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There is a scene in Kate Lyons’s The Corner of Your Eye in which the narrator, Lucy, watches her daughter, Flo, being comforted over the death of a bird by their kind but bumbling friend, Archie. As Archie soothes Flo, hugging her and talking to her about what they will do next, Lucy stands apart, not knowing how to act. She feels negligent and guilty: ‘I felt like a pretend mother,’ she says. ‘A bloodless cut out.’

When my Scottish in-laws asked about traditional Australian Christmas fare, I barely felt confident to answer for my own family, let alone for the nation. I started putting the question to friends here: what, traditionally, is eaten on Christmas day at your place? The regular response was a look of perplexity. This was invariably followed by a story of change: we used to have turkey, but in recent years it’s been salmon in the Weber; when I was a child we had a roast, a pudding, all the works, but now we have chicken salad; my partner is Lebanese/Vietnamese/Polish, and I’ve adopted his family’s traditions. The one constant seems to be change, and no doubt this is a – possibly the – defining feature of ‘Australian cuisine’. In other countries, the word ‘traditionally’ does not induce such uncertainty.

It took twenty-five years for the first comprehensive feminist appraisal of the Chamberlain case to be published. This speaks volumes about the thrall in which Australia was held by the Chamberlain story. Adrian Howe writes: ‘It is as if the saga so overwhelmed the national psyche that it defied feminists, left-wing activists and most trained thinkers of any ilk to make sense of it.’ She does not exclude herself from this judgment. In fact, she describes her return to Lindy Chamberlain’s story and her collation of the other feminist critiques of the case as an act of expiation, making belated amends for having succumbed to the dominant media line and thus become complicit in the resulting miscarriage of justice.

When Richard Florida, the peripatetic celebrity academic from George Mason University, was in Australia to promote The Rise of the Creative Class (2002), he described Sydney as one of a dynamic new generation of cities that is attracting global talent. The following year, as a guest of the Melbourne Fashion Festival, he included Melbourne with Helsinki, Stockholm and Minneapolis–St Paul as models of creative and inclusive societies. On a later visit to New Zealand, he observed that the Lord of the Rings movies catalysed a new technology and entertainment industry for Wellington, earning it the reputation as a creative city. Is there a pattern here?

Art Since 1900: Modernism, Antimodernism, Postmodernism manages to be simultaneously comprehensive yet skewed, innovative yet inert, and pluralistic yet doctrinaire. As a theoretically sophisticated rewriting of modern art from 1900 to 2003, it is a major achievement and will surely be of central importance in the field for years to come. Its authors are among the leading art historians of their generation and have often worked together. They are perhaps best known for their ground-breaking work in the pages of October, the US journal of art and theory, which was founded by Rosalind Krauss, among others. They have also often collaborated on other projects such as Formless: A User’s Guide (1997), by Krauss and Yve-Alain Bois. It is probably not overstating the case to say that together Hal Foster, Krauss, Bois and Benjamin Buchloh have had as significant an impact on the discipline of art history as Aby Warburg, Erwin Panofsky and Ernst Gombrich had earlier in the century.

When is it morally defensible to take one’s own life? Whenever, might be the first response: it is, after all, one’s own life. While the church still regards it as a grave sin, attempted suicide is not a crime, though helping someone else to commit suicide is. Yet does not a desire to end one’s life at a time of one’s own choosing have to be weighed against the pain it might cause others? Is suicide not a statement to family and friends that whatever love, care and support they have given, it was not enough?

Many older readers of ABR would remember Peter Russo – whether fondly or otherwise – for his newspaper columns (principally in the Melbourne Argus) from 1941, and for his ABC radio broadcasts, which continued until his death in 1985. As for younger readers: picture a journalist–commentator (his career defied easy description) who was as controversial in his day as any of our present ‘shock jocks’, but who actually knew what he was talking about. Leading politicians approached Russo not to curry favour with his audience but to understand matters within his areas of expertise: Asia and international affairs. Such expertise – including fluency in eight languages – made it difficult to ignore his contributions to public discourse which, as Prue Torney-Parlicki’s biography makes clear, were substantial. Until this biography (the first comprehensive study of the subject to be published), Russo risked being remembered not for what he said or did but, rather, for what others said about him.

For a while it seemed that the reign of the saga novel, a form once so vital for narrating and propagandising the Australian past, was over. The pugnacious Xavier Herbert was now a wandering shade; Colleen McCullough had removed herself to Norfolk Island; Eleanor Dark and ‘M. Barnard Eldershaw’ belonged to a literary history known to too few. The saga had ceded its cultural place to the television miniseries. That summation held until very recently. Billy’s Tree, Nicholas Kyriacos’s first novel (a creative component of a Doctorate of Creative Arts, although it appears too unguarded to have come from that treadmill), bravely seeks to reinstate not only the saga form but its language and its valuation of what ought to matter to Australians who are alert to the burdens of their history.

Deep under the streets of Paris, the tunnels, chambers and galleries of the catacombs run in all directions, some of them filled with the skeletons of the dead who were displaced in the eighteenth century from the overflowing cemeteries of Paris and moved here, their bones stacked six feet high and six feet deep along the walls. During World War II, the chambers and tunnels were used by the French Resistance and also by the Nazis. These days, tourists queue peacefully to totter down the delicate, steep, spindly steps into the underworld darkness, nervously following the guides through what feels like miles of tunnels. The mystery of the dripping noise is solved when you come back up into the sunlight to find your clothes streaked with the dissolving lime of the underworld.

‘The US scares North Korea.’ If you are George W. Bush or Dick Cheney, you may be satisfied with this statement by former US diplomat Donald Gregg. It might signify the success of American policy towards North Korea, a country you consider to be a dangerous ‘rogue state’ that is developing nuclear weapons and exporting missile technology, and that is led by a repressive totalitarian régime. The only way to deal with such governments, you believe, is through threats, deterrence and, if necessary, military action to degrade offensive military capabilities or even to remove them from power. But what if this brings us to the brink of disaster? In this timely and important book, Roland Bleiker exposes this schoolyard philosophy for what it is: a dangerous and simplistic recipe that has brought North-East Asia to the brink of war too many times in recent years. Ever since the North Koreans announced in 2002 that they were withdrawing from the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons (NPT) and were on the brink of developing a working nuclear capability other countries in the region have been justifiably alarmed.