It is some time since I wrote about the ALS Gold Medal. This is not because I don’t think it’s interesting or worthwhile, but because there are so many awards, and I just don’t have the time to write up announcements for every award made each year. So, I pick and choose a bit, and this year’s ALS Gold Medal winner is – well, you’ll see … but first, a quick recap on the award.
As I wrote in my first post on the medal, it was established in 1928 by the Australian Literary Society (ALS) – hence its name – but this society was incorporated in 1982 into the Association for the Study of Australian Literature (ASAL), and it is this organisation that now makes the award. The Gold Medal is awarded to “an outstanding literary work in the preceding calendar year”. Note that it is for a “literary work”, which means it can be fiction, poetry, memoir, biography, and so on. It is Australia’s longest-standing literary award, but there is no money attached to it, just a gold medal. This is a shame for the writers, but it is nonetheless an award that is well worth having.
The shortlist for this year’s award was:
Jordie Albiston, Frank (documentary poetry)
Stuart Barnes, Like to the lark (poetry)
Katherine Brabon, Body friend (novel)
J. M. Coetzee, The Pole and other stories (short story collection)
Omar Sakr, Non-essential work (poetry)
Sara M. Saleh, The flirtation of girls/Ghazal el-Banat (poetry)
Alexis Wright, Praiseworthy (novel)
And the winner, announced on July 8, is
Alexis Wright’s Praiseworthy
How apposite for Wright’s win to be announced in NAIDOC Week. This is the third time that Wright has won the medal. Books+Publishing, announcing this award, says that over the life of the award only two other writers have won it three times, and they are Patrick White and David Malouf. Those of you who read my Monday Musings post this week may remember that I observed that Alexis Wright and Melissa Lucashenko are the only writers who have won the Stella Prize three times. This woman, this First Nations writer, really is something, and I need to catch up my reading of her.
For the record, Praiseworthy has, so far, won the ALS Gold Medal (2024), the Stella Prize (2024), the Queensland Literary Award for fiction (2023), and the James Tait Black Memorial Prize (2023). It has also been shortlisted for the Miles Franklin Literary Award (2024).
This year’s judges for the medal were Elizabeth McMahon (academic and literary critic), Ali Alizadeh (literary writer and theorist), and Ann Vickery (poet and feminist scholar). According to Books+Publishing, the judges described Praiseworthy as “a novel for and of our time… hilarious, furious, poetical and painful”.
(BTW I haven’t read any of this year’s shortlist, but I have read two of last year’s including the winner, Debra Dank’s We come with this place).
Yesterday was the start of NAIDOC Week 2024. As has been my practice since 2013, I’m devoting this week’s Monday Musings to the cause.
NAIDOC Week’s theme this year is Keep the Fire Burning! Blak, Loud and Proud. Without specifically stating it, this theme responds, I’m sure, to the devastating loss of the Voice referendum last year. As the website says, it “celebrates the unyielding spirit of our communities and invites all to stand in solidarity, amplifying the voices that have long been silenced”. They say more, but I’ll just share two other points. One is that “the fire represents the enduring strength and vitality of Indigenous cultures, passed down through generations despite the challenges faced”, and the other is that
Through our collective efforts, we can forge a future where the stories, traditions, and achievements of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities are cherished and celebrated, enriching the fabric of the nation with the oldest living culture in the world.
For this year’s NAIDOC Week Monday Musings, I thought I’d pick up the point about cherishing and celebrating the stories of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities. This is simplistic, I know, but one way in which stories are celebrated is through awards – particularly through being short- or long-listed, or winning them. One award which has actively sought to embrace diversity in its foundational purpose is the Stella. Yes, that diversity is limited to “women and non-binary writers”. Nonetheless, the achievements have been significant in encouraging and raising the profile of many writers who may not have been seen otherwise.
So, with 17 years of the prize now in the bag and in the spirit of celebrating their achievement, I am listing all those works by First Nations writers which have featured in the Stellas over that time. This might also give them another little time in the air.
Some comments. There are 20 listed books (if I’ve got them all) out of 204. Of these there have been two winners – Alexis Wright’s Tracker and Evelyn Araluen’s Dropbear – seven shortlists, and 11 longlists. Alexis Wright and Melissa Lucashenko are the most listed authors – out of all authors – through the history of the prize to date. The listed books include novels, poetry and nonfiction.
Certain publishers appear frequently, particularly UQP which has an excellent – and long record – for supporting and publishing First Nations Writers. Eight of the listed books come from them. First Nations publisher, Magabala, has three, and Giramondo which publishes Alexis Wright also has three. Hachette has published two, with Simon & Schuster (which is behind the new First Nations imprint Bundyi I wrote about last week), Allen & Unwin, Penguin Random House and Echo, each having one. It’s healthy to see a spread, but it’s also great to see serious support being reflected here.
You will also see that almost every book has been reviewed by a litblogger. Some have been reviewed more than once, but I’ve just chosen one to share here. I hope that my posting this list will remind us all of some good books out there, and whet our appetites to check out First Nations writing.
Click here for my previous NAIDOC Week-related Monday Musings.
Another month, another Six Degrees. This is the only meme I do as a regular thing, and sometimes I wonder why I do it. It is fun to think about how to link books, so it’s always exciting to see what book Kate has chosen next. But, is it more than fun? Does it result in our choosing to read books we hadn’t considered before? Is its main value in keeping us connected? Are there other benefits or impacts? Any thoughts?
