...this is how I feel.....

My main read/squeeze right now is 2666 by Bolano. It is an epic that he wanted published in 6 parts - but was (posthumously) published as one. Epic far ranging stories set all over and hung together by a series of true murders that happened in the nineties in Santa Teresa, Mexico. His writing is harsh, insightful and beautiful and smashes the face of Latin American writing. It is a visceral (if you'll 'scuse the savage pun) and I feel a deep welling of emotion even thinking about his words.

The Unsigned Author

I peddle, push and purvey.

Though I am the pusher, I am as much of a sucker as those to whom I fob my wares.

My wares are the ether around which the written word resides. The space outside a novel, everything that is, essentially, superfluous to the text. It is the cult of the author and the author as fetish.

I broadcast the story around the story – the author’s life, how they write, what inspires them, what they read, as well as the story of the industry around books; the prizes, legislation affecting the industry, awards and accompanying gossip. I yearn to hear the story OF the author, not just the story By the author.

In Bolano’s book The Savage Detectives, he tells the story of young writers as detectives seeking an elusive poet – they are seeking her, not her words. In 2666 he writes of the intellectuals whose livelihoods are made by another elusive author, in this case the real or imagined BennoVon Archimboldi. He toys with the reader, like me, who appears to need to know where the author sits, stands and lies in order to truly understand and give credence to the story.

Obviously, to know the time and space where the author writes from helps to understand (and to accept in some cases) the attitudes of the text. It places it within a historical or cultural context and if we bring something of our knowledge to that reading, we can glean more from the words themselves.

In the past, without the time and space shattering communication mechanisms such as the internet it was simply not possible to have such a cult around the authors, though we know that there was a demand for Mark Twain on the speaking circuit.

The 2009 arch-version of this circuit is the Writers’ Festival – of which there is a massive proliferation, generally aimed at middle class ladies, that augments the business around books.

Writer speak, reader buy.

And writer sign, reader buy.

One of my favourite childhood memories occurred in C1978 (??) in the Long Gallery. My mother took me to a book signing. The book was The Hills of the Black Cockatoo and the author was Pat Peafield Price. As a child this book took on significance much greater than the story. It became a valued item, something which somehow gave me a lot more than the story itself.

What changed with that lithe little tome, what altered the weight of the words once the author had inscribed it with her magic, her pen and with the hand that wrote the words. What was it that my few nervous childhood moments in the presence of Pat that made this work weightier for my conditioning mind?

I recently encountered a Buddhist monk signing the books of his teacher – and enquired how he, who views the world through lenses of impermanence and non attachment, could justify putting his mark in this book. He answered that that we know sales improve with signed copies, and that will take his teacher’s message further.

It’s true – signed books sell more copies and the cynics say that once a book is signed, if it doesn’t sell, it can not be returned the publisher, though this is less the case than it once was.

A gentle paradox in the face of the increased pecuniary value of the signed book by a dead author is that a personalised dedication from the dead author lessens its value in the auction house, though it has more importance to those who know to whom it was dedicated.

The written word can transform the reader, can vault you to a place you did not know existed, can allow you insight and can entertain – whether the copy is signed or not, yet despite the magical qualities afforded the written word, it is an industry. We consume books and words- just as we consume food, clothes, and widescreen televisions. There are people who work in this industry and need to be paid, there is money to be made from the words and to be able to get the words out there money must be made. The snake eats its own tail.

Of course, there are purists out there – people who consume the text and nothing but (“the words alone transform me, to know of the author’s divorce is merely crass.”)Those who are transformed by the essence – and there are the prurient (“it is absolutely crucial to know what type of drug Kerouac was on when he wrote each book.”) and everyone in between.

We can read the stories of the writer or the writers’ stories. They are all part of a cycle of narrative. Stories within, like Matryoshka dolls, though they’re far from uniform and sometimes impossible to prise apart.

What I really truly don’t understand, though, is why the big fuss that Pearl Jam wouldn’t sign autographs on their recent tour.

...originally published in 'Apple' - Summer '09 '10. 'Apple' is the magazine of the marvellous Tmaggots

TasNoir

Review of ‘No Weather For A Burial’
David Owen
Forty Degrees South, 2009
9780980655520


‘No Weather For A Burial’ is the latest in a series of crime novels by David Owen set in Tasmania that feature the same world weary detective – Detective Inspector Franz Heineken – aka Pufferfish. Yes – Pufferfish is back, after a 12 year hiatus.

