The Sydney Writer’s Festival is on in May and according to the SMH’s Spectrum (can’t find link sorry) there is some hush-hush action happening over who is going to appear. Alan Hollinghurst has been confirmed and speaking of hushing, the only librarian who has her own doll, Nancy Pearl, will be making an appearance. The SWF people are warming up with an Easter treat on Cockatoo Island. Writers include Mandy Sayer, Luke Davies and Larissa Behrendt. Also featuring is the “Big
Poetry Bash” featuring Miles Merrrill, Luke Davies, Samuel Wagan-Watson, Kate Fagan, Jane Gibian, Bravo Child, Eytan Messiah, and Briohny Doyle.
While I’m talking about Nancy – a snap poll: Nancy Pearl Action figure, good for librarians or bad for librarians?
And some reviews:
The Observer reviews WG Sebald’s last book Campo Santo, the Guardian looks at Kazuo Ishiguro’s newie Never Let Me Go and an old review that I missed at the time, the SMH reviews the new Granta: Mothers.
I have just spent the weekend in Canberra, visiting my sister. Every time I go to Canberra I find myself desperately wanting to love it, to take it to my heart and appreciate it.
Once we get out of Campbelltown on the freeway the space starts to open up, it becomes flatter and browner. The hill and mountains that do spring up are covered in trees with the odd gaping slash through them where huge towers run through them, carrying wires for something I no nothing about. I start to sense the space and suddenly feel free of Sydney, as if I am entering a totally different place. Once we get to Lake George I am always quite overcome. I find it spellbinding. I start looking forward to the different environment of Canberra, somehow thinking it’s going to free me of something, free me to do something, I have no idea what.
Then we enter the Australian Capital Territory. Northbourne St is wide and usually free of traffic (on the weekends when we visit). The ‘govvie’ blocks of units don’t set a good scene and I am always struck by their strange presence. In a city so obviously well organised they are ‘allowed’ to be there, it’s almost as if this is their proper place but if it is it’s according to a scheme that confuses me.
The inner suburbs of Canberra are like middle-ring suburbs of Sydney. Townhouse villages, small shopping centres, schools and a lot of space. Too much space. There are no houses crammed on top of each others, except for the socially townplanner-acceptable townhouses. Planned cramp. There’s no haphazard architecture, no spectacular graffiti, no dirt. There’s a lot of green, a lot of strategically placed parks.
To move to middle and outer suburbs you get onto roads where the speed limit is at least 80. The road runs between forest or what seems like National Park. Suddenly some houses spring up and I am always surprised to find that I am still in Canberra. I thought I’d left it.
I find this excess of space disturbing. I think it contributes to my inability to “get my head around” Canberra. In Sydney it’s easy to orientate yourself in suburbs through the predominant cultures and classes. There’s a ‘feel’ to places that enables you to form a picture in your mind, however wrong it may be, of the essence of the place. This is what I find so difficult about Canberra. I don’t dislike the place I just can’t come to grips with it and every time I go there I find myself struggling to pin it down and it just will not be pinned. I think it’s the space, the organisation, the formality of the place. I think it’s also the fact that I often go there on the weekend when it’s empty. I usually hang around the inner suburbs and I get the feeling that everyone empties out into the outer suburbs on weekends. The centre seems to be for work only.
So, I just realised there’s no mention of books in this post. Well, one of the reasons I go to Canberra, (aside from visiting my sister of course), is to visit the second-hand bookshops in Fyshwick. I love them. They’re cheaper than Sydney and the stock is usually of a high quality. You also don’t have to fight for good stuff like you do at Gleebooks et al. I’m not going to tell you their names as then you would know where the good stuff is – at least this way I will force you to do your own research.
This time we felt there should be a strict limit on what we spent so we came home with three verse novels (Les Murray, Dorothy Porter and Vikram Seth), a couple of Kurt Vonneguts and a hardcover copy of the Maltese Falcon. Not much at all really.
Oh, and I have just finished reading Helen Garner’s Joe Cinque book so the trip this time was shadowed with recollections from that book. We considered doing a ghoul’s run down Antill St in Dickson but quite sensibly decided against it.
Stephen Elliot has been receiving consistently good reviews on Amazon (not that that is any indication of brilliance but anyway) except for one reviewer, his father. His father is, in the words of Boing Boing, "crazy and abusive". The reviews have been taken down but via Boing Boing, a quote:
The book has scenes like the
one where he kisses the hand of the man who abused him. Most normal
people will find this nauseating. The book is for wanna-be masochists
who enjoy perversion, and people with strong stomachs. Perhaps that’s
who the author sees as his audience? The book has little plot, and
seems like one vaguely descriptive scene after another. The reader is
left with a bad taste in his or her mouth. I hear the author’s father
is preparing a website to show that his background is totally
fabricated. That will be an interesting blog.
A truly disturbing story.
Over at Troppo they’re discussing the books we pile up beside our bed and may or may not read. You know the ones, we may dip in and out of them, sometimes we even finish them, generally you can be guaranteed an eclectic mix. My mother is a great bedside piler. My parents stayed here for one night this week and I noticed in the morning that Mum had already started a pile beside the bed!
I took the opportunity to nominate my current pile at Troppo, obviously influenced by the research I am trying to do:
Italo Svevo – As a man grows older
Alan Wearne – Lovemakers (books 1 & 2)
Andrew Motion – Philip Larkin biography
Pushkin – Eugene Onegin
Robert Lowell – Life Studies and Dolphin