Kate vs Inga – it’s still going on

Kate Grenville was interviewed on the most recent Guardian Books Podcast, a good choice of guest as the subject was historical fiction, and her last three books – The Secret River, The Lieutenant and Sarah Thornhill –  have been tales of the early years of the colony of New South Wales.

It must be irritating to Ms Grenville that every time a journalist talks to her about her colonial novels, they raise the matter of the ‘attacks’ on The Secret River by ‘historians’. And that’s what happens in this podcast. Asked about the response to The Secret River, KG says in part:

We all kind of knew that things had happened, but people of my generation were brought up with this illusion that, you know, the reason there were no Aboriginal people left in many parts of Australia was that they all got measles, and had no resistance to it. We all kind of knew that this was wrong and The Secret River gave people a way of starting to think about it, I think. And because it’s fiction, it wasn’t too confronting. With fiction you can always reassure yourself that after all this is just made up. …
A couple of historians, with The Secret River, were cranky that I was writing something that they felt was their territory. You know, this is hard stuff to think about. Here we are as white Australians living incredibly privileged lives and we’re doing it on the back of 2oo years of oppression and misery and murder, basically. To actually look that fact in the face is extremely confronting, very difficult. So I think when those historians really diverted the debate away from what I’d been writing the books about, which is the massacre and what  the beneficiaries of it do with that knowledge, I think they felt that this was a chance to divert the debate into something more comfortable – which is the debate of is it history, is it fiction, how far should novelists go in writing historical fiction.

OK, the only reason for a novelist to appear on the Guardian podcast is to promote her own work, and the dismissal of any number of other novelists who have tackled the subject (Thea Astley comes immediately to mind, and surely there are others) can be forgiven as loose talk. It’s absolutely true that the subject of ‘massacre and what  the beneficiaries of it do with that knowledge’ is difficult and confronting and, I would add, of high priority (though it’s an open question whether the book actually goes to the question of the beneficiaries). It may even be that the criticisms of The Secret River had the effect of diverting attention from that question. But really ….

The only historian I’ve read on this subject is Inga Clendinnen, who made some astringent and, yes, cranky remarks about The Secret River in her Quarterly Essay, Who Owns the Past? But her gist, as I remember it, was that on many points the novel distorts the history – for instance, by moving a key incident from the first years of the colony to a couple of decades later – and in general it lacks any sense of actual engagement with the times she was writing about. Clendinnen herself could hardly be described as ‘heavy duty’ in the sense of inaccessible. And it would be hard to read her writing about the early colony as comfortable.

Evidently Kate Grenville is still smarting from the criticism, but this is fighting dirty. Inga Clendinnen is not Keith Windschuttle, yet anyone learning about her criticisms from this podcast would assume she was near allied.

Jim McCann and Janet Lee’s Return of the Dapper Men

Jim McCann and Janet Lee, Return of the Dapper Men (Archaia Entertainment 2010)

This is a kind of steampunk fairy tale graphic novel, self-consciously beautiful to the extent that it includes an appendix explaining its decoupage technique. I found it visually boring if not outright repulsive, and was left cold by the story, which involves a city, or perhaps a whole world, where time has stopped but starts again when hundreds of identical ‘dapper men’ float down from the sky, a mute mechanical angel that somehow brings harmony, an elliptical message about destiny, and strangely empty allusions (the city is Anorev, Verona in reverse, but why?).

It was a generous and thoughtful Christmas present, but I guess I’m just not part of the target audience.

