In reviewing the first half of Simon Leys’s new book, The Wreck of the Batavia, I’m tempted to regurgitate my review from these pages (ABR, June–July 2002) of Mike Dash’s history of the Batavia shipwreck Batavia’s Graveyard (2002) – especially since Leys also holds that book in high regard, rendering all other histories, his own included ...

When Frank Moorhouse took over the editorship of The Best Australian Stories in 2004, he promptly announced that he would be accepting submissions from anyone, regardless of whether they had a publishing history or not. He received and read, by his own estimate, about 1000 stories and gave six unknown writers the chance to be published for the first time. To his credit, he also took it upon himself not only to talk up the edition, but to make the case for the importance of the short story as a distinct literary form – one that is often underappreciated. There was no doubting Moorhouse’s enthusiasm for his new role. Having read the work of around 600 writers, he could claim with some authority that short fiction was thriving, despite limited opportunities for publication. Indeed, the 2004 edition, he boasted, ‘set a new benchmark in the standard of the short story’. Now steady on, Frank.

It is one of life’s ironies that war can bring out the best in people, and writers are no exception. Picture Australian seaman Ray Parkin as he toiled like a slave for the Japanese on the Thai–Burma railway during World War II. Despite the brutality and privations, Parkin felt that the experience would ‘not be entirely wasted’ if he could somehow get his diary and drawings home when it was all over. These were crucial, for, as he wrote, ‘Memory is not enough’. Parkin’s reflections go to the kernel of oral versus written memory, and why humans write in the first place: to make a record that can speak by itself, even when the writer is dead. His words could also serve as an appropriate epigraph to Eyewitness, a collection of diaries, memoirs, correspondents’ reports and analysis, all composed by Australians at ‘the front-line’ of wars and conflicts.

If Melbourne’s claim to be the ‘world’s most liveable city’ can be taken seriously, it is largely because of its capacity for reinvention, the adaptability of its buildings and infrastructure to an expanding population, and changes in transport, communications, patterns of work, and the general lifestyle of its inhabitants.

The federal government maintains that it has no obligation to monitor the fate of non-citizens removed from Australia’s shores. In fact, it argues that it is better not to monitor returnees, since surveillance by a Western government might put them at greater risk. In certain circumstances this may be true: in a theocracy such as Iran, for example, where the very act of leaving renders a citizen suspect. In the main, however, the government’s argument is self-serving. The fate of Australian citizen Vivian Alvarez Solon, left to decline slowly in a Philippines hospice, shines a more revealing light on policy. It shows that Australian authorities have cultivated a determined indifference to the fate of deportees on the basis that ignorance is bliss. No care, no responsibility.

Peter Hartcher has written a terrific book. It is that rarity in Australian publishing: an account of a significant economic event written in language that is totally comprehensible to the non-economist. It is shaped like a true-crime psychological thriller.

The scene of the carnage is the American dotcom bubble, which began to gather pace in 1996 and in time became ‘the mightiest mania in the four centuries of financial capitalism’. When it finally imploded in March 2000, it had wiped out US$7.8 trillion in shareholder wealth, and in the ensuing recession 2.3 million people were thrown out of work. Hartcher accuses the soon-to-retire chairman of the US Federal Reserve, Alan Greenspan, of being one of the principal culprits in this debacle, and his book seeks to justify that verdict and to explore how it came about.

There are at least three reasons why we left-leaning, right-thinking, middle-class readers value Robert Manne’s essays. Over the last twenty years, he has – in books, as editor of Quadrant from 1988 to 1997, as a newspaper columnist – been writing with an uncommon intellectual lucidity. He is that rare combination of good scholar and good journalist. His style is transparently reasonable: his essays shine as models of speaking rationally.

Writers of contemporary fiction are often novelists only; writers of heroic fantasy, a genre that increasingly overlaps with science fiction, tend to write very long novels only. Science fiction is different; the short story has been important for most of its practitioners, though it sets taxing formal problems when the writer has to cram the details of an alternative or future world into a short compass. The first of the stories in this big anthology of Australian science fiction was published in 1955, the most recent in 2001, so it offers a good sense of the path the genre has traced.

On 15 February 2005 the Labor Opposition launched a ‘matter of public importance’ (MPI) debate on ‘truth in government’ in the House of Representatives. An MPI debate is really only an invitation to comment on a ‘matter for discussion’, with no vote taken, as would be the case in a censure motion. The parliamentary discussion is simply timed out. But it is a useful opposition tactic for getting arguments and evidence on the public record.

Gideon Haigh likes cricket, literature and history, and his writings on cricket are accordingly shrewd, learned and illuminating. He writes particularly well of Jack Gregory and of George Headley. Gregory was the embodiment of the Anzac legend: tall, bronzed, blue-eyed, an artilleryman in the Great War. He played for an AIF eleven in England after the war, took dazzling close catches, demolished Cambridge University with ferocious fast bowling and went on to test match triumphs with Australia against Eng-land in the 1920s. Injuries that so often cut down bowlers of explosive pace curtailed his career. Headley, on the other hand, was a batsman in the early West Indian sides, a black man in teams of mixed race captained always by whites, representing a divided nation of particularist energies. Haigh writes with great understanding of the immense difficulty of maintaining form, as Headley did, in a team that always lost.