The Leopard

I don't know what happened to my original copy of The Leopard, which I studied in HSC a looong time ago, but I replaced it some time ago with the one pictured above. I was prompted to re-read Guiseppe di Lampedusa's 1958 classic novel partly by Susan Green, and partly by watching the sumptuous Netflix series based on the book.

Watching the series, I marvelled that I'd forgotten so much of the story -- well, it's not that surprising, because the script writer fleshed out some episodes with invented scenes. But in fact there was quite a bit that I'd genuinely forgotten. I remember how much I adored The Leopard, but what I mostly retained was the atmosphere of languid, lush sensuality, mingled violence and torpor that gave me my first impression of Sicily. My most vivid recollection, skimmed over in the adaptation, was of young lovers Tancredi and Angelica exploring the long-neglected corners of the family's immense villa, trembling on the dangerous edge of desire but never quite giving in -- it was the sexiest thing I'd ever read!

Now I'm old and grey, it's Prince Fabrizio's musings on aging and regret that speak to me most powerfully. There really isn't much plot in The Leopard, but it's still amazingly atmospheric, and the Netflix version succeeded in bringing that atmosphere to life; also, Kim Rossi Stuart is superb as the Prince. At seventeen, I had a huge crush on Tancredi, but now I find him merely irritating. The Leopard was well worth a re-visit.
 

In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts

Going back over some familiar ground here -- this is the third of Gabor Maté's books I've read, and I've come to greatly respect his insights. In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts deals specifically with addiction. Maté has worked for many years among drug addicts in one of Canada's most deprived urban areas; he also (somewhat controversially) counts himself as an addict, though his personal addiction is not to a legal or illegal drug, but rather to overwork and to the compulsive purchase of classical music CDs.

There is some overlap between this book and Maté's previous work on ADHD -- many addicts are trying to soothe their restless minds with the help of illicit substances (as well as traditional drugs like alcohol and nicotine) -- but his central point is that all addicts are fundamentally seeking to calm minds disordered by trauma. Sometimes this trauma might be inter-generational oppression, or childhood sexual abuse, but it might be a deep inner disconnection caused by loving but distracted parenting -- anything that prevented the parent from closely bonding with their infant. Maté admits that he himself has often been a less than perfect parent, and that though his own parents were loving, he was born into the profound misery and dislocation of war, and was fostered out as a baby for his own safety.

The most moving sections of this long and scholarly book are the personal stories of the addicts with whom Maté has worked. Often difficult to deal with, unreliable, violent and bitter, Maté brings us close to their pain and their longing for connection. Maté's work makes a mockery of the simplistic solutions often proposed for dealing with drug addiction, or indeed for troubled youth or dispossessed minorities, or any number of 'problem' populations. Maté's compassion and reflection should be essential reading.
 

An Expert in Murder

Regular readers will know that I'm cautious about novels using real people as characters -- it can be quite poorly done. But I was intrigued by the idea of using a mystery writer as a protagonist, so I thought I'd at least check out the first volume of Nicola Upson's Josephine Tey series, and I'm relieved to say that I enjoyed it very much indeed.

Set in 1934, An Expert in Murder centres on Tey's hugely successful play, Richard of Bordeaux, which catapulted John Gielgud to stardom. The novel features a young super-fan of the play (some patrons returned thirty or forty times), and many participants in the theatrical world, some of whom are based on real people (like stage designers, the 'Motley' sisters), and theatre manager Bernard Aubrey (based on Bronson Albery). I had no idea that Josephine Tey (real name Elizabeth Mackintosh, though she wrote her plays under the name Gordon Daviot) had even written for the stage, let alone had a massive hit -- plays don't seem to have the longevity of even half-forgotten novels.

Upson said that after discovering Tey's novels for herself and deciding they were criminally overlooked (not by all of us!), she became fascinated with the theatre and literature of her times. It was a strange experience to find myself half-recognising people and places from Dodie Smith's theatrical career at much the same time, like the New and Wyndham theatres, and the leading lady based on Gwen Ffrangcon-Davies, who also starred in some of Smith's plays. I wasn't expecting to be plunged back into this semi-familiar world, but it was a pleasant surprise, and I suspect I'll be back for more of Upson's work.

