Else is not your average climate change novel; it is too rich and strange and visionary. Civilisation is collapsing, though we see very little of that. We follow the exodus of a woman and her teenage daughter from Melbourne to a future Mornington Peninsula over several seasons, across a territory alternately submerged in floods and blasted by fire.

Zadie Smith’s essay collections have an uncanny habit of arriving precisely when the culture shifts. Changing My Mind (2009) appeared as the iPhone began transforming daily life; Feel Free (2018) followed Donald Trump’s first inauguration; Intimations (2020) captured the disorientation of the pandemic’s early months; and now Dead and Alive appears in the wake of Trump’s return to office. Comprising essays written between 2016 and 2025, most of them first published elsewhere, the collection gains an unexpected coherence in retrospect.

There is change. Then there is rate of change, known as velocity. Then there is rate of rate of change, known as acceleration. In physics, the three are distinct; psychologically, however, the distinction is more difficult to conceive. Certainly, this seems the case for Richard King in his latest book, Brave New Wild: in detailing an apparently new techno-political phenomenon called ecomodernism, he seems to confuse an uptick in the rate of technological change for a distinct change in itself, arguing that we are at the start of a paradigm shift.

Writing about her mother, who is a presence in many of the essays in Attention, Anne Enright recalls the two reciting poetry together. Despite her mother steadily declining into dementia, Enright adjudges the lines of poetry, as well as the books her mother continues to read, as bulwarks against the withering of her mind. ‘It seems’, Enright writes, ‘as though her mind is not putting the words together so much as the other way around.’

Considering the number of biographies published about distinguished Australian women in the past few years, we have had to wait a surprisingly long time to read the life story of Quentin Bryce, Australia’s first woman governor-general. Certainly, her achievements merit a full biography: she has been a lifelong advocate for women and children, one of the first women barristers in Queensland, a prominent member of the National Women’s Advisory Council (NWAC), Federal Sex Discrimination Commissioner, CEO of the National Childcare Accreditation Council, principal of the Women’s College at the  University of Sydney, and governor of Queensland. She was not satisfied with carrying out a purely ceremonial role as governor-general either, making comments that suggested she supported an Australian republic and same-sex marriage.

Arts highlights

This issue we present the best arts productions of 2025, as nominated by our critics. Across film, theatre, music, visual art, opera, dance, and television, ABR Arts continues to publish erudite, long-form, professionally edited, and independent arts reviews at a time when space for such work is diminishing across the sector. Thank you to all our critics in 2025 and to our arts readers, an enthusiastic cohort who enliven us with letters, comments, emails, and a staggering number of website hits. There is an appetite for arts criticism in this country. Our critics show that, despite the pressures facing the arts sector, and the controversies that dominated arts journalism in 2025, there remains an appetite for well-constructed and elevating productions.

When was poetry turned on its head? Was it with T.S. Eliot and his nemesis, William Carlos Williams? Or perhaps it was the slow burn from Emily Dickinson. Was it with Walt Whitman that everything changed? Or did the Surrealists manage to kick down the walls? Gertrude Stein, e.e. cummings? Sylvia Plath? Adrienne Rich? Or possibly Frank O’Hara? It is hard to say just when it happened, or exactly what happened (two world wars and two nuclear bombs!), but poetry had its part in the explosive history of the arts this past century, and as a result, it is now a job requirement for each poet to find for themselves a personal path towards poetry and some understanding – or invention – of what poetry is.

As someone with no background in ecology, I felt uneasy at the prospect of reading the latest work of Darryl Jones, an expert in the field. Partly, my fear was that Jones’s lessons would be too technical for me to understand. Partly, it was a murkier fear: I pictured the Professor of Ecology despairing and exhausted because nobody was heeding his warnings, and readied myself to be scolded, or at least left feeling vaguely guilty. 

Across three lauded non-fiction books and countless essays and articles, Bri Lee has delivered an impeccably researched and ethically complex examination of a great number of contemporary topics. In a 2022 essay for The Guardian, it was Western storytelling under Lee’s microscope, particularly our obsession with ‘individual protagonists experiencing personal transformations’. Returning ad nauseum to this formula, argues Lee, is ‘distinctly not useful’ for understanding the slow-burn, widely dispersed crises of the modern age, most notably ‘a climate emergency that defies any sort of conflict-resolution arc’. It’s a brilliant essay, short and sharp, and with a punchy take away: ‘[It is] essential that we consider the power and the limitations of individual empathy ... there may be a better way.’

A curious feature of the creamy new edition of Helen Garner’s diaries: it carries only one blurb, and it is not by some literary heavyweight but by Nigella Lawson. At first, I found this confounding, but I soon began to see parallels between the two. Both are funny, spontaneous sensualists; both have been subjected to harsh public scrutiny and experienced a certain degree of messiness in their personal lives; and both are magnificent women. In the words of Anne Enright, they are, in their various ways, ‘acclaimed celebrator[s] of the poetic quotidian’.