Ampersand 4

Alice Gage (editor), Ampersand Magazine 4: From the Heart of the Forest to the Edge of the Road (Art & Australia 2011)

20120211-182652.jpgI’d seen earlier issues of Ampersand in coffee shops around Newtown and assumed it was a kind of zine with advertising – you know, quirky, poorly crafted stories about queerness, spiky incoherent poems and blurry photos, interspersed with slick promos for hip merchandise. A quick, lazy flip through one copy while waiting for a hot chocolate wasn’t enough to make me rethink,

Then the Art Student gave me this issue for Christmas, and I discovered I WAS WRONG. True, there are a couple of rap-influenced poems, and an over the top postmodernish necrophiliac horror story. But from the opening fold-out photograph, ‘Black Friday’ by John O’Neil, with John Forbes’s ‘Going North’ luxuriating in white space on the back, to the charming appendix noting things that happened when the magazine was in production, this is a delight.

I don’t have to describe the physical magazine because there’s a video of an elegant pair of hands flicking through it here. (Go on, have a look. It only takes about 90 seconds.)

Tommy Murphy (Holding the Man and Gwen in Purgatory playwright) writes about his father’s dementia. Bob Brown (the senator, not an obscure namesake) writes about Oura Oura, his shack retreat in rural Tasmania. Three pages of comics by Leigh Rigozzi tell sweet quotidian anecdotes about life in Newtown (I don’t know if that’s exactly a correct use of quotidian, but it’s a Harvey Pekar term, and seems to fit). Fabian Muir visits people living in the Chernobyl exclusion zone (and makes me wish he and Merilyn Fairskye had been in touch: his article and Plant Life, her recent exhibition of photographs from Chernobyl speak volumes of each other).

There are a couple of wonderful young fogey articles, one inveighing against proposed changes to Fisher Library at Sydney University, to make it more efficient by getting rid of half the books, an auto da fé on an unprecedented scale being conducted in secret, the other lamenting the passing of toll booth operators. An iconoclastic piece on iconoclasm argues that the restoration of works of art that have been vandalised sometimes does more damage than the vandalism. There are pages and pages of high quality colour reproductions of art by Tracy Moffatt and a clutch of Western Desert artists, among others.

I wish I’d read this magazine three months ago, because then I would have made sure to go to the Carriageworks for My Darling Patricia’s Posts in a Paddock, a theatre piece built around murder by Jimmy Governor of ancestors of one of the company: the piece about it here is a brilliant example of Indigenous and non-Indigenous collaboration, infinitely more interesting than February’s I Am Eora at the same venue.

And as a final note: accustomed as I am to thinking of Melbourne as the place where solid new literary ventures come into being, I was pleased to see that this is a Sydney publication. I Googled the editor, Alice Gage, and discovered that though she is indeed a Sydneysider, she produced the first issue of Ampersand while in Melbourne. Her reflections on the difference in the milieux are worth reading,

I’m posting this the day before the launch of Ampersand 5: Eleventh Hour (the link is to that issue’s YouTube teaser).

Southerly 70/3

David Brooks & Elizabeth McMahon (editors), Santosh K. Sareen & G. J. V. Prasad (guest editors), India India: Southerly 70/3

Southerly is a venerable institution – the Journal of the English Association, Sydney, it has been going for 70 years (which isn’t long compared to children’s literary journals such the School Magazine or its New Zealand equivalent, but impressive among little magazines for grownups). This issue has a central focus on Indian–Australian literary relations, but I bought it for Jennifer Maiden’s poem, ‘The Year of the Ox’, which doesn’t relate to that focus.

‘The Year of the Ox’ is to an end-of-year family letter what many of Jennifer Maiden’s poems are to diary entries, that is to say, same same but different. It brings us up to date on characters who have been inhabiting her poetry for some time: herself and her daughter, current political leaders (Obama, Clinton, Gillard), iconic figures of the recent and not so recent past (Diana Spencer, Mother Teresa, Florence Nightingale, Queen Victoria, Eleanor Roosevelt) and her fictions George Jeffreys and Clare Collins. It’s a long and complex poem, but from one point of view, it brings us up to date on the doings of this mental family during 2009, the Chinese Year of the Ox, and into 2010, Year of the Tiger, all the while ringing the changes on the images and connotations of ox and tiger. I love the way the poem swings with apparent nonchalance from observations on her own close relationship, the political scene and the nature of poetry, to – what to call them? – Platonic dialogues between icons, to vividly realised domestic scenes from a virtual novel, and all the while there’s a sense of poet-as-ox pulling a plough through the furrows of a mind alert to the world.

