it is expertly calibrated, often remarkably vivid, and always exquisitely articulated.

How literature loves to corral its characters in defined, even confined spaces and closed societies. Chaucer anatomised his ‘sondry folk’, his pilgrims, as they gathered in Southwerk’s Tabard Inn. A secluded Florentine villa was Boccaccio’s retreat for storytelling, while the Black Death raged in the countryside. Agatha Christie, who understood immurement-by-loss, lent a lethal frisson to the English country house and the European rail carriage. Umberto Eco chose a monastery for his Name of the Rose intrigue. As recently as 2023, Charlotte Wood brought the protagonist of her novel Stone Yard Devotional into a convent, to confront herself and witness another portentous environmental and social plague – this one of mice.

I lament hearing the late poet Dorothy Porter (1954–2008) read in public only once, having devoured her work voraciously over the years. In the National Portrait Gallery, I once came across Rick Amor’s smallish 2002 portrait of Porter, which shows candid brown eyes framed by hawkish eyebrows inherited from her renowned barrister father, Chester Porter. ‘Chester Porter walks on water’ was her father’s vainglorious self-descriptor when he wasn’t monikered as ‘The Smiling Funnel-web’ at the bar (see Chester Porter, Walking On Water: A life in the law, 2003).

Genealogy television programs like Who Do You Think You Are? often feature the celebrity gasping – in surprise, excitement, even alarm – as details of their family tree are revealed. Belinda Probert, a distinguished British-born Melbourne academic, had her own moment of incredulity when, four months after her father, Bill, was buried in 1994, her family received a letter from his nephew Denzil. For Denzil, Bill was not Bill, but Uncle Roy, who had spent his childhood living in an impoverished Welsh coal mining village in the Rhondda, and whose mother and siblings were alive when Bill’s children were born. All this was complete news to Bill’s family.

Tony Horwitz, fêted American journalist-historian, died in 2019 – on the last Monday in May, a day when America ritually honours its war dead and heralds the beginning of summer. Horwitz was sixty. For his wife, Australian journalist and novelist Geraldine Brooks, his death was more than an ironic anomaly: it was an inconceivable rupture in time:

A chronicler of experience and a scrutineer of memory, Annie Ernaux always tries to express something universal. By recording her experiences – of the working class, social mobility, abortion, death, divorce, jealousy, affairs, desire, and more – she asks her readers to see their lives in her writing.