‘No Weather..’ is Tas Noir, the setting is as important as the tried and tested scaffolding of most crime novels on which it is strung:

An aging, and no doubt ruggedly handsome, detective with a questionable past and a bitter divorce behind him (Pufferfish) faces down, not only a curious cast of criminals, but also sceptical and thwarting senior police officers to overcome obstacles (after being led down various gardens paths) to ultimately solve one – or possibly more crimes. Plus love interest.

Pufferfish fits the bill – he has been forced to leave his homeland, the Nederlands, under a cloud to eventually arrive in Tasmania and forge a new career in the TPF (Tasmanian Police Force – one of myriad acronyms in the book, others, deliciously include FU, TROG and ABCD – Above and Beyond the Call of Duty).

At the beginning of the book, Pufferfish returns from three months of long service leave, a lot of it having been spent at his shack on Bruny where he estimates he has caught and eaten about four grand of cray, to begin a hunt for the disappeared wife of a Ferntree based, wheel chair ridden Professor of Egyptology. Already the sense of place in this book becoming crucially apparent.

The story is transformed with a king tide revealing a recently dug grave on a remote beach on the ‘Peninsula, building as the search for the identity of the game-hunter’s deer bagged corpse begins - bringing in deer hunters from the midlands, waterfront nightclub owners from’ the Bay, fishermen from the West Coast, ex boxers from the’Bunna and bikers from Sydney. Pufferfish and his cop cohorts have to travel to most corners of the state as well as to Sydney – of course taking the reader with them to experience these places.

‘No Weather’ is a solidly structured novel, though the key to transforming it into one that is better than the average is the character of place – in this case, Tasmania. The state, its climate, its peculiar North, South, East, West parochialism are captured with accurate intensity and hang all the more flesh on the crime scaffold.

The parochial subtleties of this island are rolled out by Owen with an eye for detail and in an informed manner. “Out here Franz, we’re masters of improvisation. We supplied most of the islands wealth but you bastards out East, don’t give a toss,” Owens has a Strahan based character say.

Place is a character crucial in a lot of crime writing– the more extreme the better;
Arnaldur Ingridason’s Reykjavik, Steig Larsson’s Sweden or even Peter Temple’s bushfire shadowed Melbourne are vital to the telling of these stories and without the Tasmanian setting of Pufferfish it would not be as interesting to local readers, or as informative and curious to readers abroad.

And Tasmania is, despite what those of us for whom this is home think, an extreme location.

Owen has an outsider’s eye for observation and an insider’s awareness of nuance, having arrived in Tasmania in the early nineties via South Africa, London and Melbourne – and a writer’s scholarly approach to text – his most recent publications are part of a natural history series published by Allen and Unwin.

Pufferfish’s character is written in the first person and present tense. This results in some strange turns of phrase “we stand, self feeling a tug in the lower back” but also adds to the noir-esque-ness and transports the reader with a gum-shoe gritty detective novel tone. The narrator/writer also has a propensity to have Pufferfish refer to himself in the third person occasionally though this is skillfully written and adds to the ‘voice of god’ style narration that pervades the book.

What is missing in this crime novel, though definitely not lacking, is the often superfluous violence described in florid detail – we are a savvy reading audience, one that is often unfortunately inured to graphic depictions of murder, rape and mutilation on the page and screen. This violence becomes more pronounced when read as the reader is left to create those details ourselves. ‘No Weather’ proves that gratuitous violence is not required to further a plot.

Crime novels are crime novels, they offer the reader the vicarious thrill of having a crime solved before your eyes, there is no pressing need for intellectual engagement – the story is spelt out for you in clear language, the crime novel does not aspire to be ‘art’ or transformative literature – and the reader can rest easy, despite gnawed fingernails and edge of the seat reading – there will be a resolution.

Radio

Yesterday I spent a few delightful moments in a studio at the ABC chatting with Christopher Lawrence on his Friday afternoon show, Retro Lounge. We chatted a bit about books, a bit about reading - he's reading an autobiography of the Italian painter Cellini - which he re-reads every year as a Spring ritual - energising and inspiring. We talked about what I'm reading - 'Cats Cradle' by Vonnegut and '2666' by the divine but dead Bolano - and he's going to pop in to my book show one Tuesday soon.

The song I picked (having the choice of three decades of music - 1930s, 1940s and 1950s) was 'Papa Loves Mambo' by Perry Como. I picked this particular song as it highlights how we change and grow.

Circa 1989 my cousin and I were overcome with laughter - teenage hysterics - rolling around on the cigarette stinking carpet of my grandfather's house - laughing at the terrible 'grandparentness' of Mr P Como. The music, at that point, was the zenith of dag.