While you ponder that, I’ll just get on with it … if you don’t know how the #SixDegrees meme works, please check host Kate’s blog – booksaremyfavouriteandbest.
The first rule is that Kate sets our starting book. For this month she set the 2024 winner of the International Booker Prize, Jenny Erpenbeck’s Kairos (translated by Michael Hofmann). It is described at GoodReads as “a complicated love story set amidst swirling, cataclysmic events as the GDR collapses and an old world evaporates”. I’d like to read this one but suffice it to say I haven’t, to date.
I considered choosing another book set in or about the GDR, but I ended up choosing another translated German writer, without specific relevance to the GDR. My link is W.G. Sebald’s Austerlitz (my review), translated by Anthea Bell. If you know Sebald, you will know that this is no ordinary novel, but very broadly its central, titular character is a man who, traumatised by being a kindertransport refugee from Czechoslovakia in 1939, tries to recover his memory and his life some 50 years later.
My next link is to a book in which the protagonist translates Austerlitz, among other books, because translating great books is her hobby, her passion. The book is Rabih Alameddine’s An unnecessary woman (my review). My reading group read this novel, and we did a straw poll on which of the books the protgonist writes about we’d most like to read. There were several, but Austerlitz was the winner. An unnecessary woman is a beautiful book about readers and reading.
A very different reader is Alan Bennett’s in his novel The uncommon reader (my review). The reader is Queen Elizabeth II, and in his story she discovers reading through a mobile library that visits the palace grounds. In my post, I wrote that Bennett cheekily suggests what the impact might be on her family, staff and the politicians around her when reading becomes not only something she wants to do all the time (instead of her work) but also results in her starting to think and question. A whimsical but not unserious book about readers and reading.
It’s no accident that Alan Bennett’s Queen discovers books through a library. Bennett is surely making a statement there too. A book which the librarians in my reading group loved for its love and promotion of libraries is Anthony Doerr’s Cloud Cuckoo Land (my review). Among other things, this novel is about the role played by librarians in fostering knowledge and reading. Doerr’s Dedication is “For the librarians then, now, and in the years to come”.
I cannot resist staying with the libraries and librarian theme. A character in Doerr’s book speaks of how endangered books are, “They die in fires or floods or in the mouths of worms or at the whims of tyrants. If they are not safeguarded, they go out of the world.” Librarians and readers safeguard books, and this is exactly what is happening in the first story in Rebecca Campbell’s dystopian book, Arboreality (my review). A librarian and university researcher are fighting desperately against time to save books which are being destroyed by climate-change induced floods and fires.
Besides its interest in books, Arboreality is – obviously – about trees. It features many trees, but one species provides a linking thread between the stories, the Golden Arbutus. A very different tree but an equally significant one in terms of the book is the greengage tree in Shokoofeh Azar’s The enlightenment of the greengage tree(my review), translated by Adrien Kijek (pseudonym). It is on top of this tree that the character Roza attains enlightenment. Coincidentally, in this Iran-set politically-driven novel, a library is burnt.
This chain has taken us around the world – but, unusually for me, not to Australia – and through time, from centuries past and into the future. Also unusually for me, four of my six writers are male. Finally, I’d like to draw your attention to a neat circle – my closing book, like the book that starts this month’s meme, is translated.
Now, the usual: have you read Kairos and, regardless, what would you link to?
It’s some time since I wrote a Delicious Descriptions post, but I want to explore Charlotte Wood’s novel Stone Yard devotional (my review) just a little more. Although I finished it over a week ago, I keep thinking about its evocation of quiet lives in retreat – and what Wood might be saying.
I am, admittedly, a woman of “a certain age”, but, nonetheless, I am surprised to find that where once I loved filling my life with noise and action, I am now enjoying quiet. By noise and action, I don’t mean energetic activity – I’ve never minded being sedentary – but I mean I have never actively chosen quietness. Recently, however, this has changed. Now when Mr Gums and I drive long distances, for example, we often drive in silence – no music, no audiobooks, podcasts or radio programs, just silence. And, I like it.
It is this silence that Wood’s unnamed narrator in Stone Yard devotional seeks, and Wood writes about it in a way that not only makes it meaningful in terms of why we might seek it, but that is calming to read.
It starts the afternoon our narrator arrives at the abbey. “The silence is so thick,” she writes, “it makes me feel wealthy”. What an idea that is, “the silence is so thick it makes me feel wealthy”. A couple of paragraphs later, she explains that the abbey’s welcome booklet says they “accept that guests might want total solitude”. “Noise is discouraged”, and guests “are free to decline joining others for eating or worship”. She “cannot think of a greater act of kindness than to offer such privacy to a stranger”.
A couple of pages after this, and despite not being required to join in, our narrator decides to go to Lauds in the little church, and finds herself wondering how they get anything done with all this toddling into church every couple of hours. But then she realises that this “is the work. This is the doing”. She finds herself “drenched in a weird tranquility” and she wonders whether this has come from
being somewhere so quiet; a place entirely dedicated to silence. In the contemporary world, this kind of stillness feels radical, illicit.