The Invocations

I'm not a fan of horror. I can't watch horror movies and I steer clear of horror in my reading, too. But I make an exception for Krystal Sutherland. To my own astonishment, I really enjoyed her House of Hollow a couple of years ago, and now comes The Invocations, which made the CBCA Notables list, but not the shortlist. In my view, it belongs on the shortlist, just because it's so well written. It might be filled with demons and gore (so much gore! Such a high body count! Such disgusting decomposing undead gloop!) but Sutherland keeps the plot galloping along so fast that there's no time to dwell on the revolting detail.

Meanwhile, there is lots of other stuff to enjoy. A strong friendship between three very different young women, an unflinching stare at male violence against women, a celebration of female power ('of course I do spells for trans women,' says Emer the witch at one point, 'magic doesn't care about bodies, it cares about souls.' Beautifully put...), a sprinkle of dark humour and a cracking plot all add up to a hugely enjoyable read, despite the horror elements. And if you do like horror, you will be in heaven.
 

Unsettled

Kate Grenville's non-fiction meditation, Unsettled, is one of the best books I've read this year. Grenville is well-known for her novels based on her family's history: The Secret River, Sarah Thornhill, Restless Dolly Maunder. She's also written Searching for the Secret River, which is an account of the research process she went through while writing the first of those novels. Unsettled is a different kind of journey, though she often refers to that research and ancestral history. But this time, she's looking at the bigger picture -- not just the individuals of her family and the choices they made, but how those choices fitted into a broader colonial narrative.

Grenville takes a simple but effective structure, retracing various ancestors' movements, from that first settlement on the Hawkesbury, further and further out from Sydney, finishing with the farm where her own mother was brought up. Along the way, she reflects on the way 'settlement,' or more bluntly, stealing land from First Nations people, must have felt for both the colonists and the dispossessed. She brilliantly examines the way our language serves to obscure the reality of what happened -- how we speak of settlers 'taking up land', when we really mean 'taking land.' Squatters 'got' land, women 'were never left without a gun.' What horrors are those bland words hiding?

There are plenty of challenging ideas here, but Grenville leads us through the landscape and her own thoughts gently but firmly, never allowing us to turn away completely, while acknowledging the strong urge to hide from the truth that has gripped our nation from its beginnings. She ends on a hopeful note, visiting the memorial to the Myall Creek massacre, the only occasion when white men were hanged for the murder of Aboriginal people -- a memorial that was constructed after local inhabitants, Black and white, sat down together to commemorate their shared, painful history.

Unsettled would be a perfect book to give to someone just learning about Australian history, or someone who grew up when we weren't taught the truth. It is confronting, but it's not sanctimonious or preachy, and it's engagingly easy to read; we travel beside Grenville as she works through her own feelings and thoughts. Yes, it's written from a white person's point of view, but as a first hand struggle with accepting and sitting with our shameful past, it's intimate, valuable and powerful.
 

American Wife

I'm such a dill, I borrowed Curtis Sittenfeld's most acclaimed novel, American Wife, from the Ath, completely forgetting that I'd ordered a copy from Brotherhood Books. So I read half of it in the library's copy and half in the one that eventually arrived (it took ages, it went via Brisbane for some reason, no wonder I lost track). But I'm very happy to own a copy.

There is definitely a recurring theme in Sittenfeld's work, where a quiet, bookish woman is taken up by a charismatic, out-going man. Sometimes this leads to a fairytale romance, as in Romantic Comedy; sometimes it's a disaster, as in Rodham or Prep. In American Wife, the outcome is more ambiguous and for that reason, all the more interesting. Modelled on the life of Laura Bush, wife of President George, American Wife follows Alice Blackwell from rural high school to the White House. After a tragic event in adolescence, Alice marries rich, happy-go-lucky Charlie, who makes her life more fun and carries her into a milieu of immense wealth and privilege. But Alice retains her watchful introspection. She sees both Charlie's charm and his shallowness clearly, but perhaps less clearly than she thinks she does.

American Wife is over 600 pages long and I was riveted all the way through. How much do I love Curtis Sittenfeld? At some point I will have read everything that she's written and that will be a very sad day in my life. There's something about the granular detail of her writing that I find completely absorbing. It might not be for everyone but I love it.

The Dragonfly Pool

One of Eva Ibbotson's children's books -- yes, I am on an Ibbotson splurge -- The Dragonfly Pool came from the local library and has obviously been well-read, which I'm happy about. It's not unlike her adult books in flavour, but the two main protagonists are twelve years old: a thoughtful girl, Tally, and an oppressed prince, Karil. The libertarian school of A Song for Summer reappears, this time in the Devon countryside, but again we are in the years just before the outbreak of the Second World War, and again Hitler and his henchmen are causing havoc in the lives of our characters.

