Archive

When he died in 1989, the artist Donald Friend left a double legacy. The first was his artistic output, as various, dazzling and charming as it was vigorously contested in terms of its ultimate quality. The second was an accumulation of forty-nine diaries commenced precociously at the age of fourteen, kept briefly for a year or two and then, from the war years on, written lovingly and obsessively for much of the rest of his life. Friend’s art as draughtsman and painter is widely held in public and private collections; the bulk of the surviving diaries were eventually acquired by the National Library of Australia. Profusely illustrated, these intimate personal records document a remarkable life while providing a detailed insight into one man’s struggle with the processes of making art. In their span, the diaries constitute an extraordinary individual record of twentieth-century Australian experience in war and peace.

Katharine England

My favourite books this year have all been tales of self-discovery. I loved the teenage characters emerging from their crude, protective, school-induced carapaces into engaging, tender individuality that Melina Marchetta draws with such affection and humour in Saving Francesca (Viking). I was riveted by the magical adventures, beautifully told, of a nameless Chinese slave girl as she grows into her prestigious and responsible dragon-tending role in Carole Wilkinson’s memorable Dragonkeeper (black dog books); and by the lyrical language and clever interweaving of themes (the horrors of Hiroshima with the power of story and the blessings of friendship) in Kierin Meehan’s Night Singing (Puffin).

The Melbourne Cricket Ground was established on its present site in 1853. The first cricket match was played there the following year. It was a busy time in the early life of Melbourne: the University of Melbourne, the State Library of Victoria, the Royal Melbourne Philharmonic Society and The Age newspaper were all founded at this time. At a recent social gathering in Melbourne, someone asked which of these institutions was the most important and influential. Nobody hesitated in reply: it was the MCG, of course.

Tony Birch

In a year when I did not look at much fiction, both the best and worst of my reading dealt with Australian culture and history. The bad writing I will leave aside. Mark Peel’s The Lowest Rung: Voices of Australian Poverty (CUP) is an ethical and passionate account of the realities of living poor in Australia. Colin Tatz’s With Intent to Destroy: Reflecting on Genocide (Verso) is an intelligent and mature engagement with a discussion that must be had in this country. Don Watson’s Death Sentence: The Decay of Public Language (Knopf) provides a timely warning that the issues of concern to Peel and Tatz will not be enhanced by using the word ‘enhancement’ (among others).

I must confess I picked up this celebrity autobiography, complete with embossed cover and a price suggestive of a huge print run, without anticipation. I could not have been more wrong. Mike Munro’s excoriating and frank account of his abused childhood and early years in journalism chronicles a survival story that is Dickensian in scope and impact. Like Dickens, Munro managed to overcome poverty, cruelty and emotional deprivation to reach the top of a demanding profession. Remarkably, considering his scarifying experiences as a child and adolescent, he fell in love and married a partner with whom he has created the kind of loving family life that he never knew as a child. But I am jumping ahead.

Australian writer Peter Robb has once again written a whole, complex, foreign society into our comprehension. This time it is Brazil, its myriad worlds of experience, its cruelly stolid immobility and exhilarating changefulness, its very incoherence, somehow made accessible to our understanding. In 1996 Robb’s Midnight in Sicily was published to international acclaim. He had set himself the task like the one the mythical, doomed Cola Pesce had been commanded to achieve: to dive into the sea of the past; ‘to explore things once half glimpsed and half imagined’; and to discover ‘what was holding up Sicily’. And he succeeded magnificently.

This book is as beguilingly English as a Fortnum & Mason picnic hamper. Peter Stothard (a former editor of The Times and current editor of the Times Literary Supplement) spent a month inside 10 Downing Street reporting in intimate detail the comings and goings there during the critical days before and after the Coalition of the Willing began its assault on Iraq on March 20 this year. He evokes a life-size doll’s house from which a war is being waged by perplexed adults in suits and jeans, who pick spasmodically at substandard food, fantasise about fitness régimes and support spectacularly unsuccessful soccer teams. The man in charge lives in a flat above this strange enterprise with the rest of his family.

In the first part of his new collection, Graeme Hetherington returns to the cultural territory he presented, differently registered, in In the Shadow of Van Diemen’s Land (1999). This is the west coast of Tasmania, reconstructed this time, in ‘West Coast Garden of Eden’, as the provocative place of his childhood, an Eden after the Fall in which innocence has long before succumbed to temptation. The twenty-seven parts of ‘For Boyd’ present Boyd as the narrator’s schoolmate, a son of working-class parents who has Paul Newman looks, a careless disregard for all forms of authority, an impressive and precocious sexual appetite, and a rebel’s capacity for mischief.

Since the beginning of 2003, nine writers and journalists have been murdered worldwide, adding to International PEN’s list of 400 who have been killed over the last ten years. In the same period, 769 other writers and journalists have been imprisoned, tortured, attacked, threatened, harassed and deported, or have disappeared, gone into hiding or fled in fear of their lives – simply for practising their profession.

Geckos and Moths is a time capsule. A note by the author, Patricia Johnson, indicates that the first draft of the book was written thirty years ago, after her partner had drowned in the Trobriand Islands. In many cases, a book begun so long ago and in such circumstances might best have been left in the bottom drawer.