Such silence, however, while appealing in theory, is not as simple as it sounds. She talks about the Lectio Divina, which Wikipedia describes as a traditional monastic practice comprising “four separate steps: read; meditate; pray; contemplate”. This is a step too far for our narrator at this point in her journey, and she finds herself arguing internally with what she is seeing, but
Despite this, the process is strangely beautiful. Sister Bonaventure says getting caught on a word is the point, and if you remain troubled or confused by it, you just ‘hand it over to God’. This is so antithetical to everything I have believed (knowledge is power, question everything, take responsibility) that it feels almost wicked. The astonishing – suspect – simplicity of just . . . handing it over.
The narrator is an atheist and the novel is not about religion per se, so she comprehends this concept more broadly in the sense of letting the things that bother you just sit, instead of endlessly turning them over.
This brings me to the idea I shared in my post on the novel, that of
waiting. An incomplete, unhurried emergence of understanding, sitting with questions that are sometimes never answered.
Thoughts about stillness, silence, solitude, and contemplation, freedom and peace, form the backbone of this novel, but they are tested by the visitations or “visitants”. They are also specifically tested by the idea of an active life. Sister Helen Parry distances herself from the abbey’s inhabitants, getting on with her activist work via “internet video calls … calling for action on this or that”. She brings, says the narrator, “everything we so painstakingly left behind”. Local farmer Richard Gittens’ wife, Annette, views life at the abbey as “sick … unnatural”.
And yet … (indeed, Elie Wiesel’s “and yet” is the narrator’s favourite phrase) … the end, when it comes, seems to suggest that there is a place for all. And that, maybe, there is no either-or, but what is right for us at different points in time. A gift of a book for anyone interested in thinking about how to live in our noisy, troubled and troubling world.
Charlotte Wood, Stone Yard devotional, Crows Nest, Allen & Unwin, 2024
Next week will be NAIDOC Week – with this year’s theme being “Keep the Fire Burning! Blak, Loud and Proud” – but I am jumping the gun a little with a post on a relevant publishing initiative that was announced earlier this year.
This initiative comes from publisher Simon & Schuster, and is that they have created a new First Nations imprint called Bundyi, which will be curated by Dr Anita Heiss, “a proud Wiradyuri woman and one of Australia’s most prolific and well-known authors”. Simon & Schuster published Heiss’s most recent novel, Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray (my review).
Bundyi is, the website says, a Wiradyuri word meaning “to share with me’” The aim is to “focus on cultivating First Nations talent in the industry by publishing First Nations authors, edited and designed by First Nations people”. Heiss, described as Publisher at Large, will be commissioning both fiction and non-fiction writing. She says that “the only way we will see First Nations people truly sovereign in this space, is to have us as publishers of our own stories”, and makes the point that Simon & Schuster understands “that the responsibility for change in the sector lies with the current mainstream publishers acting as mentors, and eventually moving over to allow us to learn, and to do what Australian publishing has needed for a long time: for us to have control over the way we are represented on the page, and in the national narrative”.
And they have started the way they mean to continue with the Bundyi logo being designed by a 100% Aboriginal-owned company, Iscariot media. The logo, which you can see at the link I’ve provided above, “represents the flow of the three rivers of Wiradyuri country – the Kilari, the Marrambidya and the Wambool – as well as the flow of creativity”.
What can we expect?
S&S’s page, linked above, says that the first titles in the imprint will be published this year, but doesn’t name them. However, in late May, through Canberra’s wonderful Meet The Author convenor, Colin Steele, who is also one of my major sources of literary news, I received a news item from Books+Publishing. It said that Bundyi had “acquired world rights to a new commercial novel by Larissa Behrendt”, and that the book was the result of a brainstorm between Behrendt and her good friend Anita Heiss. It is to be a First Nations take on Pride and prejudice!
Heiss said that “It didn’t take long for us to come up with the idea of Larissa, an Austen aficionado, writing a version of Pride and Prejudice through her lens, as a Euahlayai/Gamilaroi woman”. Behrendt added that “As a long-time friend and admirer of her work, I am beyond excited to be working with Anita on this project. I love Jane Austen, and the idea of translating the characters and story arcs through a First Nations lens is an idea that is close to my heart. Anita has been a trailblazer with new writing, and I am proud to be following in her footsteps.”
That Behrendt is a fan of Austen won’t be news to those who read her novel After story (my review) in which a woman takes her mother on a literary tour of England, so this will be interesting – even to someone like me who is not normally a fan of prequels, sequels and retellings. Behrendt has a seriously impressive cv. Not only is she an award-winning author, but she is a filmmaker and host of the program Speaking Out on ABC Radio, the Distinguished Professor at the Jumbunna Indigenous House of Learning at the University of Technology Sydney, a Fellow of the Academy of Social Sciences of Australia, a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities, a Foundation Fellow of the Australian Academy of Law – and more. We have to wait a bit for her book, though, as it’s not due to be published until 2026.
Meanwhile, Books+Publishing named two books which will be published by Bundyi before Behrendt’s – Stan Grant’s memoir Murriyang and Tasma Walton’s historical fiction novel, I am Nan’nert’garrook. These align with the imprint’s focus as listed on its homepage:
This new imprint is exciting news for all of us interested in First Nations Australian writing. It may not, it seems, be focusing on the edgier end of town, but there is room for all, particularly if we want more Australians to read First Nations writing. If you are interested, I suggest you keep an eye on Bundyi’s homepage for further news. I plan to.
