AustLit

'The blue stone forecourt of the State Library was shiny and slippery from the rain. As I stepped over a large puddle I was tempted to squat and put my hand into the water like a child. Instead I listened to the click of my shoes on the stone steps leading to the Library entrance. When I got to the side door I dug around in my bag worried I had lost my swipe card again. I took a deep breath and looked over at the bronze statue of Joan of Arc seated on her horse. Joan and the horse were both shiny from the rain. They faced the street and stared straight ahead as if about to take off. I rummaged in my bag again and found the swipe card smothered in an old tissue. I held it against the card reader and the door glided open. The foyer was empty and still unlit. At this time of the morning I felt that the building was mine, not that it belonged to me but that I could go anywhere, do anything. I could look through shelves of books, rummage through boxes of manuscripts and wander around the deserted public areas like some kind of ghost. I lingered at the bottom of the stairs unsure whether to go up to my desk in the Art Library or whether to have a look at the new books downstairs. The sound of a trolley trundling across the floor of the Information Centre made me turn and go up the worn marble steps.' (Publication abstract)

This poem is in two numbered and titled parts.

' In an interview in the Guardian in 2004, the renowned American author Annie Proulx spoke of her admiration for the work of a little known Australian writer called Barbara Baynton. The creator of Brokeback Mountain described how she was drawn to the work of another female writer whose work was "aesthetically rudimentary, but takes harshness, between men and women, and the land, to a painful level of implacability" (Edemariam). Proulx was referring specifically to her favourite Baynton short story, Squeaker's Mate, though her comments are applicable to almost every story in Baynton's Bush Studies (1902), a collection characterised by relentlessly unsentimental and brutal depictions of life in remote Australian locations in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.' (Publication summary)

'The sound of the sea captive in the seashell does not disquiet us. On the contrary, it reassures us, comforts us. It speaks of permanence and tranquillity, whereas the mysterious sound by the shore reveals nothing. In fact, such a sound indicates no origin, and leads nowhere: it is a sound that has no place, or one that simply has not taken place. The inexplicable sound occupies space and dissipates without leaving a trace - apart, perhaps, from the disquiet we feel when we observe that there is no trace. (Bonnet, 2016: 4; itals in original).' (Publication abstract)

'The air in the office smells of sealed windows, hubris, one of those revolting plug-in air perfume things, and an almost-not-there tinge of sociopathy. There are four of us financial planners in this office. The one directly to the left of me is Steve. I have never once seen a smile reach Steve's eyes. Steve is probably clinically depressed. Steve hates his job. So do I. The difference between me and Steve is that I know I do and I know why.' (Publication abstract)

'... things are different in New South Wales, my father is saying. It's much bigger. It's drier. It's hotter. It's a lot hotter than this. We are standing at the long counter outside Flinders Street station. We are having a drink of orange juice from Mildura. It's a warm day just after the new year has started in January. It's the War. Across Prince's Bridge we can see the American sailors in their white gob-caps. Tonight they'll try to get into the Trocadero and dance with the Australian girls. I've been allowed to come in on the tram after school to Batman Avenue to meet Dad when he finishes work at the Bank in Collins Street. We'll probably go to Hearn's Hobbies later in Flinders Street to see the model cars and trains.' (Publication summary)