There are other excellent poems: by Ali Alizadeh (whose ‘Election Announced’ chillingly mentions someone as ‘the theocrat / a retributivist in speedos’), Judith Beveridge (whose two poems are actually India-related, thanks to her interest in Buddhist lore), Richard Deutsch, Craig Powell and a list of other Australians, and by a handful of Indian poets. I couldn’t get into any of the short stories, with the exception of Sarah Klenbort’s ‘The Chinese Circus Comes to Cessnock’, in which three fruit-picking backpackers encounter the complexities of Australia’s policies about Asian immigration.

Southerly comes from academe, and there a number of academic pieces, in particular surveys of the India-Australia literary connection and studies of particular texts. I intended to read the journal from start to finish, but decided to skip the scholarly bits when I read on page 20 that one novelist’s work ‘might be taken as a case study of Deleuzean deterritorialised nomadology […] Derridean self-critique in which text and meta-text mutually […]’. Too much like hard work! I skipped pieces by Indian critics on Mollie Skinner, Hazel Edwards, and a number of Aboriginal subjects with words like subjectivity, constructing and historiography in their titles. But I was wooed back by Mark Macleod’s ‘Reading my first time in India: the ACLALS Conference 1977’. Once you get past the daunting title, this is a fabulous piece of travel writing structured around two literary conferences. It sheds light all over the place, and abounds with striking images and telling anecdotes.

The other stand-out piece was by Patrick Bryson, a white Australian married to an Indian woman and living in rural India. His ‘The Men Who Stare at Bogans’ explores the Indian press’s coverage of the anti-Indian racism in Australia, and moves on to a brilliant essay on the treatment of ‘tribals’ in India.

As I was writing this, the next issue of the Asia Literary Review arrived in the mail. It’s an English language journal reflecting writing in and about Asia. This Southerly does a nice job of reminding us of one of our strong Asian relationships.

4W twenty-two

David Gilbey (editor), 4w twenty-two New Writing (2011)

fourW is an anthology produced regularly by the Booranga Writers’ Centre, home of Wagga Wagga Writers Writers. The 22nd issue, the first I’ve read, is extraordinarily eclectic: in small part a showcase for local Wagga Wagga writers, it extends to work from Japan (a Noh play, some fine short poems) and elsewhere far beyond these shores, established writers rubbing shoulders with those still wet from the cocoon, the academic with the demotic, and a world of diversity in between: short stories with the ghosts of O Henry, Raymond Carver, Henry Lawson and maybe Tropfest hovering over their shoulders, a touch of magic realism, some ‘ladies who lunch’ pieces (is that a genre?), cryptic and narrative and lyric and satirical poetry. It was perfect to carry in my bag while I was immersed at home in the completely unportable Reamde.

My crabby editorial soul snarked into life once or twice, most strikingly at this: ‘Her mother … insisted she keep her hair long and plaited to trick the suitors into seeing her as young, virile and obedient.’ Um, note to author: I may be missing something, but I think you meant nubile.

The festival is over …

… the Sydney Festival, that is, and it’s been spectacular. In the fraction of it that I got to see (nothing at all in the Spiegel Tent, for example), we’ve had:

incest
rape
cannibalism
murder, including infanticide and uncle-murder
suicide
accidental beating to death
genocide
grave robbing
race riots
scalpings
cruel and unusual sexual acts
and two men pushing each other in the chest as they moved around the stage, creating the impression that they were stalling until someone remembered what came next.

At different times I had a  jaw that wouldn’t close, a churning stomach, a singing heart, hands that stung from applauding, a mind in awe. A festival isn’t a festival without one brave failure. This was definitely a festival.

