Monday musings on Australian literature: Trove treasures (13), American scholar on Australian culture (1952)

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(Courtesy OCAL, via clker.com)

While researching Trove for April’s 1952 Year Club, I came across some articles about an American Fulbright scholar’s critique of Australian culture, and thought it a worthy topic for my occasional Trove Treasures series. The scholar was John Hough, who was Professor of Classics at Colorado State University, and he was finishing his year’s scholarship at University of Sydney.

Grafton’s Daily Examiner (22 November 1952) titled its article “Criticised aspects of Australian life“, while the Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate (also 22 November 1952) titled theirs “Australian ways slated by American“. It was also reported, along similar lines, in Sydney’s Sun and The Daily Mirror, and Melbourne’s The Argus. According to the Daily Examiner, Hough was speaking at an Australian-American luncheon at the Trocadero, and had said “he was appalled at the prejudice that had grown up against migrants”. He said that migrants to America “came of their own accord, and had to take their chance of making a living” but there was “no need for Australia to make the same mistakes”. And then he identified a number of other aspects of Australian culture that he felt were going wrong:

  • Mistakes in the treatment of aborigines.
  • The almost exclusive use of American and other imported songs, and records of oversea artists on the radio. 
  • He did not know why Australia did not make more use of its own songs and singers, instead of listening to people who “occasionally croon, sing, and cry.” 
  • The attitude of Australian “upper-level society” to Australian culture, which it belittled, and the denial that there was any such thing as Australian literature.

None of the articles expanded much on these, and when they did it was brief and focused on Hough’s critique about migrants. For example, the Daily Mirror (21 November) explained that

He said America had made terrible mistakes in migration, but that there was no reason why Australia, should make them. He said he regretted the tendency to stress that a man was a New Australian when he got into trouble.

The Sun (21 November) reported it a little differently:

“In America our migrants came of their own accord, and had to take their chances of making a living,” he said. 
“We also did not have the benefit of the study of sociology available today”. 

A couple reported that he’d been to the Greta migrant camp, and hadn’t liked what he’d seen. Most of the other issues were either ignored in the reports, or were listed as “other” aspects.

However, a few days later, on 8 December, the Daily Examiner, took on Hough’s comments – the only one to do so as far as I’ve found – and discussed them in an article simply titled, “Australian culture“. They argued, for example, that Hough had criticised Australia for not being “very hospitable towards migrants or new ideas” but had also said, contradictorily, that “we make exclusive use of American and imported songs and records of overseas artists on the radio”.

The article continues that Hough “emphasises” that while “we have our own rich array of local talent”, we “prefer to ignore Australian artists … and listen to those who croon sing and cry!” It doesn’t disagree with this preference. Its point, rather, is that this is “easy enterment [sic] but it isn’t culture”. This narrow idea of culture is not uncommon I think.

Anyhow, the article then takes on Hough’s statement that Australia’s upper-level society “belittled Australian culture and denied that there is any such thing as Australian literature”. It argues that this “belittles our land as much as it belittles our people”. Then, in its parochial way, says:

We in Grafton are rightfully proud of our Jacaranda Festival. Not only because it provides gay and whole-some entertainment, but because it sets a standard of culture that is lovely and fundamentally Australian.

But there’s more … it argues that Australian has “many scientists, inventors, physicians, writers, artists and musicians whose names and works shine like gems in any hall of culture” and calls these people “true Australians from the land they love”. Ignoring them, the paper says, “does them and their nation grave disservice”. Then, in another statement that comes straight from its times, it points out that:

Australia Day for example might have a more popular appeal if we used it to praise our famous men, the glory of their times. 

There’s more, including a them-versus-us statement which promotes the value of the “country Press”, and has a dig at the metropolitan Press which, it claims, “frequently says that writings about Australia have no publicity value”. The result is that

… our mighty land mainly goes unhonoured and unsung, and Australian literature and art is said not to exist. The great deeds of the pioneers, the fortitude, skill and’ patience of the modern countryman are overlooked. The essential loveliness of our land is side-tracked. Yet these things form the basis of our culture, and until they are recognised and publicised our mighty land will remain a Lilliput among the nations of the world.

It’s a beautiful bit of self-defence that turns Hough’s criticism into, at least in part, a pat on their own regional backs for writing about – for recognising, in other words – the true value of Australian culture.

I do enjoy Trove.

Shelley Burr, Vanish (#BookReview)

With Vanish, the third novel in her Lane Holland series, Burr mixes it up yet again, which appeals to me because my main reason for not liking genre fiction is that it can be formulaic. I know this is why many like it, and I understand that need for comforting reading. It’s just not my need.

So, a brief recap. In Wake (my review), we are introduced to a private investigator, Lane Holland, who arrives in a remote, outback, fictional town to investigate an old missing persons case. He’s keen and caring, but he also has his own agenda – and the resolution is shocking. The next book, Ripper aka Murder town (my review), is set in a different country town. It initially looked like something different, as Lane is in prison from Wake‘s fallout, but it soon becomes a dual investigation story that coalesces when it turns into both a murder and a missing persons case.

And now, book 3. It seems you really can’t keep a good PI down, even if he is in prison! Vanish is set a few years later. Lane is still in prison but, because of prison governor Carver’s vested interest, he soon manages to get himself on a pre-parole release program in order to continue the unsolved investigation from Ripper. If you’ve read Ripper you’ll know what that is, and if you haven’t, it becomes clear very soon. My point, though, is that once again Burr has produced a highly readable crime novel that manages to be a bit different from the preceding book, while retaining enough familiarity for those invested in her characters and worldview. It’s a fine balance that Burr has trodden nicely.

Like its predecessors, Vanish belongs to the rural noir sub-genre, and is consequently, noir-ish – or Australian Gothic – in tone. It features characters we have met in the previous novels, including Lane Holland, his sister Lynnie, and his first client Mina McCreery. Further, its plot centres again on a missing person. In Vanish, however, there’s more than one missing person. A serial missing persons case!

Some stay. Some leave. Some disappear.