Charlotte Wood’s most recent novel, Stone Yard devotional, is set in the Monaro, a region just south of where I live. It’s a landscape that is much loved by many of us, including Nigel Featherstone, whose My heart is a little wild thing (my review) is also set there. The Monaro is expansive country, a dry, golden-brown plateau, characterised by rocky outcrops here and there, much as the cover shows. There are also hills in the distance, and big skies. Perfect country for contemplation, I’d say, which is exactly what Wood’s unnamed protagonist is doing there. (In fact, it’s also what Featherstone’s protagonist went there to do, for a very different reason – although, coincidentally, both books have something to do with mothers).
Stone Yard devotional is a quiet and warm-hearted read, one that asks its readers to not rush ahead looking for a plot, but to think about the deeper things that confront us all at one time or another. These things are hinted at by the two epigraphs, one being Australian musician Nick Cave’s “I felt chastened by the world”, and the other American writer Elizabeth Hardwick‘s “This is what I have decided to do with my life just now. I will do this work of transformed and even distorted memory and lead this life, the one I am leading today”. Add these to the title – with its hardscrabble sounding “Stone Yard” set against the gentle, inwardness of “devotional” – and you have a sense of the intensity to be found within.
“a place of industry, not recreation”
While this is not a plot-driven novel, there is a definite narrative arc. Taking the form of undated journal entries, the novel covers a period in the life of a middle-aged woman who has left her city life – her husband, her job in threatened species conservation, and her friends – to live in an abbey on the Monaro. It starts with a five-day stay, which is followed by more stays until the time comes when she arrives and doesn’t leave. Why she does this is not explicitly explained but through her contemplations we come to see that there’s unresolved grief in her life over the death of her parents some three decades earlier and, alongside this, a level of existential despair which has built up over time.
This is the set up. The narrative arc comes from three “visitations” to the abbey – a mouse plague which ramps up as the novel progresses, and the celebrity “environmental activist nun” Helen Parry, who accompanies the bones of the murdered Sister Jenny who had left the abbey decades ago to work among poor women in Thailand. These three events, both real and metaphoric in import, present practical and moral challenges, “a rupture” but also “a frisson of change”, for our narrator, and for all at the abbey.
So, we follow Wood’s narrator as she settles into life at the abbey, taking on the role of cooking for the group, and, as their non-religious member, the shopping and other errands that need to be done. Much industry is required to keep the place running when there is no financial help from the church, but the main industry is emotional and spiritual (in its wider meaning). Early on, our narrator recognises that prayer and contemplation “is the work … is the doing”. For her, as an atheist, this is not religious in origin or intent, but nonetheless contemplation is the real work she does while living at the abbey.
Much of this contemplation is invoked by flashbacks to and memories of events from the past, some experienced by her and others that happened around her (like the suicide of a farmer). Many involve her beloved and humane mother, who, like nuns Helen and Jenny, was an “unconventional”, determined to continue along her path despite what others thought. Such contemplation is hard, and our narrator is tested by the “visitations”, particularly Helen Parry with whom she has history involving bullying at school. Our narrator wishes to apologise but, as she comes to see, the hard work is in coming to that point of apology, not in having the apology accepted. But, forgiveness and atonement are only part of the bigger questions posed in this novel. Grief, despair and, ultimately, how to live are also part of its ambit – and are set against the shadow of climate change and its implications for our lives and choices.
This sort of exploration, however, can only work if we like the telling, and I found it thoroughly compelling. Stone Yard devotional is delicious for its details about life in an abbey on the “high, dry, Monaro plains, far from anywhere”, and for its insights into the women living there. No character is fully developed, but each, from the “business-like but soft-looking” leader Sister Simone to the distressed Sister Bonaventure, feels real in the role she’s been given in the narrative. While there’s not a lot of dialogue, our narrator reports on interactions between the women, and these contribute to her contemplations about life. She is not perfect and admits to moments of pettiness and poor judgement in her dealings with her co-habitants. Contrasting this little community is local farmer Richard Gittens, who supports the abbey in many practical ways and who represents, as our narrator recognises, “decency”.
All this is told in spare but expressive writing that maintains a tone which is serious and reflective, but which never becomes bleak.
There is no single, final enlightenment, but rather, as the narrator says earlier in the novel, “an incomplete, unhurried emergence of understanding, [a] sitting with questions that are sometimes never answered”. This is the sort of writing I love to read. In some fundamental way, it reminded me of my favourite Wallace Stegner quote. In Angle of repose, he wrote that “civilisations grow by agreements and accommodations and accretions, not by repudiations”. Through living this life in retreat, Wood’s narrator comes to know herself better. In so doing, she is able to lay some of her demons to rest, not through any major crisis but through quiet contemplation. The abbey does, indeed, turn out to be a “place of refuge, of steadiness. Not agitation”.
Interestingly, and perhaps pointedly, the novel ends on an anecdote about the narrator’s mother and her “reverence for the earth itself”. Ultimately, Wood invites us, without exhortation, to not be “chastened by the world” but to do the hard work of thinking about what is really important. A compassionate, and gently provocative, book.
On Thursday evening, I attended the presentation of the ACT Literary Awards (which I also attended last year when they were called the ACT Notable Book Awards). These awards are made by Marion (the ACT Writers Centre), and this year’s event was MC’d by the CEO Katy Mutton (left) and Board Chair, Emma Batchelor. As last year, the event had a lovely relaxed informality, while still paying real respect to the authors and their works.
