AustLit

'It is a truth universally acknowledged that scholarly appreciation of Western literature requires a familiarity with the works of the Judeo-Christian tradition and classical mythology. I understood this to be valid, so when I attended university as a mature-age student in the 1990s I did a major in myth and ancient literature in translation along with an English major. Having been raised as a Catholic I thought I had the Judeo-Christian part covered. It turned out not to be so simple.'  (Introduction)

'When I was a kid, Warlpiri people were an idea, a story, a mythology that hung on the walls and in the air around the dinner table when my dad would talk about his childhood at Yuendumu. He was kindergarten age when he ran inside the mission house, forgetting to pull his shoes on at the door as per my grandmother's rules, and announced, 'We caught a lizard, mummy, and we ate it. Don't worry, Charlie picked the poos out.' Darling anecdotes like this pepper my grandmother's mission diaries. In one entry, my dad as a toddler narrates an imaginary trip to Alice Springs: 'T'rific dust ... I got bogged ... shot a kangaroo with my 303.'' (Introduction)

'My first book was yellow. On its cover was a bumblebee and the words ‘All the best things in the world begin with a b.’ I look at the words, and the words make sense, and suddenly the book springs into story. All these years later I can open that book’s hard yellow covers and I am six years old, alone at night, and making a discovery that will mean I am never alone again. There is a boy, there is a butterfly, and there is a bumblebee. They all begin with a b, they are all found in the book, and they are all the best things in the world.'  (Introduction)

'The envelope must have been there for days before I found it. It was yellowing at the edges and torn where it had been taped clumsily to the lamppost. When I stopped to peer at it, passers-by cast curious glances at me, then walked on. Two words were scribbled on the front: Free ticket...' (Publication abstract)

'September 2012 The crime would have been no less vile had Jill Meagher been a 40-year-old shift worker in Warrnambool or a teenage student from Frankston or any other female abducted, raped, murdered and dumped in a hastily dug grave beside a commuter shortcut. But certain facts gave her violation and death a particular, heart-sickening quality that felt personal.' (Introduction)

'Wake in Fright was published in 1961, more than 50 years ago. Australia, many assume, has come a long way since then. Yet Kenneth Cook’s masterpiece, the novel by which he is still best known and that has hardly ever been out of print, is timeless. The forces that plunge hapless schoolteacher John Grant into a spiral of alcoholic despair—lack of money, desperation, the heat and the alien nature of the landscape—remain menacingly relevant.'  (Introduction)

'The women wore gowns, furs and jewels. One even had a tiara. The men’s formal evening wear verged on the dashing, all black ties, sashes and medals. And when it came to the speech to launch the celebration of Australian art and culture, it was a strangely apologetic Victorian governor, Sir Dallas Brooks, who stood in front of a large group of international Olympic officials, local VIPs and a smattering of city council officials.'  (Introduction)

'It all started with a question I should never have asked. 'So, do you have sexual fantasies?' 

'I was thinking about how we'd both been reading Nancy Friday's My Secret Garden, popular once again now in the post-AIDSis- going-to-kill-us-all nineties, and how liberating it was to share fantasies that were once thought to be taboo.' (Publication abstract)

'Inside the wire cage are two small rabbits, eating from a pile of picked grass. One blinks. The girl thinks it's at her but can't be sure as its eyes dart around a lot. The eyes are deep black, almost all pupils. Her mother flicks up the latch on the door of the cage and lets her scoop up one of the bunnies and hold it. She feels its heat through the knit of her school jumper. It scratches her hand with its claws, makes it bleed a bit, but she doesn't mind. The cage comes home in the back of the car and they put it at the side of the house, under the apricot tree with its branches widely outstretched around itself, starting to lean closer to the ground with all the new, tight-mouthed green fruit. She gets the tin lid that's lying among the grass left in the bottom of the cage and fills it up with water and picks more grass for them. Her mother says the grocer can give her boxes of cabbage and lettuce leaves to feed them.' (Publication abstract)

'After your world ended for the third time, you walked. The gold ring on your right hand heavy and the blue band around your left wrist even heavier. 'Rip-off fitbits' was how Intisar had described them three years ago, as the two of you sat on the couch in the living room of your then new apartment, staring down at your clasped black hands. You had made a joke about fashionable shackles then, because that's what you both did, joked and laughed when the reality became just a bit too much. Ten years ago you were both in your final year of high school, and the nation had voted on the humanity of people who loved like you - but these shackles came without a plebiscite...' (Publication abstract)

'The only other thing my wife and I had ever before attempted to paint was a single paling on our then newly built front fence. It had taken almost an hour to do what we did of it and as there were another 20 or so to do afterwards, we worked out that we couldn't possibly finish by tea-time and so paid a professional to do it instead. He insisted on cash so I have no record of his name, but judging from what he charged and the result I assume it was either Paul Klee or Kandisky. We had resolved though to stick with it this time and complete the little cupboard in the backroom ourselves. It wasn't just the extortionate sum of money we'd otherwise have to part with - it was a matter of pride...' (Publication abstract)