“Some stay. Some leave. Some disappear” appears above the title in the book’s first Australian edition (as you can see in the cover pic above). What it references is the main setting of the novel – a farm near Hume Weir, southeast of Albury, an area Burr knows well. At the novel’s opening, Lane has tracked down several missing people as having visited this farm, then disappearing from view – hence the tag line. What is this farm, and why have some people disappeared? Lane wants to find out and Carver, with his daughter still missing, is happy to help him do so.

Consequently, with ankle bracelet, a prison guard minder, and an agreement for him to work at the farm, Lane arrives – but not without a mysterious-sounding death having just happened on the road in. This, of course, captures Lane’s attention – and we’re off.

Now Lane is, of course, your suspicious type. He takes nothing at face value, and he closely observes all that’s going on around him. There’s something about this farm that doesn’t feel right. Is it a community of like-minded people who want to escape their old lives and live more simply, growing their own food and reducing their energy impact on the world? Or is it a cult? How genuine is the owner Sam Karpathy, not to mention his recently deceased father? What do the people in the nearby township know, and why do they seem evasive when Lane tries to find out? And, why is a certain person from a previous novel there too?

Oh, and who is the trapped, sick, or injured person whose story is told in short italicised sections interspersed with the main narrative? (It added to the intrigue, and I didn’t guess it at all.)

As in her previous novel, Burr’s builds her crime story around wider issues. In Ripper for example it was “dark tourism”. Here, it is the idea of people wishing to live eco-minded, sustainable lives. So, as the investigation progresses, Burr also interrogates what this sort of life means in terms of whether or not you compromise and why, whether you stockpile for an end-of-world scenario, whether you eschew western medicine, and so on. These are questions Lane considers as he tries to understand the community he is living in. And it starts with the controlling Karpathy.

Lane, as he needs to be, is a trustworthy narrator for us. The novel is told third person, through his eyes, and he brings us along with him, sharing his thoughts and explaining his processes. His awareness of body language and his experience of human behaviour guide his actions. I loved those details. There’s risk and tension, some creeping around the farm at night, a locked room, magic mushrooms, and more. I didn’t find it edge-of-the-seat suspenseful, but I don’t like that anyhow, so the level of stress was just about right for me. The plot builds slowly, sending us off in various directions, and keeping us uncertain as we consider what Lane sees and questions. Is Karpathy, for example, coercive or simply wanting to keep control of a dream he is vested in. The denouement, when it comes, unfolds quickly, and at just the right time.

I enjoyed the read. I have been invested in Lane from the beginning, and he continued to interest me in this book. He’s conscientious, intelligent and decent, but, appealingly, is not always sure of himself, particularly when it comes to relationships. Also, Burr evokes place well. The farm, which is set in mountains just far enough from a little town to feel isolated, feels believable, as do the natural disasters – flood and bushfire – which threaten it.

My only question now is, will we see more of Lane? As a convicted felon he will not be able to renew his investigator licence. There is a hint at the end that there might be a way around it. Time will tell, but if you are a Lane Holland fan, I think you can have hope.

Shelley Burr
Vanish
Sydney: Hachette Australia, 2023
384pp.
ISBN: 9780733652158

(Review copy – an uncorrected book proof, hence no quotes – courtesy Hachette Australia)

Stella Prize 2025 Winner announced

The 2025 Stella Prize winner was announced tonight at a special event at the Sydney Writers’ Festival, and the winner is …

Michelle de Kretser’s Theory & practice

How happy am I that a book I reviewed only last week won the award! It is a provocative and thoroughly engrossing book in all the ways. I don’t feel I did full justice to it, but I did love thinking about what she was doing. It’s playfully mind-bending, but is also very serious about the art of the novel, what it can be, and what it can say. I can’t of course say whether I would have chosen it, as I’ve only read two of the shortlisted books. However, it is a wonderful book, and, when it comes to acceptance speeches, de Kretser is up there with the best. (You can see it at the Stella site) She was compassionate and eloquent. She made a beautiful but pointed statement commemorating two groups of women: the Stella founders who rejected business as usual in the literary world, and the women and girls of Gaza who are suffering under the business-as-usual actions of Israel’s genocide in Gaza.

She also said:

“I’m still afraid. But I’ve just accepted a prize that is not about obedience. It’s not about feel-good narratives, it’s not about marketing, it’s not even about creativity – Stella is about changing the world.”

Michelle de Kretser on a screen

It was pure class.

The announcement was made at a special event at the Sydney Writers’ Festival. It involved: an introduction by Fiona Sweet, Stella’s CEO; a discussion between three of the judges (Astrid Edwards, Leah-Jing McIntosh and Rick Morton) about the shortlisted books; the awarding of the prize; Michelle de Kretser’s recorded acceptance speech (see here); and a conversation between her (in Sussex) and Rick Morton.

Just to remind you, the short list was:

  • Jumaana Abdu, Translations (fiction, kimbofo’s review)
  • Melanie Cheng, The burrow (fiction, my review)
  • Santilla Chingaipe, Black convicts: How slavery shaped Australia (non-fiction/history)
  • Michelle de Kretser, Theory & practice (fiction, my review)
  • Amy McQuire, Black witness: The power of Indigenous media (non-fiction/essays)
  • Samah Sabawi, Cactus pear for my beloved: A family story from Gaza (memoir/non-fiction)

And the judges were Gudanji/Wakaja woman, educator and author Debra Dank; teacher, interviewer/podcaster, and critic Astrid Edwards; writer and photographer Leah-Jing McIntosh; Sudanese–Australian media presenter and writer, Yassmin Abdel-Magied; and journalist and author with a special focus on social policy, Rick Morton. Astrid Edwards was the chair of the panel.

I have now read nine of the 13 winners: Carrie Tiffany’s Mateship with birds (2013, my review), Clare Wright’s The forgotten rebels of Eureka (2014, my review), Emily Bitto’s The strays (2015, my review), Charlotte Wood’s The natural way of things (2016, my review), Heather Rose’s The museum of modern love (2017, my review), Alexis Wright’s Tracker (2018), Vicki Laveau-Harvie’s The erratics (2019, my review), Jess Hill’s See what you made me do (2020, my review), Evie Wyld’s Bass Rock (2021), Evelyn Araluen’s Dropbear (2022, my review), Sarah Holland-Batt’s The jaguar (2023), Alexis Wright’s Praiseworthy (2024), and Michelle de Kretser’s Theory & practice (2025, my review).

