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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.

‘Dwelling in the Shape of Things’ is the title of Nicolette Stasko’s sequence of sixteen elegantly executed ‘Meditations upon Cézanne’. It could, however, serve as an appropriate epigraph to both these collections. Given that the natural world is Stasko’s and Adrienne Eberhard’s main locus for exploring and responding to ‘the shape of things’, each could be described loosely as a ‘landscape’ poet, but the character of their work is neither nationalistic nor naturalistic. They write essentially of their experience as sentient beings inhabiting, and intimately responding to, the world of things.

This is a crime novel written largely in headlines. Lethal Factor is replete with references to such choice items as bio-terrorism, the conflict in the Balkans, paedophilia, Nazi war criminals, strange goings-on in the Catholic Church and academic plagiarism. Such manifold topicality is no guarantee of success in a thriller, and the particular merit of Lethal Factor lies not in its wide coverage of current affairs but rather the attention it pays to the detail of everyday life and relationships.

From this post-September 11 vantage point, the great debate about which Australian political party could claim to have done more to develop the country’s relations with Asia already seems bathed in a gentle glow of nostalgia. Back in the late 1990s, when issues of Australia’s identity with Asia had greater salience than they now do, the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade decided to commission, as its contribution to the celebration of the centenary of Federation, a history of Australia’s engagement with Asia. The initiative was designed, in part at least, to show that no one side of Australian politics could claim the Asia project as its own.

I will say straightaway what I most admire about this book. It’s the way the author is present in it, the way his voice informs the content and is informed by it. Although With Intent to Destroy is a personal book, the self does not intrude in the many bad ways it often can. It’s personal in the way real conversation is personal, made so by the presence in it of people who speak authoritatively from their experiences because, as Kierkegaard put it, they have lived their own life and no one else’s.