The Dragonfly Pool is definitely for younger readers, because there is no sex; however, there is an assassination and real danger even for the most vulnerable of child characters. And there is real cruelty, too, albeit meted out by cartoonishly wicked adults.

There is a very European sensibility to Ibbotson's novels, even when they are set in South America or England. There is often some kind of pivotal performance, whether it be opera, a religious procession, a ballet or a play. There will be idyllic countryside. There will be an enigmatic, accomplished man. There will be artists and teachers and aristocrats. There will be misunderstandings and selfless sacrifice, but things will work out all right in the end. This is Ibbotson's universe, and it's one I'm happy to spend time in.

Weevils in the Flour

The Great Depression was almost a hundred years ago. My mother was born during it, and I remember my grandmother saying that their family managed all right because her parents had helped them buy their house. My grandfather worked as a clerk at Dunlop during the war, and I assume he might have had the same job while the depression was on. So my family was pretty lucky, though I'm sure that living in the lower-middle class and working suburbs of Preston and Thornbury, they saw plenty of poverty and suffering.

Wendy Lowenstein's oral history of the 1930s, Weevils in the Flour, is a confronting read. It's not a short book, and I admit I skimmed through some of the chapters, especially the ones about long-ago politicians and strike actions, but I was riveted by the stories of how families coped (or didn't) -- evicted onto the streets, making clothes out of flour sacks, the men waiting for hours on the off chance of some casual labour, toiling on road works for sustenance relief (and expected to perform hard physical labour despite being badly malnourished), children not attending school because they didn't have shoes, people living on wild-caught rabbits and home-grown vegetables. 

There were stirring stories of how the left wing organisations, particularly the unions, fought for fairness: when a family was evicted for not paying the rent, a group might rush to the house and start to tear it apart -- after a few such occasions, the landlords stopped evicting their tenants! There were unions for unemployed workers who agitated for greater support. The most frightening aspect of the times is that no one seemed to really understand what was happening or how to deal with it -- politicians just kept bleating that 'there was plenty of work.' It's hard to imagine how cruel this must have sounded to the people who knew damn well that it wasn't true. And then the war came along and fixed it all...

Lowenstein admits there are omissions in these accounts -- not enough women, not enough from the self-employed. I would add that there is not a single First Nations voice in this book, and not many non-Anglo stories either.

A knowledge of this history helps to put our current economic woes into perspective. Our current standard of living is so insanely high -- everyone seems to expect multiple yearly overseas holidays, regularly renovated bathrooms, new cars every couple of years, constant new clothes and furniture as a matter of right. And this high consumption lifestyle is burning our planet out from under us. It's sobering but weirdly reassuring to read about a time when expectations were so low and that people (mostly) managed to survive.
 

I Heard the Owl Call My Name

I know I read Margaret Craven's 1967 novel, I Heard the Owl Call My Name, for school, though I can't remember what year it was. My current copy was a present from a new friend (at the time) in 1985 and he was very disappointed, though also vindicated, to learn that I already had it and had loved it. But I don't think I've re-read it for forty years.

This book was my first introduction to Native American culture (the people of the remote village are referred to as 'Indians' throughout) and it made a deep impression -- perhaps deeper than I realised at the time. I think I Heard The Owl Call My Name paved the way for my reading of The Songlines a few years later, which made an even more indelible impression (I wonder if I should re-read Bruce Chatwin's book and see if it stands up -- or maybe not!). This slim novel recounts in clear, calm prose, the couple of years that a young vicar spends in this small community, giving of his own labour and wordly knowledge, and receiving in turn their wisdom and love.

There is a clear parallel between the experience of Mark, the vicar, who is dying, and the culture of the tribe, which is also slowly being lost. In both cases, the process is presented as sad but inevitable, to be accepted with grace, not resisted, as part of the natural cycle of the world. I don't think this novel would, could or should be written in the same way today. But I Heard the Owl Call My Name remains a beautiful and moving story of connection between two very different worlds.
 