Neal Stephenson’s Reamde

Neal Stephenson, Reamde (William Morrow / Atlantic Books 2011)

At 1044 pages, this is to a normal novel what The Wire or The Sopranos is to a feature film. Characters who loom large in the first couple of hundred pages are killed as summarily as any TV character whose actor has had a better offer. New characters turn up who come from whole other continents. Plot strands that appeared to be central are apparently resolved after a mere 350 pages, and, to mash my metaphors a bit, other strands arise from the ashes and shards that remain of them. As the action moves to a new location, that location is described in loving detail, usually over a couple of pages. Yet, with all those shifts of direction and detailed evocations of place, the narrative stays gripping.

Neal Stephenson is the man who raised the info-dump to the level of an art form. In the climactic battle scene, for instance, when two sets of jihadists are shooting it out with a heterogeneous collection of good guys, he pauses to notice that when machine-gun bullets hit the walls of a log cabin, the freshly exposed wood shows up starkly blond against the weathered outside wood. And elsewhere in the same battle, a character has time to reflect that one’s mental functions are less sharp when one is burning fat than when burning carbs. But there are none of the spectacular digressions of earlier books – no lectures on Babylonian mythology, nanotechnology, computer cryptography, advanced mathematics, or the fashions of the court of Charles the Second of England.

If you haven’t read any Neal Stephenson, I wouldn’t recommend starting with this. Snow Crash is a fabulous cyberspace thriller; Cryptonomicon goes deep into Second World War cryptography and modern electronic security; The Diamond Age is set in a world where nanotechnology is achieving wonders, yet has at its heart a book for small children (and a small child who reads it); The Baroque Cycle (Quicksilver, The Confusion, The System of the World) is a rollicking picaresque novel and also a fictionalised account of the dawn of capitalism, the Enlightenment and the scientific age. Compared to any of them, Reamde is just a thriller.

But it’s wonderful, improbable fun. You can get an idea of the plot from this little ‘story so far’ passage from page 827 (you need to know that T’Rain is a massively popular and profitable multi-user internet game, and it may help to know that Seamus is a semi-disgraced but still potent US secret operative and ‘these three’ are all in their early 20s and not generally inclined to risky living):

Seamus had no idea what level of precautions was appropriate here. Apparently these three had left half of the surviving population of China seriously pissed off at them, as well as making mortal enemies with a rogue, defrocked Russian organised crime figure. In their spare time they had stolen money from millions of T’Rain players, created huge problems for a large multinational corporation that owned the game, and, finally – warming to the task – mounted a frontal attack on al-Qaeda.

I confess that my enthusiasm was beginning to flag in the prolonged climactic battle, where not a lot was happening besides stuff blowing up and people shooting at each other, but generally this was an excellent summer, even all-of-summer, read. And what if my teetering To Be Read pile is calling me to  a world history of genocide, a revisionist account of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the next Book Group title? Neal Stephenson is a major Guilty Pleasure, and I am unrepentant.

Brendan Burford’s Syncopated Picto-essays

Brendan Burford, Syncopated: An Anthology of Nonfiction Picto-Essays (Villard 2009)

I doubt if I would have picked this up in a bookshop or a library. First there was the suggestion of possible illiteracy in the subtitle: it’s surely redundant to say an essay is not fictional, and what is this word ‘picto’? But moving on past that bit of pedantic persnickertiness on my part, the idea of a comic book essay didn’t look all that attractive. But I was given it a Christmas present, along with Ramona Koval’s Best Australian Essays 2011, and behold, the collection of non-picto essays is still in my teetering to-be-read pile, while I’ve read the comic and enjoyed it hugely. It does all the things that one could expect of a collection of essays.

One thing essays classically do is to interest  readers in things they never expected to be interested in. Here Nick Bertozzi’s ‘How and Why to Bale Hay’ and Rina Piccolo’s ‘Penny Sentiments’ (on the history of postcards) are prime examples of the type.

