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Board of Regents of the University of Oklahoma

University of Oklahoma
"A Delicate Business": David Malouf's Shorter Prose
Author(s): Paul Sharrad
Source: World Literature Today, Vol. 74, No. 4, David Malouf: 16th Laureate of the Neustadt
International Prize for Literature (Autumn, 2000), pp. 759-768
Published by: Board of Regents of the University of Oklahoma
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40156081 .
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" S I I belkccte ^Kiinaf:
DAVI D MALOUFfS S HORTER PROS E
PAUL S HARRAD
S tyle is something that slips away from
you,
like
awetmelonseed." S o
says
writer-scholar Chris Wallace-
Crabbe,
as he
goes
onto confirm the
many descriptions
ofDavid Maloufas Australia's
leading producer
of
" poeticprose."
I n
doing
so,
heobserves the
tendency
to
small-scaleworks of
polished
" Vermeerish" detail. This
is admitted
(if
weallow for themix of
autobiography
and fictive
narrator)
inthefinal
story
of
Antipodes'.
I was reminded of
something
I had seenoncefrom thewin-
dow ofa
railway carriage
as
my
trainsat
steaming
onthe
line:threeold men
-
tramps they might
havebeen
-
ina
luminous huddlebehind the
glass
ofa
waiting-shed,
their
grey
heads aureoled with
fog
and theclosed
spaceaglow
with their
breathing
likea
jar
fulloffireflies. Thevision
haunted me. I twas
entirely
real
-
I meanthe
tramps
were
real
enough, you might
havesmelled them if
you'd got
close
-
butthe
way
I had seenthem
changed
that
reality,
mademeso
impressionably
awarethatI could recalldetails
I could not
possibly
haveseenatthatdistanceor with the
naked
eye;
the
greenish-grey
ofoneold man's hair whereit
fellinlocks over his shoulder,
the
grime
ofahand
bringing
outallits
wrinkles,
the
ring
ofdirtround ashirtcollar.
(159)
Despite
this awareness ofhis
gift,
Maloufhas
(possibly
under theinfluenceofPatrick
White) pushed
himself
toward the
long
novel and
" big"
nationalthemes of
Australian
history (Craven).
Evocative
imagery
is still
produced
in
showing
a
personalexperiencing
of
key
moments inwhiteAustralian
legend,
butthe
legends
themselves
-
World War I in
Fly Away
Peter,
its succes-
sor inTheGreat
World,
thebush as artist's retreatinHar-
land's
Half
Acre,
thereturnofthewhiteman
gone
native
in
Remembering Babylon,
theconvictand
bushranger
mythos
inTheConversations atCurlow Creek
-
push
him,
literally,
into amore
prosaicexpansiveness.
Whereas An
I maginary Life
found a
powerfully imagina-
tivevehiclefor
dealing
with elements ofthis national
setof
preoccupations,
successiveworks
might
beseen
as
becoming increasingly programmatic.
I tis
perhaps
in
theshorter
prose
thatthereal
experiment
and the
directness ofideas canbefound
-
wherethe
" poetry"
more
powerfully
resists the
entrapments
ofwhatPeter
Piercehas called the" mannered
plainness"
ofMalouf's
prose(Pierce, 187).
Writing
abouthis
many
ventures as librettistfor
operas,
Maloufcomments,
" I f. . . textworks too
well,
at
theverbalor dramatic
level,
itwill leave
nothing
for the
musicto do." This
mightequally apply
to his ownfic-
tion,
especially
theshorter work,
which relies for its
impact
onmusical
qualities
such as
rhythm
and
cadenceand themodulationofevocativemotifs. He
describes thecollaborationbetween
composer
and
librettistas " adelicatebusiness"
(S MH, 8),
and
again,
wecanconsider his fictiveartas
seeking
asimilar kind
ofbalancebetweenbusinesslikecraftand tonaldelica-
cy.
Thebriefbutrather uncertain
(and controversial)
returnto the
" poetic"
treatmentofthe
past
inRemem-
bering Babylon
showed thetensionbetweenhis two
modes offiction
writing.
Ontheonehand,
the
poetic
symbols generated strong yet
discreteclusters ofmean-
ing
that
prevented
thenarrativefrom
pulling together
asustained vision;
ontheother
(moreapparent
ina
longer
worksuch as TheGreat
World),
extensioninto
narrativeenacted thewriter's own
critique
oflibretto:
thetextbecametoo fullofwords for themusicto shine
through.
For thecritics
(notably
theacerbicGermaine
Greer),
this lackof
cohesion,
coupled
with the
repeti-
tionof
types
and ideas
already
familiar to Australian
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readers,
suggested
aloss of
inspiration
or aconserva-
tiveresurrectionofthe
myths
ofthecolonialwhite
past.
Maloufs shorter
fiction,
being
moreinclined toward the
telling image
thantoward discursiveness,
is ablemore
consistently
to
tap
into
his creative
strengths
and
to
provide
new
insights
into old
experiences.
This is notto
say
that
theshorter fictionis total-
ly
distinctfrom Maloufs
novels. Themostrecent
story
collection,
Dream
S tuff,
for
example,
contin-
ues thewriter's
engage-
mentwith thewartime
period
ofhis adolescence
firstseenin
Johnno.
Here
wefind ataleofa
boy's
fantasizing
abouthis
missing
father,
soldiering
overseas. His mother attracts
a
jovialyoung
Americanservicemanto the
house,
and
the
boy gradually
wakens to
presentreality
and the
adultworld. Other stories havethewar as aless central
element,
butitrecurs inmentionofafather lostinthe
battles onCrete
(" Dream S tuff" ),
ofharassmentof
young
soldiers
preparing
for theKoreanWar
(" Night
Training" ),
and ofthe
pathos
in
providing companion-
ship
for soldiers onR&R from Vietnam
(" S ally's S tory" ).
Unlikehis
longer
fiction, however,
thereis no
attempt
inthestories to
explore
national
myth,
and the
light-
ness oftouch in
sketching personal
" dream stuff" is
more
satisfying.
War serves as a
powerful
instanceof
thosemoments of
defining challenge
whentheextraor-
dinary
wedream ofintrudes
uponordinary
existence
and thetwo different
experiences
havesomehow to be
accommodated
(Dream S tuff, 64).