The evening opened with a moving (and informative) “rite of passage” offered by local Ngunawal elder, Wally Bell. He explained that granting attendees a “rite of passage” is the correct process – is the one enacted by First Nations Australians across the country when they visit each other’s countries – not the “welcome to country” that we commonly experience at events. We keep learning new things, I’m finding, as different elders talk to us, and it makes these rites or ceremonies increasingly meaningful to us non-Indigenous Australians.
The awards were held, as last year, in the Canberra Contemporary Art Space, which occupies a beautiful building on the edge of Lake Burley Griffin. As our MCs said, when thanking CCAS for its ongoing sponsorship, it is an appropriate venue because there are links between all artists, including the fact that many have interdisciplinary practices. (Other sponsors included Big River Distilling which provided gin for the evening.)
But now, the awards…
Marion notes on the awards webpage, that across all categories they ask judges to consider which entries “stand out in their brilliance” and demonstrate the following:
Literary excellence
Powerful narrative structure
Considered and impactful use of language
They also note that in Children’s literature they received a particularly broad field of entries from picture books through to YA Fiction, so would be awarding winners in both the younger and older reader sections.
It’s worth noting too that Marion accepts self-published entries, in recognition of the fact that this how many writers get started. This year two books were named self-published winners in their categories, and three were highly commended in theirs.
The judges were historian Professor Frank Bongiorno, First Nations author and academic Dr Paul Collis, writer Dan Hogan, children’s writer Krys Saclier, and literary critic/writer/Artistic Director of the Canberra Writers Festival Beejay Silcox.
For full information on the awards, including all the highly commendeds, and judges’ comments, check out Marion’s website.
As I didn’t share the shortlists for these awards, I am listing them, and highlighting the winners in bold.
Poetry
Elanna Herbert, Sifting fire writing coast (Walleah Press)
Paul Hetherington, Sleeplessness (Pierian Springs Press)
Tim Metcalf, The moon the bone: Selected Poems 1986-2022 (Ginninderra Press)
KA Nelson, Meaty bones (Recent Work Press)
Sandra Renew, Apostles of anarchy (Recent Work Press)
Nonfiction
Kristen Alexander, Kriegies: The Australian airmen of Stalag Luft III
RyanCropp, Donald Horne: A life in the Lucky Country (Black Inc.)
Kate Fullagar, Bennelong & Phillip: A history unravelled (Scribner)
Kellie Nissen,What cancer said and what I said back
Fred Smith, The sparrows of Kabul (Puncher & Wattmann)
Angus Trumble, Helena Rubinstein: The Australian years (Black Inc.)
Kristen Alexander won the self-published award for Kriegies. As with many of the categories, there were highly commended awards. One in this category was the late Angus Trumble’s book on Helen Rubenstein. Trumble’s brother, Hamish, accepted the award, and spoke entertainingly about his brother’s obsession with sussing out Helena Rubenstein’s early years in Australia and argued, pointedly, that it was appropriate for this book to be recognised in Canberra, “the city of facts”! He didn’t need to tell us that facts are important.
Children’s
This was a bit confusing, because there were two Children’s shortlists but three winners, so I am listing the two shortlists and noting what each winner was for. Canberra is rich in children’s writers, and there were, Katy Mutton said, a large number of entries in this category.
Shortlist 1:
David Conley, That book about space stuff (Children’s self-published)
Tania McCartney, Wildlife compendium of the World (Hardie Grant) (Children’s nonfiction)
Kathy Weeden, Kim Drane, Phonobet (National Library of Australia)
Rhian Willams, Martina Heiduczek, Surprise at the end of Onkaparinga Lane (Walker Books Australia)
Barbie Robinson, Ian Robertson, Phoenix and Ralph
Shortlist 2:
Jackie French, Danny Snell, The turtle and the flood (HarperCollins Australia) (Children’s picture book)
Gary Lonesborough, We didn’t think it through (Allen & Unwin) (Children’s older readers)
Amelia McInerney, Lucinda Gifford, Neil the amazing sea cucumber (Affirm Press)
Emma Janssen, Strong little platypus
Fiction
J. Ashley Smith, The measure of sorrow: Stories (Meerkat Press)
Elisa Cristallo,The last famine
Emma Grey, The last love note (Penguin Books Australia)
Kylie Needham, Girl in a pink dress (Penguin Books Australia)
The Marion Halligan Award
The Marion Halligan Award honours the life and work of Marion Halligan, who died earlier this year (see my post), and who, Marion’s website says, “captivated readers with her elegant prose and insightful storytelling. She was an enduring force of creativity, intellect, wit, and wisdom”. The aim of this award is to recognise “works that demonstrate uniqueness, literary excellence, and/or surpass genre boundaries”.
The award was introduced by Alex Sloan (who has appeared several times here). She spoke about our much beloved Marion, and then announced the inaugural winner: Paul Hetherington for his poetry book Sleeplessness.
Other awards
Three other awards were made:
The Anne Edgeworth Emerging Writers Award, now in its 11th year, is made to an emerging writer and this year’s was shared between two writers – Jemima Parker and Gill Watson. It is worth up to $5,000 and is used “to advance the recipients’ development in the craft of writing”. The Fellowship is provided annually by the Anne Edgeworth Trust and administered by MARION.
