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Not long after he began to spend extended periods on the island, English novelist Nicolas Shakespeare wrote In Tasmania (2004), a spirited account of some of the things that he had seen and been told there. This was a rambling book, whose intention seemed unresolved. With his fifth novel, Secrets of the Sea, Shakespeare has made Tasmania his setting again. Manifold details are refined for the story, with more assurance than in the earlier book. Impressively, Shakespeare has created an unfamiliar place, alert to caricatures of itself, but much stranger. At the same time, his Tasmania seems to belong more to England than ever used to be said, and to the fictional realms of Thomas Hardy and D.H. Lawrence.

Omar Nassif and Enzo Cugliari are fringe-dwellers, beyond ‘white trash’. That harshest of middle-class put-downs fairly locates their distance from the outsider types who claim our interest. Omar and Enzo are anti-charismatic, their physical selves undescribed. In contrast, Ari, the angry child of migrants in Christos Tsiolkas’s Loaded (1995) wants drugs, sex and dancing, and inevitably his character now conjures up the sex god in the film role, Alex Dimitriades. On the top shelf there is Lord Lucan, incognito and surgically disenhanced, slumming on Tasmania’s coastal glory in Heather Rose’s The Butterfly Man (2005); attractively guilt-wracked and evolved, Lucan trails glamour and enigmatic women. The actor would be Jeremy Irons.

East Timor’s former Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri has a knack of hiring international advisers who win access to his inner circle then publish tell-all books on leaving his employ. First there was Lynne Minion, whose Hello Missus: A Girl’s Own Guide to Foreign Affairs (2004) lampooned him mercilessly and sold like hot cakes. Now Paul Cleary follows the pattern, but in a more respectable book, worthy of serious attention.

In someone else, John Hughes gives new voice to twenty-one famous men – writers, artists and musicians – who have influenced his imagination and his outlook on life. In this non-standard homage, Huges has written a series of what he calls ‘fictional essays’. Each piece delves into aspects of an individual’s thought and creativity, but Hughes does this through the prism of his own world view, his imagination, his preoccupations. The title recalls Rimbaud’s declaration, ‘I am made up of all who have made me’. When Hughes writes about his fictional version of Marcel Proust or John Cage or Mark Rothko, he is simultaneously writing about himself.

When the United States invaded Iraq, it invaded a country that posed no immediate threat to it. It did so at a time when the issue about weapons of mass destruction was in the process of being resolved by the United Nations’ investigations. It invaded a country that was not a major locus of al Qaeda activity (not then) and had played no role in 9/11. The invasion diverted America’s attention and resources from groups that were responsible for 9/11, undermined its moral authority in the international community and handed terrorists a propaganda weapon. True, a tyrant was deposed, but in a way that will breed more tyrants in the future. It is little wonder that so many commentators across the political spectrum have labelled the invasion America’s worst foreign policy decision.

As the Ernst Freund Distinguished Service Professor of Law and Ethics at the University of Chicago, Martha Nussbaum’s confident intensity is underpinned by a dazzling range of scholarship – politics history, psychoanalysis, economics, development studies, constitutional law, archaeology, comparative religion, comparative ethnology, pedagogy, gender studies, ethics – all focused in this book on intellectually annihilating a particular minority, the Hindu religious right in India and its supporters in the United States. Nussbaum’s personal background explains her fervour. Her mother’s family descend from the Mayflower, her father was a conservative Southern lawyer, and the family lived the secure life of Philadelphia’s main line. Martha rejected these satisfactions: ‘I was ill at ease with my elite WASP heritage.’ She became involved in the civil rights movement, and converted to Judaism when she married a Jewish linguist whom she met in a class on Greek prose composition. ‘I had an intense desire to join the underdogs and to fight for justice in solidarity with them.’

Helen Hughes was a professional development economist who worked at the World Bank from 1968 to 1983 and then, as an academic, headed the National Centre for Development Studies at the Australian National University from 1983 to 1993. Since then, she has been a senior fellow at a conservative think-tank, the Centre for Independent Studies, where she initially focused on issues of development in the Pacific and, since 2004, in remote indigenous Australia.

This book’s launch was timed to coincide with the fortieth anniversary of the 1967 referendum. Hughes sets out to assess and address the ‘Aboriginal problem’ for 90,000 indigenous people who live in some 1200 ‘homeland’ settlements established in remote Australia from the 1970s, according to Hughes. Her book focuses on the ‘homelands’, because, in her view, their occupants’ deprivation is the greatest.

Perhaps the most enduring memory of the Australian Wheat Board’s Iraq misadventures is the picture of its paunchy former chairman, Trevor Flugge, stripped to the waist and pointing a gun at the camera. Flugge was in Iraq, to all intents and purposes representing Australia. Selected by the Australian government with a tax-free salary package of just under a million dollars, he was there because, in the prime minister’s words ‘our principal concern at the time was to stop American wheat from getting our markets’.

There is always someone watching someone else in Belinda Castles’ Vogel Award-winning novel, The River Baptists. Most of its characters choose to live on the Hawkesbury because of the peace and seclusion, but the river setting allows a variety of vantage points and approaches to the scattered houses and rickety jellies that line the banks. It is a tranquil and picturesque setting, but Rose’s friend Ben sees it in a rather different light: ‘Subzero temperatures, mud, a pub full of guys who look like Cousin It.’