Into the Mouth of the Wolf

 

Erin Gough's third YA adult made it from the CBCA Notables list onto the shortlist, and I wouldn't be too surprised if it took out the big prize in the end. Gough is an assured writer with a capable grasp of her material. Into the Mouth of the Wolf begins at full speed and keeps up a brisk pace throughout. However, this is not just a spec-fic thriller (though it is that), it's also a queer romance and a story about friends and friendship, loyalty and betrayal. The device of the parallel worlds works neatly to ramp up the tension as well as to raise the stakes.

Iris and her mother are on the run; Lena, living on the other side of the portal, might be able to provide sanctuary, but who can she trust? The world of Glassy Bay seems most closely related to our own, beset by fires and floods, while Iris's world of Vardo is rocked by terrible earthquakes which are connected to a new and dangerous technology. Most readers will be able to draw their own analogies.

I really enjoyed Into the Mouth of the Wolf, with its exciting adventure plot, quieter heartfelt scenes and moments of humour. The only part I found hard to believe was that Iris's mother would act as she did, but that's a minor quibble in  a very strong novel.

Woman of Substances

I read Jenny Valentish's Woman of Substances as research for my current work in progress (very much in the early stages). Part memoir, part non-fiction study of women and addiction, this was a fascinating and sometimes terrifying excursion into a part of life I know very little about. As someone who was too wussy to dip more than a toetip into the world of illicit substances, it made me feel queasy to read about Valentish's many brushes with physical danger, social humiliation and bitter regret. However, Valentish is deeply compassionate toward herself and others who turn to drugs, alcohol or other addictions for escape, comefort or self-medication, and it's clear that some kind of trauma is usually at the bottom of these choices.

Valentish examines the particular social and biological difficulties faced by women and the specific hurdles that can make it especially hard for them to access treatment. Hardly any rehab facilities accept children; there is confusion about whether it's preferable to treat pyschological trauma or substance abuse first, when the two are frequently intertwined; women are more vulnerable to food disorders because of the social pressure to be judged on looks.

Valentish's candid use of her own experience makes Woman of Substances a vivid and wrenching examination of vulnerability and strength, and while it's often raw and painful, it does offer realistic hope and encouragement for others in the same boat.

A Song For Summer

Another lovely Eva Ibbotson novel, this one from 1997 (she kept writing almost up until her death in 2010). A Song For Summer is set at an eccentric artsy school in Austria, just before the outbreak of the Second World War. Our heroine is Ellen, who despite being the child of a famous suffragette, has turned her talents to the housewifely arts and is working as a cook. Our hero is Marek, who despite being a world-renowned composer, is working as a groundsman and handyman in the same establishment (he's secretly rescuing Jews from the Nazis). This time there are three ill-matched couples who need to be disentangled and reassorted, and the obstacles in their way are even more dramatic than usual, including an actual marriage, a terrible fire, and of course the war.

By now I know exactly what I'm going to get from an Eva Ibbotson novel, and if some of her notions are a little old-fashioned, she's also refreshingly candid about sex, and values kindness above all other virtues. There will probably be a big old neglected house somewhere in the mix, a lake or a river and some animals, a precocious child, and music, as well as our star-crossed lovers. My only quibble was an anachronistic mention of Bletchley Park at a time when its very existence was top secret, but I can overlook that. I'm so glad to have discovered Eva Ibbotson.
 

Always Was, Always Will Be

I was lucky enough to see Thomas Mayo speak at the recent Sorrento Writers Festival. In person, he is a calm, strong, gentle presence, the very embodiment of healthy masculinity. Always Was, Always Will Be was written in the aftermath of the unsuccessful Voice referendum which had such a disappointing result and seems to have virtually shut down any further discussion of First Nations issues since. It wasn't until some far-right dickheads disrupted the Anzac Day Welcome to Country speech that any politicians even mentioned Aboriginal issues in the current election campaign.

But Always Was, Always Will Be begins and ends with a message of hope and optimism. It's subtitled 'the campaign for justice and recognition continues,' and it contains numerous practical ideas for allies to take the fight forward. As Mayo points out, every other step toward equality and justice has at first been met with opposition and hostility, and yet slowly the cause has crept in the right direction.

The book is less than two hundred pages, but it neatly summarises the history of First Nations peoples since colonisation, a history of oppression and pain that even in 2025, many Australians would prefer to deny or forget, or are simply ignorant about. Without this basic historical understanding, there will never be justice. Always Was, Always Will Be is engaging and simply written, without bitterness or blame, and I hope it will provide a perfect starting place for anyone who is curious about First Nations issues.