Themomentofcontactbetweendifferentorders of
experience
is imbued with
mystery. Apart
from the
spe-
cific
mystery plots
ofworks such as Child's
Play,
thereis
the
mystery
ofwhatmakes
people
tick
(their Oedipal
inheritances,
thefascinationof
people
absorbed ina
taskor lostin
sleep,
the
puzzle
of
why
afather cannot
inspiregoodwill
buthis son
can).
Thereis the
mystery
ofour connectionto thenaturalworld and thewonder
or fear itcan
engender
insomeof
us,
the
mystery
of
how
language
works,
ofhow someofus find intuitive
balanceinaworld thatothers forceinto solid blocks of
unfeeling
certitude. For the
writer,
creativity
itselfstems
from
mystery:
" I thinkmost
people
who are
writing
Maloufs shorter fiction,
being
more inclined toward
the
telling image
than
toward discursiveness,
is able more
consistently
to
tap
into his creative
strengths
and to
provide
new
insights
into old
experiences.
seriously,
writebecausethereis
something they
don't
yet
understand which
they
wantto find outabout"
(Tipping, 41).
Whether itis inalocal" folk" museum
(" GreatDay"
inDream
S tuff)
or theMuseum oftheHolocaust
(" I n
Trust,"
Antipodes),
oneofthe
great
wonders
confronting
Maloufis the
transfiguration
effected
by
the
passage
of
time.
Objects pass through
asuccessionofhands and
on/backto aconditionofsimultaneous
loss,
preserva-
tion,
and
alteration,
... as ifthesubstance...
-
adenseness thathad
pre-
vented us from
looking
forward or too far back
-
had
cleared atlast. Weseethese
objects
and ourselves as co-
existent,
inthe
very
momentoftheir first
stepping
outinto
their own
being
and in
every
instantnow oftheir
long pil-
grimage
towards us,
inwhich
they
have
gathered
thefin-
gerprints
oftheir mostcasualusers and the
ghostly
butstill
powerfulpresence
ofthelives
they
served.
. . . Westareand areamazed. Were
they
once, weask
ourselves, as
undistinguished
as thebuttons onour
jacket
or astickofroll-ondeodorant? Our ownutensils and arte-
facts takeon
significance
for amomentinthe
light
ofthe
future. S mallcoins
glow
inour
pockets.
Our world too
seems
vividly, unbearably present, yetmysteriously
far off.
(Antipodes, 124)
Athis
best,
Malouf
suggests
theseideas
through
images:
the
gesture
thatwill
convey
a
potential
for
meaningfulness,
thesound thatwill
encapsulate
that
moment
-
a
piano
chord to hold our
attention,
the
thud ofadiscarded necklacethatwill
signify
life's bald
f
actuality
beforetheonsetofsilence
(Antipodes, 67).
Healso works with effects of
light
and
landscape,
poised
likehis surfer and
photographer
in
Fly Away
Peter betweentheminimalist
lightness
ofFred Williams's
canvases of
sparsely
tree-dotted hillsides and theGoth-
icdarkness ofArthur
Boyd's
more
violently
dramatic
paintings.
I nthe
impressionisticvignette
of" A Medi-
um,"
the
closing piece
in
Antipodes,
itself
summoned,
we
feel,
almostunbiddenfrom the
past,
thewriter
teeters toward
sentimentality
thatis
just
held incheck
by
the
narrating
self-awareness,
and achieves anAnti-
podean
momentof
symbolist
resonance
worthy
of
Mansfield and Woolf.
Thereis no
story,
no setofevents thatleads
anywhere
or
proves anything
-
no middle, no end.
Just
a
glimpse
through
a
half-open
door, voices seennot
heard, vibrations
sensed
through
awallwhilethetrained ear
strains, notto
hear whatis
passing
inthenextroom, butto measurethe
chords
-
precise, fixed,
nameableas diminished fifths or
Neapolitan
sixths, butalso atmoments
approaching
tears
-
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thatare
being
struckoutonaniron-framed
upright;
and the
voicethatnames them
your
own.
(160)
Thereis oftena
mystical
senseof
flowing
outinto
life,
as well as acountersenseof
being
invaded
by
it. I n
Antipodes
itarises from
stargazing (" S outhernS kies" )/
ontheone
hand, and,
onthe
other,
from thevisitation
of
memory
and asenseofthe
country's
homeless,
alienated
youth (" TheEmpty Lunch-Tin" ),
or sudden
political
violenceataMediterranean
holiday
resort
(" A
Change
of
S cene" ).
I nDream
S tuff
it
appears
as adrunk-
en
mugging
and
interrogation(" Dream S tuff" )
and the
hijacking
murder ofaretired
coupletraveling
Australia
(" LonePine" ).
Both
aspects
oftransformationareneces-
sary
for characters to
bring
the
disparatepoints
oftheir
lifeinto focus as constellations
supplying meaning
and
direction. I tis theartofthestories to
present
thesecon-
stellations as
shifting
and
delicately
connected intima-
tions rather thanas fixed
symbols. Maryanne
Dever
usefully points
outinthis
regard
how loss
(lost
child-
hood,
lost
parents,
lost
loves,
lost
pasts)
canbeboth
debilitating
and the
catalyst
for creation.
Chris
Wallace-Crabbe, however,
finds
" something
a
little
puddingy"
inDavid Maloufs latest
collection,
and
attributes itto thenumber of
public
talks asuccessful
writer is forced into inthis world of
" marketing prod-
uct."
Becoming
anationaltreasurecanconfer acertain
ponderous
substance,
I
suppose,
butmore
probably
it
has
helped
moveMalouf's recent
writing
toward
essays,
stories,
and sketches and
away
from extended novels.
This is notabad
thing
ifithas allowed him to maintain
his
facility
with theevocative
image
and the
lyrical
ca-
dencethatcharacterized his
early " poetic" style,
ifit
preserves
that
delicacy
which I habHassan
nicely phrases
as
attending
to
" whispers
ofhidden
being" (Hassan, 39).
I nrecent
years
in
Australia,
the
essay
has comeback
into
literary prominence.