Over the years I have come to love Latin, love Dean Martin's menefreghista - ness (menefreghista "one-who-does-not-give-a-fuck"), love Tito Puente and Celia Cruz, love how Latin infiltrated through the fruity Carmen Miranda, and finally come to appreciate how Perry Como fits. It's not so funny to listen to though I am still smiling as I type - remembering the exhuberance with which we laughed.

Changes to Australia Council's funding in the world of literature

Last night I chatted with Chris Gallagher, the director of the Tasmanian Writers Centre (TWC), about the centre, how it came to exist, how it works, what it does, what she does. This was on my weekly Book Show, on Edge Radio 99.3fm - or streamable edgeradio.org.au
TWC was created in 1998 - a natural progression for what was already a strong and organised literary community. In fact, Tasmania has a serious concentration of writers and others involved in the literary arts. Is this blood soaked and beautiful state truly a muse? The centre offers writers residencies, workshops, seminars, resources, a library amongst other services.
Chris also talked about the changes that are happening to the way the Australia Council funds the art of literature and in particular, writers' centres, around the country - and what these changes mean, in particular for the Tasmanian Writers' Centre.
The Australia Council is the peak funding body for arts in Australia and has, for the last few years, been reviewing the way it provides grants to artists and arts bodies. When the council hit literature they suggested the 'centralisation' of state based Writers' Centres - which would have, most probably, seen the erosion of TWC.
There were other options that TWC explored and Chris expressed the outcome and new direction in a very positive manner. The centre remains, though not in its current form. It will, Chris hopes, become a national centre of 'Environmental Writing' - a genre more popularly known as Nature Writing.
Chris conveyed the change with a great deal of positivity and Nature Writing is a good thing (I am reading Mary Oliver's poems at the moment - so of course it is a good thing - ) - What this means for writers in other genres remains to be seen.

The Writers Centre has some great events coming up - the launch of 'Motherlode: Australian Women's Poetry 1989: 2008' at Fullers Bookshop, 131 Collins St, Hobart at 2.30 pm on Saturday 26th and on Tuesday 13th of October at the Lark Distillery in Hobart, Perth based author Amanda Curtain will be chatting with Tasmanian author Peter Kay and myself. This event will begin at 6pm and more information is available on the TWC website below.

Tasmania has an abundance of quality writers creating work to be read, savoured, admired. All power to TWC.

or further information:
http://www.tasmanianwriters.org/
http://www.australiacouncil.gov.au/

Preparatory reading

http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,25788938-5001986,00.html

http://www.readwriteweb.com/archives/bits_of_destruction_hit_book_publishing_part1.php

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2009/07/16/2627266.htm

http://web.overland.org.au/?p=1462

http://www.booksellerandpublisher.com.au/articles/2009/07/12585/

http://www.thebookseller.com/news/91679-australian-importation-proposals-dubbed-horrendous.html.rss

http://cityoftongues.com/2009/07/16/rethinking-parallel-importation/

http://www.pc.gov.au/projects/study/books

Konfrontasi

In 1964 Indonesia was a riot. The country was experiencing a vast surge of upheaval. The charismatic leader and great orator, Sukarno, in a three hour speech called his people to action with the expression 'the year of living dangerously'.

This is the political climate in which Malaysian writer, Tash Aw's new novel is set. Adam and Johan are two orphans, adopted separately and into very different lifestyles. Johan, the elder of the two is taken away from Indonesia to Kuala Lumpur, in Malaysia, while Adam is adopted to the small island of Perdo, by a Dutch artist who feels himself to be more Indo than the Indos. The themes of home, cultural and personal identity are unravelled as the characters are revealed.

Adam's adopted father is arrested, falsely acused of being part of a commie plot, Adam travels across archipelagos of hundreds of islands and through thousands of people to (improbably) find an Margaret, an American anthropologist in Jakarta, knowing only her name. She then helps Adam search for his arrested father - and the story is plumped out with meetings with Sukarno, riots, violent demonstrations, discussions of love and aging (oh and more - but not for this snippet of review).

All in all, Tash Aw is a skilled writer - skilled with creating characters, skilled with conveying a knowledge of human emotions - he is a young writer - under forty with great insight into the machinations of many demographics - most effectively conveyed through the voice of Margaret.


This novel is character driven and good. It has plenty of action - I'd even recommend it to the Wilbur Smith wielding types -

Not life changing, though pleasant enough and a great priviledge to receive the insight into Indo politics of the day.