Other essays open up whole new areas of knowledge: Brendan Burford and Jim Campbell’s ‘Boris Rose: Prisoner of Jazz’ tells the story of a man who started creating and selling bootleg jazz records around 1940 and progressed to obsessively cutting records of obscure jazz radio broadcasts, so that when he died in 2000 he left a vast collection of one-of a kind recordings; Alex Holden’s ‘West Side Improvements’ tells of Chris Pape, who painted striking murals in a disused New York subway station; Nate Powell’s ‘Like Hell I Will’ brings to shocking life the 1905 Tulsa race riots, though massacre is probably a better word for what happened.

Then there are essays that cover familiar ground, but do so in a way that makes the subject fresh. So in ‘What We So Quietly Saw’ text from FBI reports on Guantanamo prisoner interrogations is rendered poignant by Greg Cook’s stark silhouettes, Paul Karasik manages in eight pages to provide a critical biography of psychologist Erik Erikson, and Alex Longstreth tells the story of August Dvorak’s all but completely fruitless struggles to have his typewriter keyboard layout supersede the eminently stupid qwerty (I had a nerdy joy when I read that all computers now can be switched to use the Dvorak layout, but I can’t see how to do it on mine, so maybe that’s another feature of essays – they don’t always give the full story).

Some degree of individuality, even quirkiness, is essential to the essay form, and the comic book as essay, with its strikingly personal interplay of word and image, inevitably has this element in spades. As a tiny example, take this frame from Paul Hoppe’s ‘Coney Island Ruminations’:

These four people are clearly not ‘New York’. It’s not so much that the abstraction of the text is tied down to a particularity, as that the particularity of the image suggests the vast range of individual experience covered by the text’s eight words. The book offers example after example of this kind of thing. A different kind of interplay comes at the very end of ‘The Sound of Jade’, Sarah Glidden’s piece about accompanying her father to China to adopt a baby. After walking us through the process, including observations of the other adopting USers, statistics of such adoptions, regulations governing them, moments of intercultural awkwardness and emotional rawness, Gliddens ends with a peaceful scene of the new family, then in a final frame we are looking into the room through a window from a slightly elevated angle, and ‘Sarah’ is looking out at us uneasily:

In a way that would be hard to achieve in any other medium, we’re left to do our own thinking about what might lie beneath her unease.

In short, this was an excellent Christmas present.

Andrew Motion’s Natural Causes

Andrew Motion, Natural Causes (Chatto Poetry 1987)

Andrew Motion is one of those poets you can know about without having a clue about his poetry. I knew he was the Poet Laureate who broke with tradition and actually resigned from the post, the chair of the Man Booker Prize committee that produced some controversial short lists in recent years, someone who is disparaged in passing in hip poetry circles, in short, someone who had been pigeonholed as typically middlebrow. But I don’t think I’d read a single line by him.

I bought this book for $2 at Sappho’s, which probably means there are plenty of copies around, and I should be glad it’s not adorned by student marginalia. I enjoyed it a lot, perhaps because there’s a strong narrative element, and I’m a sucker for narrative. Two substantial sequences stand out: ‘Scripture’, about Motion’s time at boarding school, to which he was sent, barbarically, at the age of seven, and ‘This Is Your Subject Speaking’, an elegiac sequence in honour of his friend Philip Larkin, who died a couple of years before the book was published. There are some sweetly moving poems about his baby child.

I found a nice interview with Andrew Motion on the Oxford Poetry web site, where he talks among other things about his use of his own history:

But I still intend my poems to function as photographs taken from one person’s life, which are put on show to everybody else so that they might perhaps recognise things about their own lives from those photographs. I think that that process is more likely to succeed if you colour the photographs with those feelings which you have to say are yours, and personal. I’m sure this sounds very unsympathetic to the new critics, but that’s how I am.