Once
taught
in
high
schools
and
published
in
newspapers,
this form was
pushed
aside
by
" real" literature,
by
media
pandering
to the
tabloid
reader,
and
by government
intoleranceof
public
dissent. A combinationofthetheoretical
critique
ofcat-
egories
such as
" literature,"
" autobiography,"
and " his-
tory"
and concernover thedeclineof" the
public
intel-
lectual" has
prompted magazineprizes
for
essays,
experiments
in
" ficto-criticism,"
and
anthologies
ofes-
says.
Malouf,
as aformer
academic,
has
always
been
prepared
to intellectualizeabouthis artand has
given
radio talks and interviews thathavefed backinto his
work. 12 Edmondstone S treetis one
expression
of
this,
butalso marks a
progressive
fusionof
genres
other-
wisefound inRobertDessaix's
Night
Letters or Kate
Llewellyn's writing.
Thereis
something
ofthis inthe
writer's
self-mocking
confessioninan
early story
of
producing
an
" anthropology
of
prowlers" (Child's Play,
201)
-
which is also aconfessionfound inother works
(such
as " A Traveller's Tale" in
Antipodes
or
" Jacko's
Reach" inDream
S tuff)
-
of
producing
commentaries
onthenatureof
writing.
Malouftalks aboutthe" comfortable" and " safe"
pleasures
of
following
anumber of
perspectives
across
several" worlds" inextended fiction. Both novels and
shortstories
emergeunplanned
from
origins
in" atmo-
sphere
. . . textureand
landscape
and thefeel itwill
have." Buttheshort
story
has a
particular pleasure
in
that
" you
know
you
canwritethefirstdraftina
couple
of
days,
and then
you'vegot
this nicelittle
thing
to
pol-
ish"
(L. S mith). Polishing
theartefact
/story, however,
does notmean
turning
itinto a
perfect,
self-enclosed
unit;
thereis an
energy
related to
leaving things
unsaid
and events unresolved. Maloufdeclares himself
happy
with looseends and evocative
mystery,
with
working
through impressions, " correspondences, analogies,
metaphors
rather than
plot,"
butis also driven
by
the
desireto
understand,
to seethe
shape
of
something
(Kavanagh, 247-48, 251).
Thestories enactthis
dynamic
of
letting
themuddleand
mystery
inasituation
express
itselfwhile
moving
their elements toward some
appre-
hensionofan
underlying pattern
withoutwhich thesit-
uationwould remain
confusing
or
simply
banal.
One
key pattern
inMaloufs
writing
noted
by
Dever
shows
age
redirected
through
childhood to achievea
new wholeness of
being,
while
youth
is led into awider
awareness oftheworld. As with theconnectionbetween
Jim
S addler and
I mogen
Harcourt
(Fly Away Peter)
or
the
boy
and Ovid
(AnI maginary Life),
transformation
occurs outofa
contemplativeactivity bordering
on
mystical
awe
-
bird-watching
or
staring
at
prairie
flowers. I n
Remembering Babylonbeekeeping
leads to life
inaconventas well as to scientificarticles. I tis Keats-
ian
negativecapability plus
Wordsworthianimmersion
inthenaturalworld with acorrectivetouch ofBlake-
likevision
(Kavanagh, 254).
Butthe
point
is thatthis is
shownto occur inmodernand localterms as well as
European
and classicalones. I n" S outhernS kies" we
seethis
dynamic
dramatized
through stargazing
from
anAustralian
backyard.
An
aging professor
inducts a
young boy
into sexual and mental
awakening:
he
becomes morethanhis erraticadolescentself-fascina-
tion;
heis
" put
... atthecentreofan
enlarged
view"
(Malouf,
in
Tipping, 41).
Loss ofchildhood and an
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opening
outinto adultawareness areheld
together
in
amomentof
grace.
This transmutes inother circum-
stances to a
pure,
sometimes
terrifying
momentof
poise
before
change:
Hefelttoo
heavy
to move. Therewas such a
swarming
in
him.
Every drop
ofblood inhim was
pressing against
the
surfaceofhis skin
-
inhis hands, his forearms with their
gorged veins,
his
belly,
thecalves ofhis
legs,
his feetonthe
stony ground. Every drop
ofit
holding
him
by
forceof
gravity
to wherehe
stood,
and
mightgo
on
standing
till
dawnifhecouldn't
pull
himself
away.
Yethehad no wish
to
step
on
past
this moment, to move
away
from itinto
whatever was to come.
Butthemomenttoo was intolerable. I fheallowed itto
go
on
any longer
hewould becrushed.
Helaunched himselfattheair and broke
through
into
thenextminutethatwas
waiting
to
carry
him on.
(Dream
S tuff, 115)
I nthesemoments of
suspension,
wecandetectMaloufs
constant
pull
toward
epiphany
and thenuminous. He
argues
for
retaining
asenseof
religion
as a
saving
humanfactor
providing
realizationof
continuity,
and
for
connecting
with the
ritual,
mythic
basis to behavior
beneath social
normality (Tipping, 43-45).
This is the
portentous
end ofthebalance
pole
onhis writer's
high-
wire
act,
the
prosaicbeing
attheother. Maloufis aware
ofthe
dangers
indidacticor discursive
writing
and
favors amore
dynamic
visionand amore
subjective
means of
engaging
our attention:" I thinkintheend
that
people
are
changed
not
by
an
argument
but
by
being put
into asituationthat
requires
anactof
imagi-
nationontheir
part,
which
changes
them
by making
them seeinanew
way" (Tipping, 41).
A further
aspect
ofthis
imaginative
shiftis
finding
the
language
with
which to
express
new
perceptions:
" The
things
that
can'tbenamed becausewehavenot
yet
discovered the
language
for
them,
though
weknow
they
arethere.
They
arewhat
provide
our
growing
senseoftheworld"
(Kavanagh, 259).
I nterms ofAustralian
writing,
Maloufs fictionbal-
ances thestolid
materiality
ofsocialrealism
against
the
solid
portentousness
ofWhite's
symbolism
and treads a
delicate
path
betweenthem
(Copeland, 434).
Dream
S tuff
touches onthis
balancing
actin
" Jacko's Reach,"
amed-
itationonthe
significance
ofwhatis lostand thereten-
tive
power
of
memory
whenthelocalcouncilturns a
wasteland into a
shopping
mall:
Thelastluminous
grains
ofafreer and moredemocratic
spirit,
thatthehusbands and wives of
my generation
still
turnto indreams. . . .
