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Not since Henry Parkes has New South Wales had such a literary-minded premier as Bob Carr. Parkes published his own poems and wrote two earnest volumes of autobiography. Carr, so far, has tried his hand at a novel, a memoir and a diary, as well as writing lots of occasional pieces. Carr, like Parkes, was a journalist before becoming a professional politician. Parkes, too, dragged himself from humble beginnings to a position where he could use official letterhead to arrange meetings with those he admired. Carr has sought out writers such as Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal to autograph his copies of their books and to join him at dinner. Once established, Parkes’s main aim was to stay in power. It was his only source of income, so his manipulation of factions, policies and the electorate all focused on that end. Graham Freudenberg has said of Carr: ‘Labor politics is central to Bob’s identity … if you took the politics away from Bob there would be nothing much left.’ But unlike Carr, Parkes did not have the option of moving to federal politics (he died before 1901). After Federation, NSW politics was stripped of talent as its leaders, including Edmund Barton, William Lyne and George Reid, made the move. Reid, a long-serving and highly effective NSW premier, is one of only two state premiers ever to have succeeded in becoming prime minister, the other being Joe Lyons.

For most Australians, certainly for those under the age of forty, ‘Vietnam’ is either an item on school curricula or a slightly off-the-beaten-path tourist destination. History or holiday. This may affront some, especially the small groups on either side of the 1960s cultural and political divide that cannot let go, but it is a sign of a generational shift and of the creation of the distance between ourselves and the event that is necessary for enhanced understanding and reconciliation between Australians and the Vietnamese.

Both of the OUP First Books have been designed with the early reader in mind. Clear colourful pictures, large print and unambiguous headings make these books a pleasure to read. Information is set out in an orderly way, from the general to the specific. There is scope for enthusiasts to skip to their particular interest, but, for the general reader, the narrative as a whole is satisfying. Barbara Taylor’s First Book of Dinosaurs gives the basic facts that the six- or seven-year-old wants to know: what kind of animals were they, and how do we know they existed? A history is followed by general descriptions of behaviours and physical types, then double-spreads on featured groups such as the well-known T.rex and stegosaurus, as well as dromaeosaurs and kronosaurus. Extra information is contained in sidebars. The book concludes with speculation about what caused the dinosaurs to become extinct and with a look at their modern successors. There is a short dinosaur quiz (with specific instructions on how to read the questions for clues, and how to use the index and table of contents to find the answers). Some simple science experiments are suggested, such as making your own fossils with plaster of Paris and with shells. As well as the obligatory glossary and index, a page-long guide to pronunciation is appended: this will help many a bemused parent.

Imaginative grandfathers and European cityscapes dominate in these books, with all the protagonists having creative ways of seeing, just like their creators. When Suzy, in Grandpa’s Gate, falls down the thirteen steps from her house, what is needed is a gate for the top. So Grandpa welds a special one, with an owl, a moon and stars – ‘all sorts of extraordinary bits of his own’. It’s practical, but interesting at the same time. Then Suzy and her family move away and don’t see Grandpa for years, until, lonely and confused, he comes to live with them. But Suzy has an idea: in the garage is her old gate. Together, she and Grandpa paint, rehang and weld more birds to go with it.

Some reviewers like to stamp their own character on a review in its opening sentences. I prefer, however, to share with you some of Alan Frost’s words:

When I was a boy, living in a village set against a beach in Far North Queensland, I was struck by two kinds of trees. Ringing the beach at intervals were great ‘beach-nut’ trees (Calophyllum inophyllum). As early photographs of the beach do not show them, these trees must have been planted by European settlers. In my time, when they were perhaps seventy or eighty years old, they were up to fifty feet high, and they spread fifty feet in diameter … And scattered about the littoral were tall hoop and kauri pines … One behind our house may have been more than one hundred feet tall. It was said that this kauri pine was a beacon for ships at sea.

Something like a double helix of dialectical thinking winds its graceful way through these ‘eight lessons’. Ideas and theories about the nature of human (and other) life and how to live it, about the workings and the relative merits of logic, reason, belief, and faith, are sketched, rehearsed, debated, and set in ...

At the beginning and end of The Anatomy of Truth, Kate Wild’s central character, Janey Hunter, asserts that she is ‘just trying to establish a common base from which we can communicate’. The Anatomy of Truth suggests bold investigations into vexed issues, so I will follow Janey’s lead and begin by establishing a common definition of the title of this brave first novel. For the purposes of this review, the science of anatomy is the artificial separation of parts of the human body in order to study their structure and relationship. In a more figurative sense, it is a detailed examination or analysis of the structure of an organisation. And truth is the matter as it really is, a fixed or established standard, pattern or rule that conforms to fact and accuracy, with a hint of allegiance and loyalty.

Being known as a personality can’t be all good. For all the fun that goes with quickness and dazzle, it surely becomes a little dangerous when you come to write an autobiography, or a memoir – whatever the distinction between these two terms is. This occurred to me when, passing the buoyant, bow-tied strider depicted on the front cover, I began to read Patrick McCaughey’s new book, subtitled A Memoir. After all, I have known the author for forty years here and there, in this role or that. Indeed, I remember him as a sixth-former, up at university to hear a literature lecture for schools, given by one of the English Department staff. Yellow scarf tossed back over the shoulder, he challenged her vigorously at question time. That’s one to watch, we thought.

Towards the end of his informative introduction, Robert Manne, the editor of Whitewash: On Keith Windschuttle’s fabrication of Aboriginal history, outlines the collective intention of the book’s nineteen contributors. He refers to Windschuttle’s The Fabrication of Aboriginal History (2002), a revisionist text dealing with early colonial history and violence in nineteenth-century Tasmania, as ‘so ignorant, so polemical and so pitiless a book’ ... 

Last year’s issue of Papertiger (a poetry journal on CD-ROM) contained a piece called ‘Transglobal Express’, a collaboration between Mike Ladd and outfit called Newaural Net. ‘Transglobal Express’ is an ‘audio poem’, the text of which is spoken by strangers on an Internet connection and set to a heavily percussive soundtrack. Clearly, Ladd has a fondness and flair for the unusual poetic enterprise. But I wonder, reading Rooms and Sequences, whether big ideas are too often pursued at the expense of careful composition.