Thoughts anyone?

Monday musings on Australian literature: Grandparent-lit

Last week’s Monday Musings about the Les Murray Award for Refugee Recognition reminded me of the assumptions we make when engrossed in our own little world. When I first heard of this award being made to the slam poet Huda the Goddess, I assumed it was in the name of the Australian poet, Les Murray, only to find it was named for Les Murray the sports commentator. Various commenters weighed in with which Les Murray they first thought of when they heard the name.

Well, this ambiguity raised its head again this week’s post. It was inspired by Western Port Writes first literary event for 2025, held back in February. It was a panel discussion themed “The Family Lode” and featured Australian writers Tony Birch, Melanie Cheng, and Kylie Ladd in conversation with literary/arts editor Jason Steger. I heard about it through Steger’s weekly emailed newsletter:

‘Grandparents underpin each family and story,’ says Steger. ‘They are a hugely important anchor to family. We should have a category called Grandparent-Lit.’

Grandparent-Lit? My ears perked up, and I thought that would make a fun Monday Musings in the future, one of those posts where I could introduce the idea and then let you all fly with your suggestions from your neck of the reading world.

However, first I did a quick internet search to see if there’s anything out there on the topic. And, faster than you can say grandparent-lit, up popped an article from The Guardian published in late 2020. It was by Imogen Dewey and was titled “Jolly, artificial and extremely satisfying: the simple joy of ‘Grandma lit'”. Great, I thought, but my pleasure was short-lived, because her idea of “grandma [not grandparent] lit” was something very different. It was in a series framed “How I fell in love with …” which, in Dewey’s case, was – wait for it – crime fiction! For Dewey “grandma-lit” is not books about grandmas (or grandparents) but about ‘the sort of books grandmothers love … The sort some people refer to as “comforting” or “cosy”, in that Certain Tone reserved also for “comfort eating”, “comfy clothes”, “comfortable relationships” – the insinuation being that it is slovenly to crave to be comfortable’. Oh well, back to the drawing board I went.

AI – that little summary at the top of most internet searches these days – knew what I was talking about. It said this:

“Grandparent lit” is a literary genre that often explores the relationships between grandparents and their grandchildren, focusing on themes of intergenerational connections, family history, and the unique perspectives of different generations. It can include various forms of literature, from picture books for children to novels for adults, with some works specifically targeting grandparents or exploring the grandparenting experience.

AI suggests common themes in these books: Intergenerational connections which explore the relationships between grandparents and grandchildren; family history and cultural heritage meaning stories, traditions and values are shared with younger generations; the grandparenting experience which examines the challenges and rewards of being a grandparent; and memory and nostalgia which encompasses reflecting on past events and relationships.

And I found a 2024 post in Substack, titled “Where are grandparents in literature“, by novelist and journalist Penny Hancock. She writes that “she’d been told by publishers that people don’t want to read about older people’s lives because no one wants to think about getting old”. She argues that this presupposes that grandparents are old (whatever that means) and that readers are narrow-minded. Whatever the reason, she found that, with the exception of children’s books, it is unusual to get a grandparent’s point of view in novels. She asks whether we are still marginalising and generalising a group that has always been subject to prejudice. Anyhow she names a few great books, which most of you will know (but check out the post!) Meanwhile …

Select list of (mostly recent) grandparent-lit books

Now, here is where the fun starts. I will share a few books (mostly novels but with some exceptions) in which grandparents feature significantly – and then hand it over to you. I am not including children’s books because they are too numerous and geared to a different audience to my readers, albeit some of us are grandparents and might like to promote ourselves! (If you are interested, Readings has produced a list of picturebooks for grandparents.)

My books will, of course, be Australian, but you can share anything you like (even if you’re Australian. I’m generous like that!)

Book cover
  • Tony Birch, The white girl (my review): a novel about Odette, a First Nations grandmother, who is determined to save her grand-daughter from falling under the control of white authorities.
  • Melanie Cheng, The burrow (my review): a novel about grief, and the role played by a rabbit and the grandmother in restoring some sort of balance.
  • Helen Garner, The season (my review): nonfiction/memoir about Garner’s spending a football season with her teenage grandson, and the insights she gains into boys and men (among other things).
  • Elizabeth Jolley, The orchard thieves (my review): a meditative novel in which a grandmother ponders the meaning of family and children, and quietly uses her wisdom and humanity to rebalance some family tensions.
  • Jeanine Leane, Purple threads (my review): a First Nations multigenerational story told by two girls, their matriarch grandmother Nan, and two aunts, all working together to forge an authentic and sincere way to live when you are “not the ideal colour”.
  • Eleanor Limprecht, The passengers (my review): dual narrative journey story of an American war-bride returning to her home after 68 years, with her 20-something Australian granddaughter.
  • Favell Parrett, There was still love (my review): a novel about two Czech sisters, one who ends up in Melbourne while the other remains in Prague, told mainly through the eyes of their grandchildren who learn that love can survive, that home is wherever you make it, and the importance of keeping on going.
  • Andra Putnis, Stories my grandmothers never told me (my review): dual biography-memoir of the author’s two Latvian grandmothers, with reflections on her relationship with them.
Cover

Various themes recur here, including the offering of protection and support, showing resilience, and passing on traditions. While some of these stories are warm-hearted, none are sentimental. These grandparents tend to be real and flawed, with their own demons, but they also tend to offer, either directly or indirectly, some wisdom about how to keep on going, even when times are hard.

Now, do you have any favourite grandparent stories?

Michelle de Kretser, Theory & practice (#BookReview)

Michelle de Kretser’s latest novel, Theory & practice, is a perfect example of why I should follow my own reading advice, which is that as soon as I finish a book I should go back and read the opening paragraphs, if not pages. I like to do this because there often lies clues to what the book is really about. It certainly is with Theory & practice.