I tis
this,
all
this,
thatwill
go
under thebars ofneon
lights
and thecrowded shelves and
trolleys
ofthe
supermarket,
thewheels ofskateboards, thebitumenwalks and
solid,
poured-concreteramps.
Jacko's,
as weknew
it,
willenter atlastinto whatacentu-
ry
and morehas
already prepared
it
for,
thedimensions of
the
symbolic.
Which is ofcoursewhatithas
always
been,
though
the
grit
ofitbetween
your
baretoes and the
density
ofits
undergrowth,
the
untidy
mass ofit
against
theeve-
ning sky,
for a
long
timeobscured thefact. . . .
S o itwillbe
gone
and itwon'tbe. Like
everything
else.
Under.
Whereits darkness willnever
quite
be
dispelled,
however
many mushroom-lights they
installinthe
parking
lot. . . .
I fthereis
only
onewild acresomewherewewillmake
thatthe
place.
I f
they
takeit
away
wewill
preserve
itinour
head. I fthereis no such
place
wewill inventit. That's the
way
weare.
(99-100).
I tis nothard to seeherea
parallel
to thewriter's
retelling
ofchildhood
spurred
on
by
thefactthatthe
family
homeat12 EdmondstoneS treetis now acon-
creteand
cyclone-wire-enclosed yard
for
lightindustry.
Although
Malouf
rejects
theword
nostalgia
as too
escapist(Kavanagh, 247),
thereis aconfessionofthe
valedictory
and the
elegiac
inthis thatis attimes acre-
ativeforceand atothers a
debilitating
elementinMa-
loufs fiction. S uzanneKiernan
recognizes
this when
shenotes the
importance
of
memory
and theriskthat
" literatureofthebackward look" will beeither dis-
missed or
championed
as
politically
conservativefor its
relianceon
" pathos
rather thanethos"
(Kiernan).
I t
is,
as thenarrator of
" Jacko's
Reach"
says, people
ofhis
generation
and older for whom the
Jacko's
Reaches and
theunder-the-house
spaces
ofchildhood,
the
legends
of
country pioneering,
or thelosses oftwo wars have
any
meaning.
For
today's
kids onskateboards, Jacko's
Reach and Maloufs
" classically
Edwardian" cultural
upbringing (L. S mith)
no
longer
exist:the
memory
is
notthere. Theonewild
acre,
whenitis
gone,
is
gone
for
good.
S ometimes itwould beniceto find aless sen-
timental,
more
politically tough
stanceinMaloufs sto-
ries. Heis
right,
however
(butperhaps
ina
way
this
story
does notallow
for),
inthatthenext
generation
will reinventtheurbanized
emptiness
of
poured-con-
crete
ramps
as their ownsiteofadventureand raffish-
ness and conflictwith civic
regulation.
S ybille
S mith
points
outthe" thematic
consistency"
underlying
the" formal
versatility"
ofMaloufs work
-
hecalls ithis obsessions or " thekind of
problems
I
go
backand backto"
(S mith, 83; Copeland, 435).
I fwecon-
sider themostrecentcollection's focus ondreams and
lookbackatan
early piece
like
" Eustace,"
wecansee
how this is thecase. " Eustace" tells the
story
ofa
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teenage
intruder inthedor-
mitory
ofa
girl's boarding
school. Maloufis
good
at
conveying
theinchoate
natureofadolescentdesires
and theinnocent
curiosity
thatleads
inevitably
to
somemomentofdecisive
change.
This was his realneed here:
thatthesituationshould
makeofhim
something
that
he
painfully longed
for and
had comehere,
allunwit-
ting,
to haverevealed. He
had no ideawhatit
might
be. Hehad
simply
followed
someclueinhimselfand
arrived. ... I twas as ifhe
had climbed into a
high
place
ofhis ownhead where
hecould breatheat
last,
and confronted it:asitua-
tionthathad
always
been
thereand from which he
was to forcenow the
long
withheld revelation.
(168)
Here,
the
young
mechanic
is
" adopted" by
the
girls,
who
compete
to makehim
part
oftheir dreams. As
with
Gemmy poised
onthe
fenceatthe
beginning
of
Remembering Babylon,
the
intruder is
momentarily
suspended
ina
pure
momentofencounter and
potential
that
quickly
be-
comes
complicated.
One
part
ofthe
mystery
ofsuch
anoccasionto which Ma-
louf
regularly
returns is the
fleeting
transformationof
the
ordinary
into the
magi-
cal:a
carrot-haired,
gangly
grease-monkey
and a
bunch of
giddy schoolgirls together generate
anauraof
enchant- mentthatdemands to be
preserved
but
quickly
succumbs to the
everyday
from which itis born. Wesee
the
jockeying
between
boy-stranger
and
girls,
the
girls
as a
group
and theonewho first" discovers" and names
Eustace,
and the
pressures
thatdrive
Jane
and Eustace
to run
away together.
From anadult
point
ofview,
we
canseetheviolenceand sexual drive
threatening
at
the
edges
ofcontrolover innocentdreams
(151),
and
(through
the
stuffy
Miss Wilson,
the
composition
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teacher)
wesensethe
potential
for horror in
going
beyond
thebounds of
conventionality;
butthe
story
takes us into thefascinationof
unshaped potential
inherentin
breaking
bounds and
following
dreams.
Along
with thecontinued
working
over of
themes,
though,
S mith also notes Malouf's
" range
from
fairly
conventionalnarrativeto
pieces
thataremorelike
essays
and notations"
-
something
thatbecomes clear-
er as he
overtly
moves into theseforms of
expression(S .
S mith, 83).
I nthis
respect,
Malouf's shortstories enact
their own
generic" hovering
atthethreshold" reflected
withinthem inthemes oftransitionfrom
Europe
to
Australia,
youth
to
maturity, past
to future. Peter Pierce
supports
such aview whenhenotes the
blending
of
several
genres
in
Remembering Babylon(183-84),
and we
can
perhaps
locatethe
beginnings
ofthis inthe" dia-
logue"
thatwas
already occurring
between
essay
and
story.