Andrew Charlton’s Man-Made World

Andrew Charlton, Man-Made World: Choosing between progress and planet (Quarterly Essay No 44, 2011)

Andrew Charlton has a good eye for a quote. He  was in the room at the Copenhagen Climate Conference when Barack Obama arrived, late, at the meeting of world leaders that had been hastily convened to avert a complete breakdown of the conference. It was definitely a behind-the-scenes gathering: the leaders, Charlton tells us, ‘hunched in plastic chairs around a rectangle of contiguous small tables’. When Obama arrived, Hilary Clinton said, ‘Mr President, this is the worst meeting I’ve been to since the eighth-grade student council.’ Apart from flaunting the teller’s insider status, the anecdote’s clear subtext is that the insiders, the powerful elite, are just as flummoxed by global warming as the rest of us.  More than anything else in the essay, it drives home the point that the planet’s current environmental crisis will be resolved, if at all, by human beings bumbling forward as human beings have always done.

The other stand-out quote, which Charlton says is famous, is from Sheikh Yamani, former head of OPEC. When someone asked him when he believed the world would run out of oil, he replied, ‘The Stone Age didn’t end because the world ran out of stone,’ memorably encapsulating a key point of this essay, namely that technological innovation and the discovery of new materials and sources of energy have led to great leaps in human progress in the past, and we can hope will do so again.

Charlton argues that the failure of Copenhagen was caused not by non-cooperation from the US or Europe or muscle-flexing sabotage by China, but by a failure to address ‘the central dilemma of our century: the choice between progress and planet’, the apparently intransigent conflict of interest between the world’s rich minority who can afford to talk about scaling back consumption and the vast majority for whom increased consumption means emerging from grinding poverty:

These two global challenges –poverty and the environment – are the twin imperatives of the twenty-first century. One ravages billions of people alive today; the other threatens billions yet unborn.

Because of this conflict of interest, he argues, ‘our global approach ot climate change has failed:

we have failed to establish a globally binding treaty, we have failed to effectively bring the developing countries into a global solution, and we have failed to develop new technologies sufficient to reduce emissions rapidly.

Like everybody else in the known universe, he doesn’t hold out much hope that ‘market mechanisms’, such as Australia’s price on carbon and further down the track emissions trading scheme, will achieve the necessary targets, and that’s even if they survive assault from Tony Abbott and his buddies.

He calls for a Plan B, which has thee elements: to rethink the key goal, from raising the cost of fossil fuel energy to making clean power cheap; to reverse the relationship between rich and poor countries, so that rather than trying to persuade the developing world to reduce emissions the west works with them to develop breakthrough technology to deliver cheaper energy to the world’; to pay a lot more attention to back-up plans in case of disaster.

The essay is well worth reading, but I don’t know if it moves us forward significantly. At times Charlton’s experience as senior economic adviser to the Australian Prime Minister works against him, as he moves into polemic mode when the subject calls for careful persuasion: his figures occasionally slip from comparative to absolute when the argument requires it, he sometimes jeers at an opposing argument when engagement is needed. This background may also account for the fact that while he argues that reducing Australia’s emissions by even 5 per cent by 2020 is ‘all but unachievable through domestic efforts’, he  ignores grassroots, science-based initiatives such as Beyond Zero Emissions, a detailed plan to reduce emissions to zero by 2020 using existing technology, or Zero Carbon Britain, a similar plan for Britain (the link is to a YouTube talk by the eminently persuasive Peter Harper of the Centre for Alternative Technology in Wales). I can’t tell whether he would see these plans as examples of his Plan B or whether he includes them in the ‘glib rhetoric’ he attributes to ‘green groups’.

But this is all good and necessary argument, recognising that there’s a real problem and searching for a solution, which is immensely refreshing compared to the fake debate set up by those who believe – or pretend to believe – that ‘science is crap’.

Speaking of which, I’ve already had my tuppence worth about the correspondence about Robert Manne’s essay on the Australian at the back of this Quarterly Essay.
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(Posted during the Wikipedia blackout over the PIPA/SOPA legislation but by no means in opposition to it.)