Theory & practice starts like a typical novel, whatever that is. We are in Switzerland in 1957, with an unnamed 23-year-old Australian geologist who is waiting for a bus to go up the mountain. Meanwhile, back in Australia “rivers of Southern Europeans are pouring into Sydney”. The story continues, with a flashback to his living in the country with his grandmother when he was six years old. During this time he steals her precious ring, and lets her blame her “native” worker Pearlie. The story, told third person, returns to 1957 and a potential tragedy when, writes the narrator, “the novel I was writing stalled”. And, just like that, we switch to first person.

I wrote to my American friend after I finished it, that I needed to do a bit of thinking. I saw an underlying thread concerning colonialism, I wrote, but how does that tie in with the idea of “theory and practice”, and with my glimmer of something about the messiness of life and how it can be represented in art. And, to make things more complicated – in this rather slim book – the narrator is writing a thesis on Virginia Woolf’s The waves, in which Woolf attempted to play with the novel form, calling her novel a “playpoem”. In Theory & practice, de Kretser also plays with the form, but by using fiction, essay and memoir in a way that nods a little to autofiction, but that feels more intensely focused on ideas than narrative.

So, here goes … With the jump to first person, our narrator introduces us to an essay titled “Tunnel vision”, by the British-Israeli architect Eyal Weizman, that she read in the London Review of Books. In this essay Weizman discusses what de Kretser characterises as “the application of Situationist theory to colonising practice”. She kept finding herself returning to the idea of “theory and practice” and her recognition that “the smooth little word ‘and’ makes the transition from theory to practice seem effortless” when she knew was not the case. She knew all about “the messy gap between the two”. Her novel had stalled because it wasn’t what she needed to write. What she needed to write about was the “breakdowns between theory and practice”.

We then shift gear again, and flash back to when the narrator is a child and learning the piano, learning both musical theory and piano practice. The relationship between the two might have been obvious to her teacher but it wasn’t to her.

“messy human truths” (p. 38)

Are you getting the drift? I thought I was, but the novel shifted gear again to 1986 when the narrator, at the age of 24, moves from Sydney to Melbourne to undertake an MA in English. Her topic is to be Virginia Woolf and gender, drawing on feminist theory. She soon uncovers a confronting thread of racism in Woolf’s diaries – a reference to “a poor little mahogany coloured wretch”. This was E.W. Perera, a Ceylonese barrister, politician and freedom-fighter man who, according to Woolf, had only two subjects, “the character of the Government, & the sins of the Colonial Office”. He made Woolf uncomfortable, though husband Leonard sympathised. The problem for our “mahogany-coloured” narrator is that Woolf’s discomfort makes her uncomfortable, but her thesis supervisor, Paula, won’t agree to her changing direction to explore racism. Our narrator’s solution, on the advice of an artist friend, is to “write back to Woolf”, to find or create her own truth in Woolf’s story.

Throughout the novel various parallels are drawn which illuminate the theme, even if they don’t resolve the mess. In her personal life, the narrator’s “practice” – a love affair with a man attached to another woman he claims to love – keeps butting up against her understanding of feminist theory and its key idea of supporting the sisterhood. Desire and obsession, she was finding, trumps theory every time. How to reconcile this? We are thrown into academia, with its politics and jealousies, and St Kilda’s colourful bohemian life, as she reaches for answers to questions both academic and personal.

Concurrently, there is the mother-parallel, one in which regular phone calls from her mother offering practical help and advice interrupt the text and narrative flow, and contrast with the Woolfmother whose abstract presence continues to complicate our narrator’s research and understanding. On the one hand, says our narrator, Woolf said ‘”Imagine” and opened the doors to our minds’, but on the other, she was “a snob and a racist and an antisemite”. Both are as complicated – “messy”, dare I say – as any mother-daughter relationship.

All this is told in prose that is captivating with its changing rhythms from the tersely poetic – “the evening felt jumpy, spoiling for a fight” – to realistic description, and natural dialogue.

Eventually our narrator manages to squish her “ideas about Woolf’s novels into the corset of Theory”, but, perhaps recalling her earlier awareness that “theory taught us … to notice what was unimportant”, it does not fill her with pride. It does, however, fulfil the university’s requirements and she can move on.

And so does the novel, making another leap to the end of the twentieth century, and on into the 21st century. She has more to say about the ways humans abuse others – as she’d been abused as a child, as Woolf and her sister had been abused, and as Donald Friend, in an interesting late discussion in the novel, abused young Balinese boys. Such is the legacy of sexism, racism and colonialism.

Now, how does this short but invigorating novel bring all this together? By reminding us, as the novel has done all the way through, that life is messy, that neither art (including the novel) nor theory can provide the answer, though they might provide insights. This is why, I’d say, de Kretser continues to play with the novel form, to find ways to convey the reality (not the realism) of life. I will end with a Woolf quote shared by de Kretser two-thirds through the novel, because I think she would apply it to herself:

“I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind & my eyes, refusing to be stamped & stereotyped.”

Kimbofo also loved this book.

Michelle de Kretser
Theory & practice
Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2024
184pp.
ISBN: 9781923058149

(Review copy courtesy Text Publishing)

Monday musings on Australian literature: Les Murray Award for Refugee Recognition

Now THIS is something different for Monday Musings. Yes, it is Australian, but it’s not a literary award. Its full title is The Australia for UNHCR – SBS Les Murray Award for Refugee Recognition and, according to Australia’s UNHCR website, it “recognises and celebrates the contribution of refugees who are shining a light on the situation of forcibly displaced people”. The winner receives $10,000, which is donated by SBS, as part of their goal to promote positive awareness and understanding of refugees.

The site explains that the Award, which is supported by Murray’s daughters, Tania and Natalie Murray, is “offered in memory of Les Murray AM, the iconic sports broadcaster and much-loved host of The World Game on SBS television”. In other words, NOT Les Murray the poet. This Les Murray (1945-2017) was born László Ürge in Hungary, but fled Hungary with his family as a refugee in 1956, arriving in Australia in 1957.

Wikipedia’s page, linked on his name, says that he began work as a journalist in 1971, and was also lead singer of a small rock music group, The Rubber Band. He joined the Australian television station, Network Ten, as a commentator in 1977, which is apparently when he changed his name to Les Murray. He moved to Australia’s multicultural broadcasting service, SBS in 1980, initially as a Hungarian language subtitler, but soon turned to sports commentary – football, primarily. In 2011, he won the inaugural “Blogger of the Year” award at the FFDU Australian Football Media awards.