The June Shenfield National Poetry Award for an individual poem was won by Cate Furey for Momentum
The MARION Fellowship to (TBA as I don’t see it on the website and I didn’t record the name)
Canberra (the ACT) is a small jurisdiction, but, as I wrote last year, it has an active, engaged and warm literary community that was once again well in evidence despite the rather chilly evening outside. After all, it is always wonderful to see writers being rewarded/recognised for their hard work – and, yes, writers, and their readers, do also like, sometimes, to party.
The subjects for my Monday Musings sub-series on forgotten Australian writers vary in the degree to which they’ve been forgotten, but those still remembered are only so in niche areas. Today’s subject Lillian Pyke is one of these, in that although no longer well-known, her reputation as a children’s writer has survived somewhat.
Pyke, like my two most recent Forgotten Writers, Marion Simons and Kate Helen Weston, was the subject of one of my posts on the Australian Women Writers (AWW) blog this year. As with these two, I am not including here the piece written by Pyke that I published at AWW. It is a sweet romance titled “Mary’s mother”, which means it’s not in the genre for which she is best known, but it offers an insight into the times while showing how, in some ways, times haven’t changed all that much … check it out at AWW.
Lillian Pyke
Lillian Pyke (1881-1927) was an Australian children’s writer, who also wrote adult novels under the pseudonym of Erica Maxwell. However, the adult short story I published at AWW was published under her real name, Lillian Pyke.
Pyke was born Lillian Maxwell Heath, the tenth child to her English-born parents, on 25 August 1881 at Port Fairy, in Victoria. She went to school in Melbourne, and then worked as a teacher and journalist there until she married Richard Dimond Pyke on 7 April 1906. According to her obituary in The Queenslander, Richard’s brother was W. T. Pyke, manager of Melbourne’s famous Cole’s Book Arcade. The couple moved to Gympie, Queensland, where he worked as an accountant for a railway construction company. (And where I lived for a brief time during my childhood.) They had three children, before he died by suicide in 1914. Pyke then returned to Melbourne where she took up writing again to support her family. In other words, like my previous subject in this series, Kate Helen Weston, she was widowed with young children and also seems to have managed to eke some sort of living from writing.
Pyke appears both in Wikipedia and the Australian dictionary of biography, and Trove searches also produced a few articles about her, so she clearly made some mark on her times. Kingston, in the ADB, says that between 1916 and 1927 she wrote sixteen books that were classified as children’s books, though today they’d probably be classified as Young Adult. She also wrote three novels for adults, as Erica Maxwell. One of these, A wife by proxy (1926), apparently contained Esperanto themes. It was translated into Esperanto, and published in 1930 as Anstataria Edzino. She also wrote A guide to Australian etiquette, edited short story collections, and adapted an Ethel Turner story.
Kingston writes that “most of her stories for both children and adults came out of her experience of Queensland railway construction camps or her involvement in education, and had an improving intention”. A Heath family tree webpage quotes the Oxford Companion to Australian Children’s Stories as saying of her school stories that her “educational ideas… are notably enlightened and ahead of her time”, and that her “novels about railway construction camps in Queensland are realistic insights into the life of construction workers and their families.” It’s worth noting, too, that in the list of her works on this page are three “Cole’s” books.
Contemporary reviewers and columnists were generally positive about her books. The Queenslander wrote (17 November 1923) that her “stories of public school life in Australia are becoming famous” and suggests that perhaps her “best work is in her descriptive novels with a railway construction camp for a back-ground; but there is no doubt her stories of school life in Australia are almost unrivalled”. The same paper, writing a year later (15 November 1924) says her latest novel Brothers of the fleet is set in “those far-off and almost forgotten days of Australia’s beginning” and is her first attempt at an historical novel. They hope that it’s “the beginning of another rich vein of her imagination”.
Pyke died of renal failure at Brighton, Victoria, on 31 August, 1927. Her obituary in Brisbane’s The Telegraph (8 September) provides a biography, and concludes that they understand that one of her latest books, Three bachelor girls, was being filmed. However, I can find no evidence that that eventuated. Launceston’s Examiner (22 October) offers a more effusive obituary, explaining that having been widowed young, she
gallantly took up the pen as a means of livelihood and it was not long before her name was bracketed with those of Ethel Turner and Mary Grant Bruce as the most popular authoress of minor fiction in this part of the world.
Big praise. The Examiner also makes an interesting political point. Having just commented on her having had to work to support her children, it suggests it’s “ironical”
that her death should have occurred just before the first Australian Authors’ Week, which may be the beginnings of better things for those who try to live by the pen out here. In a popularity plebiscite held in connection with this “week” Mrs. Pyke polled remarkably well.
It concludes:
Mrs. Pyke’s work has a rare charm, which is all the more to be appreciated when it is realised that most of her writing was done under great difficulties. She was young always in her outlook, and by no means old in years, and her death at a time when she still had years for development before her is a regrettable loss to Australian literature. She has left a name of which her children can be proud.
Sources
Beverley Kingston, ‘Pyke, Lillian Maxwell (1881–1927)‘, Australian Dictionary of Biography, National Centre of Biography, Australian National University, 2005, accessed online 22 April 2024.
Lillian Pyke, in Wikipedia, accessed 22 April 2024
Eli Funaro’s “The dog pit” is the twelfth of fourteen stories in the anthology, Great short stories by contemporary Native American writers. Like the previous stories by Thomas King and Duane Niatum, it was written in the 1990s.