WhilePeter Cravenconsiders thatDream
S tuff
" does notsound liketheworkofan
essayist
with
lyri-
cal
gifts
ofsome
grandeur,
who makes
gestures
toward
afictionalactionofwhich hecanconceivebutnot
embody,"
thereis
always
a
tendency
inMalouftoward
theidea. This can
appear
either as a
quest
for thecon-
cept
thatwill filloutthe
imagesparking
a
story,
or as
thefoundation
seeking
situations and
images
to makeit
dramatically
visibleto thereader.
The
pull
ofintellect
againstimage(or
atleastthe
parallel
forces ofthesetwo
elements)
as well as thethe-
maticlinks across Maloufs
proseoutput
canbeseenin
thefactthat12 Edmondstone S treet
appears pretty
much
atthesametimeas
Antipodes
and functions in
part
as a
gloss
onthefiction. I ts firstword is
" memory,"
and its
first
image(picked up
inthebook's
illustrations)
is a
" colonial-style" Queensland
timber
bungalow
on
posts.
Hereis the
pointer
to Maloufs creativeresources:the
impressionisticdredging
ofchildhood
pasts (thespaces
and
objects
ofthe
home,
such as the" Brass
Jardiniere"
[40-42], operating
likethementalrooms and markers of
the
pre-Renaissance
rhetorician's artof
memory)
and
theinterestinhow acolonialculture
transmogrifies
in
settling
into anew climateand
society (theairy
" under
house" and theverandah as a" border
zone,"
an
ambig-
uous marker " that
you
are
just
one
step up
from the
nomads"
[11/20]).
Theseideas arerevisited inlater
analysis
ofthesocial
space
of
camping
families in" At
S chindler's"
(Dream S tuff, 8-9)
and
spelled
outinMa-
louf's
essay
" A First
Place,"
wherehe
speaks
ofthe
urge
to usesuch
private
icons to construct
myths by
which
people
cansettleinto anew culture. I nthetitlememoir-
meditationof12 Edmondstone
S treet,
memory
is also
shownto bea
mysterious phenomenon
related to
psy-
chologicaldevelopment
and adramatic
power
or affec-
tive" truth"
beyond accuracy
and rational
explanation.
Thus,
itbecomes thevital
catalyst
for artistic
creation,
theinterfacebetween
loss, reclamation,
and
generation.
Malouf's memories ofhis Lebanese
grandfather
telling
stories ina
languagemeaningful
to thechild
only
as akind ofmusic
(5)
or the
indecipherable
" Chi-
nese
Dictionary"
inFather's
workshop (45)
reflects the
constantinterestin
language
and
possibilities
ofcom-
municating beyond
its bounds
(as
inOvid
learning
Tomis
meanings
and how to teach /learnfrom thewolf-
boy
inAn
I maginary Life;
or
Jim
S addler's fascination
with the
" language"
ofbirds and
migration
in
Fly Away
Peter;
or the
story
" The
Only S peaker
ofHis
Tongue"
in
Antipodes).
I nthelocationofthe
family
homeand the
concernofMalouf's
anglophile
mother for
preserving
socialniceties
(33),
wecanalso seethechild's and later
thewriter's fascinationwith thedemimondeofdiffer-
ence:
" immigrants
. . .
abos,
swaggies
and metho-
drinkers"
(8),
" fallen" womenwho smokeand swear
(15-16), plus prostitutes
and small-timecrooks
(as
in
Uncle
Jake's
" rake's
progress"
in" Bad Blood"
[Antipodes]).
Maloufcouches theseinterests inthe
language
of
Freudiancrisis and
control, dream and social
facticity
-
whatPeter Piercecalls the" terrors ofseverance. . .
and the
palliations
of
memory" (186).
S tories and
essay
alikeconfess to traumas ofexclusion
(9, 21)
and fears of
intrusion.
(" Our Burglar" [26-27] reappears
as " The
Prowler" inChild's
Play,
acat
burglar
and
rapist
in
" ThatAntic
Jezebel" [Antipodes], and,
inthemostrecent
collection,
a
jittery gunman
in" LonePine" or a
mugger
in" Dream
S tuff." )
Herethe
power
ofwords
provides
confessionalcomfortand
sublimatory
order. Paul
Kavanagh (257-58)
notes theconnectioninthis context
to a
problematic
of
gender (very pre-liberation-era)
in
which womenare
mysterious
and
mythic
and
boys
are
fascinated
by
and
ejected
from their world inthesame
way
thatnarrationis founded onaconstitutive
separa-
tionfrom or
recovery
ofthe
past
and childhood.
S uch
psychologizing
oftenleaves the
impression
of
Maloufas
conservatively reconstructing
aneraof
pre-
sixties " old
pieties" (25)
and
reducing everything
to
pri-
vateobsessions
(asensory solipsism [53-54] memorably
and
exaggeratedly
identified
by
Germaine
Greer).
I nhis
more
expansive
fiction,
this
may
bea
shortcoming,
but
inthe
stories,
such an
approach
canlend the
fleeting
subjective
effects of
atmosphere
and emotionthe
gener-
alizing primalpower
of
myth.
I nthe
opening story
of
Dream
S tuff,
for
example,
a
boy working through
the
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loss ofhis father overseas in
wartime,
his own
growing
into
teenage
manhood,
his
friendship
with a
young
GI ,
and his
discovery
ofthe
" primal
scene'' betweenhis
mother and thesoldier would haveless
impact
ifit
werenotfor theFreudiandramainherentinthedetail.
Theschematic
substructure, however,
is saved from
ponderous
triteness
by
two
things:
Malouf's
ability
to
convey
themodulations ofthe
process
of
bringing
something
to
consciousness,
and his fine
detailing
of
timeand
place(period
words like
lowboy
and local
idioms such as
pozzie
abound;
the
morning
heatofa
" sleepout"
insummer and therituals ofabeach holi-
day
individualizethe
generaldrama).
When
Milt,
the
energeticyoung
GI ,
talks of
archeology
as " resurrect-
ing" things through logic
and
guesswork(11-12),
we
canseethewriter inaself-reflexivemomentthatis of
a
piece
with the
workings
ofthenarrative. The
boy
is
similarly putting together
the
pieces
ofhis lifeand learn-
ing
to see
beyond
them inaccordancewith Malouf's
ownaims.