UNHCR says he used his public profile and his own refugee experience to advocate for refugee rights, and this, of course, is what’s behind these awards. To be eligible for the Award nominates must “have settled in Australia as refugees”; “demonstrate significant contributions to raising awareness of refugees and forcibly displaced people in Australia”; “be committed to continuing to engage the Australian public in support of refugees”; and be willing “to engage in Australia for UNHCR and SBS events” including participating in media coverage as requested.

The award was first made in 2022, and the winners have been:

  • 2022: Danijel Malbasa: former Yugoslav refugee, now “a powerful advocate, writer and lawyer”
  • 2023: Anyier Yuol: former South Sudanese refugee, recognised for “her diverse achievements across sport, women’s empowerment and refugee advocacy”.
  • 2024: Hedayat Osyan: a former refugee from Afghanistan, founder of a leading social enterprise that employs refugees in the construction industry

So, as I said, not a literary award per se. However, the 2025 winner, whom I read about in With You (Australia for UNHCR’s newsletter), is Huda Fadlelmawla, otherwise known as Huda the Goddess. She is an “internationally renowned slam poet”, hence her relevance to my Monday Musings.

Huda the Goddess

Fadlelmawla tells her story in With You (Issue 1, 2025, p. 7). I’ll provide a quick summary, but you can read it at the link. Her mother decided they should flee Sudan when Huda was 5 years old, because, under the dictatorship, her mother couldn’t work properly, put her daughter through school, help the family, or “even move around freely as a woman”. They spent 5 years in Egypt, living in poverty, before coming to Australia, when Huda was 10.

She writes of her mother’s telling her this was her chance to be what she wanted to be, and she was determined to take it. But, school wasn’t easy:

In school, I wasn’t good at English at all. Writing was just not my subject. But I had a very, very good teacher in Grade 7. She was the one who motivated me to master verbal language. She also asked me to do the graduation speech. It was the first time I was properly on stage. I thought I was going to throw up. I don’t even remember what I said, but I got a standing ovation from everyone.

After school, she started a nursing degree, but also started attending events. It was here that she saw/heard/met a poet named Anisa Nandaula, who encouraged her to do an open mic. She writes of the impact of the experience of doing open mics:

That was a time in my life when I didn’t know who I was outside of being smart and being a good oldest daughter, a good refugee. It was the first time it wasn’t about how good I was. It was about how I made people feel. I wanted to make people feel better – that was now my objective.

She must have been “good” because in 2021 she won the Australian Poetry Slam. She describes herself as “an improvised poet”, meaning she makes up her poems on stage. They are “not pre-written, edited” works. What she does is “deeply spiritual … deeply ancestral”. She talks about her activism as things she’s “had to do”, because, for her, “activists are not birthed out of choice … [but] … out of urgency … out of care … out of obligation”.

She wants to speak for her country and advocate for the youth. Refugees, she points out, do not need to be saved. Indeed, “sometimes they just need people to get the hell out of their way so they can rebuild countries that were taken from them”. She ends on this:

I am here for every Black girl who does not get to dream out loud. I have to stay in the room so that, when they step through the door, there is another Black face waiting for them.

That of course is the critical thing – for there to be role models, for us all to see people like us on the stage, in print, on TV, in art, and so on.

She will perform at Australia for UNHCR’s World Refugee Day lunch, Sydney, Thursday 19 June 2025. Click here for more info.

In the meantime, here she is on a UNHCR-published YouTube – and doing a TedX talk/improvisation a few months ago:

Art has been my greatest gift.
It is my greatest privilege.
It is my greatest weapon.

Have you either heard, or heard of, Huda the Goddess?

PS Oops, this is late. I scheduled it and then forgot to press the green button!

Author Talk: Twist with Colum McCann

Like the recent Canberra Writers Festival author talk we attended with Helen Garner, last night’s event featuring Irish-born writer Colum McCann was a full-house. I have been wanting to read McCann for some time, but I hadn’t realised just how big a following he has.

The evening opened with a welcome and acknowledgement of country from Marie-Louise Ayres, Director-General of the National Library, who then introduced the participants:

  • Colum McCann: multi-award winning author of eight novels, three short story collections, and two works of non-fiction, and President and co-founder of the non-profit global story exchange organisation, Narrative 4.
  • Nicole Abadee: writer, editor, podcaster, literary awards judge, and facilitator at writers’ festivals and other literary events.

The conversation

This was a conversation which went to the heart of how I perceive the world (if that doesn’t sound too grandiose), a way that is both optimistic but realistic, that simultaneously encompasses opposing truths. It also interested Mr Gums whose professional training was in telecommunications engineering. Interested? Then read on …

Nicole started by fleshing out Marie-Louise’s introduction of Colum. Yes, he was born in Dublin, but he has lived in New York City for over 20 years. She named two of his books that particularly interested her – Let the great world spin, which draws from Philippe Petit’s 1974 tightrope walk across the Twin Towers, and Apeirogon, which was inspired by the real-life friendship between Israeli Rami Elhanan, whose daughter was killed in a Hamas suicide bomb attack, and Palestinian Bassam Aramin, whose daughter was shot by an Israeli border guard. (This reminded me of Izzeldin Abuelaish’s memoir I shall not hate.) She described his newest novel, Twist, as “enigmatic and urgent”.

On storytelling

Nicole then added one more bit to Colum’s biography, the fact that in 1986, when he was 21, he cycled across the US from east to west, which is where, he has said, he learnt to listen. I have to add here that only a few years earlier, in 1982, my brother rode his bike across the US, but from west to east. Anyhow, Nicole used this additional piece of biography to lead into her first question: was this where he first learnt the value of storytelling?

Maybe, replied Colum, but it could have been at school, when he was 8. He praised teachers (and librarians) for being, with their promotion of books and reading, at the “frontline of democracy”. Also, his father was a journalist who encouraged writing and writers, including women writers like Edna O’Brien. (He told some delightful stories about his dad.)