Eli Funaro
Anthology editor Bob Blaisdell provides very little information about Funaro, and I have to say that I have very little more to add. Blaisdell says that he “seems to hail from Minnesota, where he is a video director” and that his “plain-spoken and shocking story was written for a program at the Institute of American Indian Arts at Santa Fe”. That’s it.
All I’ve found is that someone called Eli Funaro – presumably the same one – is part of a media company called A Tribe Called Geek, which describes itself as
an award-winning media platform for Indigenous Geek Culture and Stem. But we are more than just a media platform. We are a community of intelligent, imaginative, innovative and creative Indigenerds acknowledging and advancing the visibility of our contributions to pop culture and STEM. From indigenous superheroes to Harry Potter and more, our podcasts, website and social media are a celebration of Indigenous Representation and Geekery.
When I tried to enter the “A Tribe Called Geek” website, I got one of those “Not Secure” warnings. While it’s probably OK to proceed, I’m not prepared to take the risk.
So, all I have is a list of 35 articles by Eli Funaro at a site called Muck Rack. Clicking on the articles takes me to that website with its “not secure” warning, and to find out more about Funaro at Muck Rack I have to join, which I’m not going to do. Funaro is not in Wikipedia, and nor is A Tribe Called Geek, but Muck Rack is. It’s a software program that “connects public relation offices and journalist listing on social media”.
What all this says to me is that Funaro seems to be more a journalist than a writer of fiction, and that his affiliation and ongoing interest is Indigenous. His articles – some of which are dated “three months ago” – seem to be mostly reviews, such as of the Wolverine movie, and of Marvel comics. The list provides a brief summary, or the opening sentence, and it’s clear that most reference “Indigenous” issues. For example, on Marvel’s Echo comics, Funaro writes that “of all the Indigenous Heroes appearing in the Marvel Universe, Echo stands out as one of the more unique comic book characters”. Echo – or Maya Lopez – is a Cheyenne woman.
“The dog pit”
“The dog pit” is one of the shortest stories in the anthology. It is told first person in the voice of an eight-year old boy who lives on the “rez” – reservation – where, he tells us, “no garbage trucks … came to pick up your trash”, the implication being that other people had this service. So, Saturday is Garbage Day, and our narrator and his dad’s job is to haul their garbage to the dump.
The story opens with “It was a sunny Saturday, the day that dog died”. A few paragraphs in we are introduced to our boy’s dog Corky, for which his father seems to have little time. “You fed that mutt yesterday” he says, when the boy wants to feed his dog before they head off. But soon they are on their way, along “untitled roads”. Another indication of their second-class status.
The boy finds a pink ball in the glove-box and starts playing with it. However, when his father, having told him he can have it, also tells him he’d taken it from a dead man at the hospital where he works as a janitor, the boy is not so sure he wants it. His father, we are learning, is a practical man. Life is tough and he doesn’t have time for sentiment.
So they get to the dump, with its piles of burning trash and rancid smell, empty their bins, and go through their routine of bleaching their bins before they leave for home. While this is happening, the boy picks up the ball again, only to be told by his dad that the old man who had died holding the ball had probably not been the only person to have died holding it. This makes him anxious; he fears there will be many dead people angry with him if he keeps the ball.
Then we get to the death of the dog mentioned in the opening sentence. It involves the titular dog pit, and is cruel. The boy doesn’t know what to make of it, but doesn’t want his dog to end up there. HIs father, who might be practical, is not hard and says this wouldn’t have to happen. The story concludes with the boy creating his own stories about death with his new Zartan and Stormshadow toys, but also on a sense of a childish ability to put it aside. This is where I come a bit unstuck, because a point is being made in referencing these GI Joe-series figures, but there are cultural nuances that I am not fully across.
On the surface, “The dog pit” is a story about the innocence-versus-experience aspect of youth, on the gradual way we become aware of the darker side of life without taking it all in at once, but there are deeper socioeconomic and sociocultural issues being explored here, ones that Funaro seems to have continued to explore.
It’s not a perfect story. The language doesn’t always stay true to an eight-year-old’s voice, but this is probably the work of a young writer. It works overall, however, because it’s tightly told.
Eli Funaro “The dog pit” (orig. pub. 1994) in Bob Blaisdell (ed.), Great short stories by contemporary Native American writers Garden City: Dover Publications, 2014 pp. 95-99 ISBN: 9780486490953
Sean Doyle’s literary biography, Australia’s trail-blazing first novelist: John Lang, provides insights not only into this “idiosyncratic” man, but into two colonial societies – Australia and India – through the early to mid nineteenth-century. Doyle’s is not the first biography of John Lang, but it’s the first I’ve read.
However, Lang (1816-64) himself is not new to me. In 2018, I reviewed his 1853 novel, The forger’s wife, when it was published by Grattan Street Press in their Colonial Australian Popular Fiction series. But, even that wasn’t my first mention of Lang, as I had written briefly about him in a 2012 Monday Musings on Australia’s “pioneer novelists”. In that post, I wrote that he was born at Parramatta, went to Cambridge in 1838 where he became a barrister, and returned to Sydney in 1841, before leaving again a few years later to live in India and England. All this is covered in excellent detail in Doyle’s biography (with relevant clarifications).