WhatI am interested inis
continuity,
and that
means,
if
you
are
going
to understand the
present
atalland seewhat
might
bethe
patterns
of
your developing
life,
then
you
need to
experience, reexperience,
the
past,
butthe
past
as it
really always
was
-
as
something
immediate,
fullofmud-
dle,
containing
ina
very
confused
way
allthe
things
that
areto come. S o whenI recreateamomentinthe
past,
itis to
makeitas
present
as
possible,
to establish
continuity,
to
open
it
up
to thefuture.
(Kavanagh, 247)
The
openness
into
possibilities
is
presented through
deftuseofleitmotivs such as the
boy's
balanceatthe
edge
ofa
diving
board. This
implies
various
aspects
of
his liminal/ transitionalcondition; Jack
is
practicing
to
emulatehis father and
waiting
for thewar to end so the
pool
willbe
refilled,
hewillbe
older,
and hecancom-
plete
thedive. The
story's progress brings
outtheideas.
Malouf's interestinthe
conceptual
and the
pattern
that
will
giveshape
to events cannonetheless lead to false
notes attimes. Whenthe
eleven-year-old protagonist
starts to theorizeabouthis
personalrelationships
in
terms of
triangles (9, 15),
weseetheabstract
underpin-
nings
ofhis
story obtruding
atthe
expense
ofthesenso-
ry, bodily " logics"
of
youthfulperception.
Freud over-
rides the
myth
his theories
point
to;
rigid shapes
sub-
sumethe
mysterious
" brokencontinuities"
(9)
oflife
that
supply
the
power
ofthetale. Thewill to connection
and
harmony
carries thenarrative
beyond
its dramatic
and
symbolic
resolution,
pointing
to thedownsideof
Malouf's
lyricimpulse
-
asentimentalism identified
by
Peter Craven.
The
dynamic
coexistenceofintellectand
impression,
found inthe
swing
from reflections onthenatureof
time
(39)
to a
catalogue
ofthefurnitureinthefront
room
(49),
is held
together by
Malouf's musical
prose.
(Theessay
mentions " thePiano Room" and Aunt
Frances,
who
gave
lessons in
" piano,
fiddleand man-
doline"
[32].)
This becomes
quite
clear intheverbal
landscapepainting
of" I n
Tuscany,"
which records the
rhythms
oflifeand natureinanI talian
village.
Consid-
er the
varying length
ofsentenceand
phrase
inthefol-
lowing passage
and its carefulconstructionof
rhythm:
" I n
May, great
swarms of
fireflies,
insuch brilliant
drifts thatonmoonless
nights you
cansee
your way by
them.
Nightingales.
And from the
vineyards
the
regular
boom oftheautomaticcannonthatareused to
keep
off
boar. I n
poorer vineyards, sleepy
childrenbeatsauce-
pans,
and allthe
way
into thedistancethe
dogs
bark"
(71).
Thewriter moves from theflow of
things
and
events to reflectionon
them,
connecting
theoutside
world ofnatureto his interior
writing
lifeand the
progress
ofafilm shoot:
Allthis snow . . . was not
provided
for whenwe
began.
I twill
obviously
bea
major
factor now. I seeitas ameta-
phor
for thesnowbound stateofisolationI am inwhenI
am shut
up
hereinthe
village,
with no
telephone,
no car,
absorbed inabook. I tis as ifI had
produced
it
by magic
or
afreeactofthe
imagination,
to make
my point. Anyway,
wherever ithas come
from,
itis now afactand will
impose
its ownconditions. ... S o thatis 'the
script'. Only
whatI
read canbefixed.
(83)
Thereis notthesame
luxury
oforder whenthe
writer travels
beyond
his familiar bounds to I ndia.
Control
swings
to
crisis,
the
anxiety
of
injections
and
crowds,
and theconfusionofboundaries
(the" promis-
cuousness
[of] teeming plenitude" [110]). Only
whena
beggar boy provides insight
into local" roles to
play
out. . .
dignities
... asocial
shape" (106)
is thewriter
charmed and moved
by
the
memory
to revisit. None-
theless,
although
his outlookis more
positive
than
Naipaul's
firstview ofthe
subcontinent,
Maloufworks
onthesame
panoramiccataloguing
of
dress,
people,
activity, objects (using
words likenativeand
primitive
with a
curiously
old-fashioned
innocence).
The
rhythm
is more
frenetic,
the
viewpointobjectivized,
butthenar-
rativeeffectis
subjectivesensory impact. Only
whena
connectionto
European
cultureis made
(via
the
swastika)
does thewriter feelableto move
briefly
toward intel-
lectualabstraction
(113-14),
untilattheend of
descrip-
tionthereis anassessmentofthe
meaning
ofitallfor
thewriter and his ilk:" I ndiais fullof
temptations
for
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thewesterner. ... To walkon
blindly
as ifno need
existed,
or as ifallthis weremere
theatre,
is to beinone
moral
predicament;
to react
puts you immediately
in
another. And ofcourseto beconcerned with moral
predicament
atallis an
indulgence,
ifallitinvolves is
thedesireto beinthe
right" (118-19).
Allthewriter sal-
vages
from the
experience
is aseries ofrandom
images
and the
disturbing knowledge
thatevenhuman
gesture
is notuniversal:heis excluded from
understanding
(122).
This
isolating
realizationof" thevast
gap
ofdark-
ness" which exists attheheartofdifference
(and
its cor-
relationwith shifts to
Europe
and
Asia)
lies behind the
various
polarities
ofthestories in
Antipodes, although
there
is,
inthat
collection,
an
accompanying
interestin
the
ground
betweenextremes and how it
might
be
imaginatively
crossed. I nthe
essays,
theconnectionis
moreanawareness thatthe" dark
gap" opens
not
only
betweencountries and
cultures,
butbetween
present
and
past,
child and
adult,
fear and desire. I ts existential
status is
signaled
inthe
appearance
inthe
concluding
essay,
" The
Kyogle
Line,"
of" barrier moments" similar
to thoseoftheI ndiantravel-memoir in
Queensland
memories ofwartimetrain
travel,
Japanese
POWs,
and
Grandfather's
history
of
migration(131-33).
Themostrecent
short-story
collection,
Dream
S tuff,
appears
to haveits
inception
around thesametimeas
Antipodes
-
thewriter
claiming
inaninterview with
LindaS mith in
1985
thathehas another collectionon
the
way,
and also a
long
noveland another shorter one.