But yes, the cycle ride was part of it. People would give him their story, and expect him to pass those stories on. This point led to a discussion of Narrative 4, and its Story Exchange Program, which he describes as “an act of radical empathy”. Its foundational concept is

“To step into the shoes of others in order to be able to step back into our own“.

It involves pairing two very different people, who share their own stories with each other, and then retell the other’s story as if it were their own. When kids do this, they are initially terrified of each other, but soon discover how similar they are, and “the barriers come tumbling down”. He asked the audience to try it then and there, and the buzz in the theatre was exhilarating.

On what Twist is about

The plot centres on the repair and sabotage of underwater cables. His inspiration was a story he read during COVID about the Léon Thévenin, a cable repair ship going out to fix Africa’s broken internet. A ship, he thought, isn’t the internet out there in the air? This inspired him to learn how the internet works. Everything we know is in those submarine cables/tubes but they are going to places we don’t know. He saw this story as a metaphor for, among other things, the idea that everything is both connected and disconnected.

These cables/tubes, which are owned by Google, Meta, Apple, etc, can be seen as digital colonialism. The tubes carry the data as light, which is both magical and biblical but also terrifying. More paradox.

From the reality perspective, these tubes are very easily damaged, and security (obvious to anyone’s eye) is “unbelievably slack”. It has, in fact, been suggested that the next major war will start under water. (Mr Gums whispered to me that China has announced that it has a cable-cutting ship.) Colum talked a little more about the very real risks and dangers involved here. We are talking about government – hospitals, education, and so on – about our lives which are tied to information and disinformation. This can be hard to write about, but he found it easy to write about in a novel. He used the tone of The Great Gatsby, and also referenced Heart of darkness. Twist has many illusions and allusions!

Colum then read p. 49 at Nicole’s request … a beautiful, rhythmic passage that sets the scene.

On Twist’s characters

Nicole suggested that the characters are also broken and need to be repaired. (All part of the metaphor.) Colum clarified straight off that his protagonist, Andrew Fennell, is not he. Fennell is a journalist in his mid-40s, and a failed novelist who thinks this story will be easy and may solve “his own ruptured cable”. He meets the boat’s Chief of Mission, John Conway (an allusion to Conrad, and with initials that carry other allusions!) They are all men, and are all at sea – literally and figuratively.

Somehow, Colum managed, throughout the conversation, to slip almost seamlessly between light and dark, without dragging us down. He believes we live “in fairly shattered times”, but admits we could point to many “end-times”: the pandemic (which is when he wrote this 2019-set novel), 9/11 (he was living in New York at the time), post WW2 and the fear of nuclear war, and more. BUT he sees now as different because it’s all moving so quickly we can’t easily repair it. He identified climate and global migration as two big issues.

However, he’s an optimist, so he believes repair is possible. He pointed to what Greta Thunberg achieved by standing up. She has done magical things, but it’s not enough. We need more voices like hers.

On The Great Gatsby parallels

Nicole was keen to explore the parallels with The Great Gatsby, but although that novel frames this one, Colum didn’t want to focus on that. He sees Heart of darkness as the more obvious literary parallel. The tubes, he says, follow old colonial routes, and suggest corporate or digital colonialism.

He then talked about writers and readers. The big secret about writers is that “we don’t know what we are doing”. Books are never completed until they are in the hands of readers who tell back what a book is about. As for whether his book contains truths, truth, he said, is the music in the background.

Returning to the overall connection-disconnection metaphor, he said we have never been more connected yet so alone. This is particularly acute for young people. The machine is not the problem, but our relationship to the machine. And here came the paradoxes again. Technology is also good. How do we hold these contradictory ideas. He alluded to Dickens – it’s the best of times and the worst of times (and can be “incredibly crushing”). How do we support our young people? Through education, books, parents.

These are big problems, but not insurmountable. This is where storytelling comes in, as used at Narrative 4. We are in real danger of losing books but we still have stories.

On writing and politics, as activism, as disruption

Colum recognises that writing doesn’t have to be political, but for him it is. It’s about disrupting conventional thinking. When asked what he wanted to disrupt with this book, he responded, “I don’t know”, and added that this was a “good answer”. He wished more people would say they don’t know.

This led to the idea of the “ethical imagination”, which includes being conscious about intruding on others’ stories. Cultural appropriation is completely valid, but you enter another’s story or domain “with head bowed” and come out again to do justice to the story. There’s cultural appropriation and cultural celebration: two opposing truths. How do we live with the messiness between two endpoints, which in themselves are absolutes and problematic. He was saying, as I understand it, that life/truth/ethics lie in managing the messiness between the endpoints. This thinking – this way of understanding our lives – greatly appeals to me.

Q & A

On Nabokov’s statement that “imagination is the purest form of insubordination”:

Colum liked this idea. Messy is where decency is, but America is not recognising the messiness. “Multitudinous is good”, but currently in the USA there’s denial that you can be (embrace) multitudes. Art needs to say life is complicated.

On whether fact and truth are the same thing: Colum illustrated this with a story about Apocalypse now, that he references in the novel. He described a scene from the film and behind-the-scenes of that scene. It demonstrated “two clear realities”. The filmed scene (the fictional reality, or invented scene) is what we all see and remember, while the real events that happened on set has got lost in the haze. This was a more sophisticated answer than I would have given. I like its refusal to be simple. He added that “facts are mercenary things”, things that are “used”, and don’t necessarily get to the truths.

Conclusion

Andra Putnis, the new Artistic Director of the Canberra Writers Festival, closed the session.

A big thanks to local author Karen Viggers for passing on her ticket to me when she realised she would be out of town – in Bhutan, in fact! I am so glad I attended this conversation.

Author Talk: Twist with Colum McCann
With Nicole Abadee
National Library of Australia, in partnership with the Canberra Writers Festival
Friday 9 May 2025

Monday musings on Australian literature: Stella Prize Shortlist 2025

I missed reporting on the Stella Prize shortlist when it was announced in April, which is unusual for me, but it was a busy time and I just didn’t get to it. It was well reported at the time, so I’m sure those who wanted to know didn’t miss the news.