I also noted that, according to (my 1994 edition of) The Oxford companion to Australian literature, “the enigma surrounding the life and personality of John Lang has not, even a century later and in spite of considerable literary research, been completely solved”. It is, however, believed he wrote the fiction work, Legends of Australia, which was anonymously published in 1842. The Oxford companion suggests that authorship of this “would entitle Lang to the distinction of being the first Australian-born novelist”. I added that there is a 2005 biography of Lang by Victor Crittenden, whose title says a lot: John Lang: Australia’s larrikin writer: barrister, novelist, journalist and gentleman. He was a contributor to Charles Dickens’ periodicalHousehold Words. All of this is also covered by Doyle, but with additional research, which confirms some of the information that the Oxford companion writers “believed”.
Sean Doyle opens his book with a Preface which sets his biographer’s ground rules. Arguing that the richness of Lang’s life is in the details, he admits that not only did Lang lack a champion “to carry his flame posthumously”, but that there are few contemporary sources and what does exist is sketchy. No diaries or letters are known to survive. So, the temptation of course is to look to his novels, but, as Doyle cautions, while these can be “a looking-glass into his own life … any correlation requires caution”. His process then was “to assemble the verifiable facts, identify the spaces between them, and navigate the spaces with the firm aim of being true to what we know of his temperament, life and times”. He argues that Lang’s “known actions and ways inform the spaces of the unknown”.
Doyle then moves to his Introduction where he makes a strong argument for why this man deserves this biography, starting with Lang’s being “the first Australian-born novelist”, not with 1853’s The forger’s wife, but with Violet, or the danseuse, which was published in 1836 (and identified as being by Lang in Crittenden’s biography). Doyle names many other firsts, including the first Australian satire (Legends of Australia, 1842), full-length detective-novel in English (The forger’s wife, 1853), Indian travelogue by an Australian (Wanderings in India, 1859), and supernatural tale by an Australian (“Fisher’s ghost”, 1836). Other firsts include making the first translation of a classic (a Roman poem) in New South Wales. These firsts, Doyle admits, were more easily come by in the early days of a colony, but argues this doesn’t diminish the achievement.
“He just couldn’t help being idiosyncratic” (Doyle)
The rest of the book, until the Epilogue, chronicles Lang’s life, in nicely readable detail, through 25 chronological and clearly titled chapters, such as “Chapter 1, Family and Social Background”; “Chapter 11, Calcutta, 1842”; and “Chapter 21, Furlough in the UK (and a Creative Peak) 1852-’54”. In the telling, Doyle conveys much about Lang’s personality and character, which he gleans from the sources he has. These include, for example, newspaper reports of Lang’s “ill-advised” comments on the franchise and representation in New South Wales’s colonial legislature while seconding Wentworth’s motion supporting the idea. This is just one of many occasions in Lang’s life – as documented by Doyle – in which he shoots himself in the foot (as they say!) The end result is a biography that portrays a man – a “currency lad” no less – who had a lot of talent, a lot of heart and a lot to offer but who, more often than not, undercut himself through poor judgment and/or poor timing and/or an inability or refusal to read the times and produce accordingly. Lang wanted to emulate Dickens’ success, but “he just couldn’t help being idiosyncratic” – in his literary, personal and political lives.
Nonetheless, Lang achieved much in his relatively short life of 47 years. He is, argues Doyle, better known in India, than Australia, largely because of his support of Rani of Jhansi during her battles against the East India Company, but also for, as a barrister, winning Sikh Jyoti Prasad’s suit against the Company. Indeed, Doyle’s coverage of Lang in India at the time the Company fell and the British Raj commenced makes good, albeit distressing reading. It’s an ugly history, as we know. Lang also established, in 1845 in Meerut, a newspaper titled The Mofussilite, which documented many of India’s sociopolitical challenges of the time, and was often critical of the Company and the British.
The Epilogue provides a thoughtful summation of Lang’s achievements and significance, particularly in terms of his writing, and of the social, political, literary and personal circumstances that affected who he was and what he achieved. It makes a case for Lang’s place in Australia’s literary history, arguing that
without his balanced depiction of the convict era, the colony’s story is lopsided. This matters: a culture is the sum of the stories it tells itself.
The Epilogue, in fact, is a useful document on its own.
The biography is written in a popular-history style, meaning it has a strong narrative drive, with a liberal use of exclamation marks, some foreshadowing, and, for some chapters, serial-like cliff-hanger endings (which feel appropriate to Lang’s era). Doyle wants to understand Lang’s character and actions, and he pursues this with the gusto of a story-teller but with an eye on the facts and truths as he sees them.
Doyle is clearly keen to get the story of Lang and “his rollicking times” known. His research feels thorough and the characterisation as accurate as he can glean from this research. There are end-notes which cite sources for important points and a list of mainly secondary sources (biographies, histories, articles and websites). At times I would have liked to better understand which gaps were being filled, which thoughts and feelings were guessed rather than known, albeit Doyle heralds some with “maybe”-type markers and recognisable pop-psychology. There is no index, which is a big negative for me in biographies, but I know they are expensive, and the chronological telling will help people hone in on where the persons or events they are researching might be.
I did have questions as I read. What was Lang’s attitude to his wife and children, who left him in India, and whom he apparently never saw again, and where did First Nations people fit in those early colonial days of “big” men and their “progressive” ideas? But these are not necessarily germane to the main story here. Lang’s life is story enough, and Doyle has delved as far as he can.
Australian’s trail-blazing first novelist makes good reading for anyone interested in Australia’s literary history.
Whispering Gums 