I t
is, therefore,
not
surprising
thatthereis no
startling
change
inthe
style
or themes ofthesecond collection;
indeed,
ithas beenhailed as areturnto Maloufs most
successful
form,
wherethe
" sensuously
attractive" leads
to the" shockof
recognition" through
dramatic
intensity
and
expressiveeconomy (Craven).
Wecandiscerncertain
shifts,
such as the
greater
emphasis
on
S ydney,
amore
contemporary
senseof
random violencewithinAustraliarather thanthecom-
forts ofsocial
conventions,
an
opening
into amore
adultworld ofretired senior civil
servants,
successful
writers,
caravanning
news
agents, religious prejudices.
Thereis anelementofintertextual
tribute, too,
that
declares thecollectionas onefrom a
successfully
installed " arts
identity."
S everal
poets, S hakespeare,
I bsenand Tennessee
Williams,
and Dickens aremen-
tioned
(81, 91, 104-5, 177)-
1* is
nigh impossible
to read
the
opening story
withoutsomehintofTom
Keneally's
S chindler's Ark
{S chindler's
Listinthe
U.S .),
and the
country
fundamentalists of" Closer" not
only
recallthe
Queensland upbringing
of
Janette
Turner
Hospital,
refracted into her novel
Oyster (or possibly
theworld of
Jeannette
Winterson's childhood writteninto
Oranges
AreNotthe
Only Fruit),
but
they
also livenorth of
Buladelah near thehomedistrictof
poet
Les
Murray.
Possibly
atrial
piece
for
Remembering Babylon,
" Black-
soil
Country" (in
which the
bigotry
ofafather leads to
murder of
Aborigines
and the
paybackkilling
ofhis
son,
thereby turning
his wife's facefrom dreams ofelse-
whereto her
presentlocality)
also carries initthesame
ideaofritualsacrificeto settlewhitenomads into Aus-
tralian
aboriginality
which is centralto
Murray's poem-
novel The
Boys
Who S toletheFuneral. Dreams ofrecon-
ciliationofallkinds
permeate
the
book,
and weseethe
beginnings perhaps
ofasocial
engagement
looked for
inearlier
work,
evenifitis stillin
psychologized
and
romantic
guise.
ThetitleDream
S tuff
offers a
quickguide
to Maloufs
work. I tindicates a
long-standing
interestand sourceof
materialfor thewriter and combines demoticAustralian
(" some
stuffabout
dreams" )
with unobtrusive
European
literary
allusion
(Freud's
" dreamwork" and S hake-
speare's
" Wearesuch stuffas dreams aremade
on" ).
I n
the
story
thatlends its nameto thebook,
" dream stuff"
is also the
marijuanagrown
inthe
tropical
hinterland
ofBrisbane. I t
possibly
drives a
deranged
man
disap-
pointed
inloveto attackthe
writer-protagonist
and
then
attempt
suicide
(thus providing
thewriter with a
dream/nightmare,
connected
tangentially
with his own
history
ofdesires and
failures,
onwhich to build anar-
rative).
Butitalso fuels urban
myths
of
drug
lords and
gangs
ofstreet
people
carried offintrucks to harvest
their
crops by night.
Thedisconnected
yetjuxtaposed
and
circling
elements oflife's extremities arethe
mys-
tery
thatshakes us and from which stories arise.
The
teasing suggestion
of
something
moreto come,
which
was unseenbut
strongly
felt,
and had to be
puzzled
over
and
guessed
at,
appealed
to him. To asideofhim that
pre-
ferred notto cometo conclusions. Thatlived most
richly
in
mystery
and
suspended expectation.
Theafternoon had a
shape
thathecameto feelwas
exemplary,
and his readers
might
havebeen
surprised
to know how oftenthefictions
hecreated derived their
vagrant
form,
butevenmoretheir
mixtureof
openness
and
hidden, half-sought-for
menace,
from anoccasionhehad never
got
to thebottom of,
for all
thathehad
gone
backtimeafter timeand lethis
imagina-
tion
play
with its
many possibilities. (41)
A new elementinthestories is the
citing
ofa
phi-
losopher
atthe
very
end ofDream
S tuff.
I tis
exactly
the
kind of" classical,"
reconditeworkaretired senior civil
servantfrom anestablishment
family likely
to
quote
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Goethe
(137) mightpickup
oninhis leisured
progress
toward the
grave.
WhileI do notthinkthatMaloufis
indicating
a
significant
intellectualinfluence
(thepoint
atthetimeis thevirtueof
paying
attentionto
things
-
anecho of
Janet
Frame's later
work),
theallusion
gives
us someideaofthewriter's
general
interests. Nicholas
Malebranch
(1638-1715) attempted
to reconcileCarte-
sian
mind-body
dualism with Catholic
theology,
con-
cluding
thatour
acting by
naturallaw or humanwill is
notinitself
causal,
but
merely
theoccasionfor divine
intervention;
thatwethinkand seeand movewithin
and
through
" theefficacious substanceofthe
divinity"
(Flew, 202, 236).
Herewehaveanindicationofonecen-
tralconcerninMalouf's work:to show how the
body
is
a
sensory organ
of
apprehension
thatcanlead themind
to
knowledgebeyond
intellectual
reach,
how weneed
themind to see
patterns
in
things
for such
knowledge
to have
meaning,
and also how both mind and
body
haveto be
transcended,
" possessed" by something
sub-
limefor
any
morethanmundanetruth to be
perceived.
Malouf
speaks
ofsubtle
phenomenasparking
offthe
creative
drive,
as
" messengers standing
around in
your
life,
and
you
haveto askthem whatthe
message
is ...
the
quality
of
light,
acolour. . . . You haveto thinkof
them ... as sacred"
(Tipping, 43).
Thereis anelementof
theRomanticsublimeinthese
messengers:they
can
inspire
aweatonce
uplifting
and
terrifying
intheir car-
rying
us over into visions ofotherness:themind ofa
beehive,
theworld
beyond
thefarm fenceas seen
by
nomadic
Aborigines,
land and
people
seenfrom an
airplane,
theviolent
logic
ofaterrorist.