Consequently, my aim here is not so much to share the shortlist – though I do want a record for my blog – but to value-add by sharing some resources that are available which might help those who are interested in checking out or reading the shortlist.

I’ll start, though, with the shortlist – for the record:

  • Jumaana Abdu, Translations (fiction, kimbofo’s review)
  • Melanie Cheng, The burrow (fiction, my review)
  • Santilla Chingaipe, Black convicts: How slavery shaped Australia (non-fiction/history)
  • Michelle de Kretser, Theory & practice (fiction, review coming soon but here is kimbofo’s review)
  • Amy McQuire, Black witness: The power of Indigenous media (non-fiction/essays)
  • Samah Sabawi, Cactus pear for my beloved: A family story from Gaza (memoir/non-fiction)

As Judging panel chair, Astrid Edwards, pointed out, this is the first time that all Stella shortlistees are women of colour:

“This year’s shortlist is consequential for Australian literary history, as it is the first time the Stella Shortlist features only women of colour. Now in its 13th year, these works showcase an incredible command of craft and understanding of our uncertain time. These works are riveting, and they stood out to the judging panel for their integrity, compassion and fearlessness.” 

The winner will be announced at 5pm on 23 May, at the Sydney Writers’ Festival, and will be live-streamed for those of us unable to attend.

Now, here are the value-adds:

  • Shortlist Films: Created by Stella, these short films feature actors presenting extracts from each of the six shortlisted books: Susie Youssef on Cactus pear for my beloved, Tiana Hogben on The burrow, Chika Ikogwe on Black convicts, Salme Geransar on Translations, Ella Ferris on Black witness, and Michelle Perera on Theory & practice.
  • Reading Guide: The ABC’s Kate Evans (The Bookshelf), Claire Nichols (The Book Show), Daniel Browning, Nicola Heath, Anna Kelsey-Sugg, and Declan Fry have put together a Reading Guide for the six shortlisted books. It briefly introduces the Stella, and then provides an overview of each book, along with links to some other content, such as a discussion about it on an ABC program.

However, Stella has created, for each shortlisted book, an almost one-stop-shop page that includes the judges’ comments, the short film, review excerpts with links to the full review, other av content where available such as from the ABC, and podcasts): Juumana Abdu’s Translations, Melanie Cheng’s The burrow, Santilla Chingaipe’s Black convicts, Michelle de Kretser’s Theory & practice, Amy McQuire’s Black witness, and Samah Sabawi’s Cactus pear for my beloved.

A related value-add: Early last year I wrote a Monday Musings on the Stella Book of the Month. Only three had been nominated at the time, but by the end of 2024 they had named ten (here). It looks like they may not be continuing the initiative this year.

Anyhow, I’d love to know if you are reading any of the shortlist, and/or your thoughts on the list.

Six degrees of separation, FROM Rapture TO …

Well, unusually, this Six Degrees crept up on me! So, it will be a quick one as it’s election day here in Australia, and I have things to do, places to be, and events to watch. Now, let’s just get going … but first, if you don’t know how the #SixDegrees meme works, please check Kate’s blog – booksaremyfavouriteandbest.

The first rule is that Kate sets our starting book. This month again, it’s a book I would like to read, Emily Maguire’s latest novel, Rapture, a work of historical fiction inspired by the Pope Joan myth. I have attended conversations about this book (here and here), and I have given it away as a gift, but I’ve not yet read it.

There are so many ways in which I could link this book, but I’m going to take the easy route and link it to the book it was featured with in the second conversation I attended, Charlotte Wood’s Stone Yard devotional (my review). The session was titled “get thee to a nunnery”, and referenced the fact that both books are set in religious communities.

My next link is another sort of setting, a geographical place. Both Charlotte Wood’s novel, and the one I am linking to, Nigel Featherstone’s My heart is a little wild thing (my review) are set on the Monaro just south of where I live – a dry and rocky but also golden with vast skies. It’s also about a protagonist who needs to get away to resolve some inner turmoil.

My next is a strange link, but I’m going to do it! A novel that deals a lot with inner turmoil is Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park though I don’t focus heavily on that in my post (my third volume post). However, Fanny Price spends much of her time observing and thinking about the values and behaviours going on around her. Her turmoil is not so much a modern questioning of herself, as of finding a way to be in a world where she is an outsider and of coping with a love that she thinks may never be returned.

Hmm, I’ve just realised that while my main link was interior, Mansfield Park is also a place – an estate in fact. My next link is to another place which is an estate, Steven Conte’s The Tolstoy Estate (my review), which is set in late 1941, and tells of a German army medical unit which established and ran a hospital in Yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy’s estate, near Tula, south of Moscow. 

Cover for Amor Towles A gentleman in Moscow

When you are on a good thing stick to it, so my next link is also on place, Moscow, and that most enjoyable (though controversial in my reading group) novel, Amor Towles’ A gentleman in Moscow (my review). It is a warm-hearted novel set in a grand hotel, the Metropole, and tells of an aristocrat who is confined there for decades by the reigning communist revolutionaries. How does he survive?

Eva Hornung, Dogboy

I could link to Dominic Smith’s The electric hotel, but I’ve done that segue before, so where to next? I think we’ll stay in Moscow, and go to Eva Hornung’s Dog boy (my review) about a 4-year-old feral (or wild) child who, having been left alone in a Moscow apartment for days, sets out on his own and is adopted by a dog, Mamochka. The novel tells of his life with the dogs and what happens when, four years later, he is found by two scientists/doctors working in a children’s rehabilitation centre. In a way, there’s a second link with Towles’ novel because our young boy, like Towles’ gentleman, lives a confined life for much of the book.

And you know, there could be a link back to Rapture, because there we have a woman living as a man, while in Hornung we have a boy living, essentially, as a dog. Do you buy that link? Anyhow, three of my six books are by men; and four are by Australian writers. I have focused heavily on place in my links, but many of the books are also about protagonists living in extremis in one way or another.

And, have you read Rapture and, regardless, what would you link to?

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park (Vol. 3)

Mansfield Park book covers
Mansfield Park book covers

A year ago, my Jane Austen group did a slow read of Mansfield Park, meaning we read and discussed it, one volume at a time, over three months. I posted my thoughts on volume 1 (chapters 1 to 30), and volume 2 (chapters 19 to 31), but I missed the third meeting, and never wrote up the final volume (chapters 32 to 48). However, this year my reading group scheduled Mansfield Park for our Classic read, so I’m taking the opportunity to share my thoughts on that last volume.

But first, a brief intro. The reading group member who recommended we read Mansfield Park did so because she wanted to see whether she would better like this, her least favourite Austen, on another read. She didn’t. I understand this. Mansfield Park is regularly identified as Austen’s hardest book to like. It feels prudish to modern eyes; its protagonist Fanny isn’t exciting nor is her romance; and it is more serious and certainly less sparkling than its predecessor, Pride and prejudice. Re this latter point, Jane Austen collected opinions on the novel from friends, family and others, and reported that one Mrs Bramstone “preferred it to either of the others — but imagined that might be her want of Taste — as she does not understand Wit.”

Now, my thoughts …

Volume 3 starts the day after Fanny has rejected Henry Crawford’s proposal. As someone in my reading group said, all the novel’s action takes place in the final chapters, and I mostly agree, although significant events do take place in the previous volumes, including the visit to Sotherton and the plan to put on the play, Lovers vows.

I wrote in my first two posts that what was striking me most was the selfishness, or self-centredness, of most of the characters. It suggested to me that Austen was critiquing the selfishness/self-centredness of the well-to-do, and how this results in poor behaviour, carelessness of the needs of others, and for some, in immoral behaviour. (I think we could equate these ideas with today’s concerns about “entitlement”.) This thread continued in volume 3. Indeed, here is where it all comes home to roost, confirming my sense that Mansfield Park is fundamentally about morality.

Fanny is clearly the novel’s moral centre. She quietly observes, and reflects on, what goes on around her. As one of my reading group members said, it is through her eyes, her thoughts, that we see the novel’s world. In the first chapter of volume 3, Sir Thomas speaks to Fanny about Henry’s proposal, explaining why she should accept him. Henry is

a young man … with everything to recommend him: not merely situation in life, fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness, with address and conversation pleasing to everybody.

Then he adds pressure. She owes Henry gratitude for his role in obtaining advancement for her brother in the navy, and marrying Henry is her duty to her family as such a marriage can only help them. Sir Thomas is therefore perplexed and shocked at Fanny’s ongoing refusal – despite these persuasions – to consider Henry. He asks:

“Have you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford’s temper?”
“No, sir.”
She longed to add, “But of his principles I have” …

However, she feels that to tell Sir Thomas of her observations of Henry’s unprincipled behaviour towards Julia and the engaged Maria would betray them – so, she’s caught and says nothing. She hoped Sir Thomas – “so discerning, so honourable, so good” – would accept her “dislike” as sufficient reason. Unfortunately, not only can he not accept it, but he accuses her of wilfulness and ingratitude. It’s mortifying.

To his credit, however, Sir Thomas backs off, planning to let nature take its course, and, with a little judicious encouragement from the sidelines, he believes Henry will win her round. So Henry continues to press his suit, and Fanny continues to hold steady, reflecting at one point on “his want of delicacy and regard for others”. A few chapters on, Mary Crawford also presses her brother’s suit, but Fanny – she who is called wimpy by many modern readers – pushes back, telling Mary,

I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford amused himself in gallantries which did mean nothing.

While Fanny is coping with this, Edmund is moving forward with his plans to win Mary Crawford’s hand, despite her rather telling hatred of his chosen profession as a clergyman. Fanny – not altogether disinterested it has to be admitted – had observed Mary’s poor values, but it takes Edmund a long time to see her for what she is, for her lack of “principle”, her “blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind”. Edmund is convinced that Mary had been corrupted by the influence of others. He talks of “how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier” (instead of those poor influences she had in London. City versus country values is another thread running through this novel.)

I could expand more on this selfishness-leading-to-poor-behaviour-or-immorality theme because examples abound in the volume, but my aim here is to just share some ideas. And, I want to share another one…

I also mentioned another developing theme in my post on volume 1, the education of Sir Thomas. Interestingly, this is related to something I am observing in my current slow read of Austen’s next novel Emma, that of the quality of guidance given to young people and what happens when that guidance is faulty, misguided and/or not grounded in good moral teaching. It’s not a new theme for Austen, as you can see in Edmund’s comments above about Mary Crawford. But, it’s Sir Thomas’s learnings as one of those who does the guiding that I want to focus on.

Like many of Austen’s characters, in fact, Sir Thomas engenders a variety of reactions from readers. Some see him as harsh and uncompromising. It’s easy to argue this when you see the way his children – and niece – fear him. But others, and I am one, see him as a father trying to bring up his children as best he can, with little help from the indolent Lady Bertram. Fanny, our moral centre, talks of his “parental solicitude”. We see hints of his kindness in volumes 1 and 2, but it is in volume 3 that we see what he is really made of. He’s a man of his times, of course, but one who had his children’s best interests at heart and who realised too late that his raising of them had been misguided.

Now, before I continue, I want to make a little comment about style and structure. For most of the book, though there are departures, we are in Fanny’s head, seeing what she sees, thinking what she thinks, but in the book’s final chapter, Austen breaks the fourth wall and talks to us directly. It opens with a favourite quote:

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

“I quit”, she says, drawing attention to the fact that she is telling us a story, and she continues this way:

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything…

The rest of the chapter wraps up the novel and her characters. She devotes a few pages to “poor Sir Thomas”, telling us that he “was the longest to suffer” due to “the anguish arising from the conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters”. He reflected on the negative impact on Maria and Julia of the “totally opposite treatment” they had lived under

where the excessive indulgence and flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own severity. […]

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan of education. Something must have been wanting within, or time would have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth, could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any lips that could profit them.

Just look at those last few sentences … there, I think, is Austen’s driver for this novel. Maria and Julia had been allowed to focus on “elegance and accomplishments” with no attention paid to “the moral effect on the mind”. Mary Crawford is similarly misguided.

Jane Austen, as we know, could be witty and acerbic with the best of them, but in this most serious novel of hers she may have shared the moral and social values dearest to her heart.

Thoughts?