Partofthewriter's
honesty
is
showing
how the
visionary,
sublimemomentis itselfamoral:itcanlead
to both fulfillmentand annihilation. I n" Outofthe
S tream"
young
Luke,
raging against
therestrictions
of
bourgeois
life,
is
given
a
glimpse
ofuniversal
harmony:
You fellinto such states. . . .
They began
in
strangeness
and
melancholy
-
you very nearly
vanished
-
thenwhen
you
cameback,
itwas to asenseoftheoneness of
things.
There
was akind oforder intheworld and itwas in
you
as well.
You attended. You
caught
a
rhythm
to which each
gesture
could befitted. You letitlead
you
outof
your body
into
-
(Antipodes, 82)
For
him,
this leads to thebrinkof
suicide,
from which
heis drawn
away by
his
grandfather
and the
rhythms
of
gutting, scaling,
and
cooking
acatch offish. For oth-
ers,
thereis theelated
poise
ofthesurfer
(Fly Away
Peter), escape
into
drugs (" Dream S tuff" ),
or thekind of
violencewhich
(likewar)
canbe
mythic
inits excess.
Therearecrimes that
defy judgment
because
they defy
understanding.
A mild-mannered
newsagent
shuts his
shop
one
evening, goes
outto the
woodpile
wherethechooks are
dealt
with, takes an
axe, sits for tenminutes or so
listening
to thesounds ofthewarm suburban
night,
then
goes
and
butchers his whole
family,
along
with achild from
nextdoor who has come
infor theserials. Thelaw
courts do what
they
can,
and so
too,
atthelevel
wherelocal
history
be-
comes
folk-lore,
do the
newspapers;
buthorrors
ofthis sortcannotbe
gathered
backinto the
webof
daily living,
there
is too much
blood, too
much darkness inthem.
Wemustassumethe
irruptionamongst
us of
someother
agency,
a
wild-haired
fury
thatsets its hand onamanand shakes the
daylights
outof
him, or a
god
inwhom therival
aspects
of
creationand chaos areof
equalimportance
and who knows
no rule. Butbad is
civil;
itis
small-scale,
commonplace
-
something
the
good citizen, under other
circumstances,
might
himselfhavedoneand is
qualified
to condemn.
(" Bad Blood/7
Antipodes, 93)
Maloufis clear how weusethesublime
(or
other
forms ofabsolute
difference)
to defineour lives. His
retired
public
servant,
allowed amomentof
reflection,
produces
ablend ofFreud and Nietzsche:
Whatwedarenotdo
ourselves,
hefound himselfthink-
ing, they
do for
us, the
housebreakers,
the
muggers,
the
smashers,
the
grab
merchants. Whenwe
punish
them itis to
hideour secret
guilt.
Thereis anancientand irreconcilable
argument
inus betweensettlementand the
spirit
ofthe
nomad, betweenthemakers oforder and our need to
give
ourselves over atmoments to the
imps
and
demons, to the
dervish danceofwhatis inthelastresortdust. Wearein
lovewith whatwemostfear and hide
from, death.
(" Great
Day/'
Dream
S tuff, 177)
Thewriter also
suggests
thatwecan
only
ever tellthe
stories weknow from our own
place
incultureand
time
(Antipodes, 155)
-
hencethe
consistently
middle-
class, white-maleoutlookofthe" we" aboveand Ma-
louf's stories
generally.
Wherehefalls into thesenti-
mental,
hefails to consider how weconstructsuch
horrificdifferenceto absolveourselves from
responsi-
bility,
or how wecreate
strangeness
to
provide
our-
selves with an
easy promise
ofexcitementor release. I n
thesemoments wefeelthatthe
insights
or consolations
afforded characters arenotearned or
fully realized,
that
Herewe have anindication
of one central concernin
Malouf's work:to show
how the
body
is a
sensory
organ
of
apprehension
that
canlead the mind to
knowledge beyond
intellectual reach . . .
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the
necessary
isolationoftheartisthas
spilled
over into
thelifeofhis
characters,
thatthe
essay
has
imposed
on
the
story.
Thus,
inDream
S tuff,
thesurfers onthebeach
aremore
symbolicfigures
intheminds ofthe
bourgeois
voyeurs
thanreal
people,
and whenthe
" holy
fool"
(traffic-accident victim, Clem) pronounces
his science-
fictionversionofthemedieval
mystic's
" Allwill be
well"
-
" Anything
is
possible. Nothing
is lost.
Nothing
ever
gets
lost"
(181)
-
thewisdom comes from nowhere.
The
positiveaspect
ofthis is thatits
fleeting impact
is
part
ofaloose
assemblage
of
impressionistic
moments
filtered
through
differentcharacters and
events,
and the
wholecounts for morethantheodd
portentous
instance.
Maloufis bestwhenheholds backfrom full-onroman-
ticidealism and concentrates onthetenuous
mysterious
grace
ofthe
ordinary.
The
balancing
actbetweenbanal-
ity
and bombastin
quest
ofa
lyric
fineness and com-
pelling harmony,
theblend of
modernity
and classi-
cism,
intellectand
image, produce
for meanAustralian
proseequivalent
ofW. H. Auden's verse:a
difficult,
often
uneven,
butoverall
compelling
achievement. ETUI
University ofWollongong
Works consulted
Auden,
W. H. S elected Poems. Edward Mendelson, ed. London.
Faber & Faber.
1979.
Copeland, Julie.
" I nterview with David Malouf/' ALS .
Craven, Peter. " S hockof
Recognition." S ydney Morning
Herald,
1
April2000, S pectrum, p.
10s.
Dessaix, Robert.
Night
Letters.
S ydney.
Macmillan.
1996.
Dever,
Maryanne.
" S ecret
Companions:
The
Continuity
of
David Malouf's Fiction." World LiteratureWrittenin
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26:1
(1986), pp. 67-74.
Flew,
Anthony,
&
Jennifer S peake,
eds. A
Dictionary of
Philoso-
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Greer, Germaine. " Malouf's
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Paul S harrad is Associate
Professor
in
English
S tudies attheUni-
versity ofWollongong
(Australia). Heteaches inareas
ofpostcolonial
literatures, edits New Literatures Review,
and has
published
main-
ly
onI ndianand
Pacificwriting
in
English.
Hehas reviewed
for
WLT since
1990.
768
*
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