Promised the Moon

I borrowed Stephanie Nolen's 2002 Promised the Moon from my space race-obsessed younger daughter, and the title is a little misleading. Promised the Moon is the story of a group of American female pilots; but the first woman in space, by a country mile, was a Russian. Were these women 'in the space race' at all? It's arguable, because they didn't really even get close to going into space.

What happened was that the medical officer associated with the space program decided to see if women would be comparable to men in handling the rigours of space travel. This became an issue because NASA at the time needed to save every ounce of weight in the payload, because their first rockets were not that powerful. If a woman astronaut could replace a man, she'd be lighter. It was as simple as that. They tracked down an experienced (but still young) female pilot, and put her through the same tests that the male prospective astronauts had gone through, and she shone. In fact, her endurance and ability to deal with isolation were superior to the men. Plans to test a wider female cohort were put in place, and a dozen other women pilots went through the physical testing.

But then NASA pulled the plug. They didn't need any female astronauts after all; they had plenty of qualified blokes already; their rockets were more powerful now, so the weight factor no longer mattered. The women, who'd had their hopes raised, were cast aside.

Even though they didn't make it into space (except for Wally Funk, who flew on the New Shepard spacecraft in 2021 at the age of 82), these women were remarkable, battling a super-sexist industry to work as pilots. (Even in the 1970s, I don't remember encountering a single female pilot in all my father's years flying in PNG, and I well remember Debbie Wardley's fight to fly for Ansett in 1980.) But if the aviation world was sexist, the space industry was ten times more so. There was just no way that NASA was going to allow any little lady to steal thunder from their big strong brave hyper-masculine jet pilot astronauts. In many ways this is a sad story, but it's also a fascinating.
 

The Trees

Another absolutely extraordinary book, this time a novel. I was blown away by Percival Everett's latest novel, James, and his 2021 The Trees is just as powerful. It's funny and horrific, it gallops along, it's brilliant and deeply unsettling. It starts as a murder mystery, with the mutilated bodies of white men discovered along with a Black corpse who bears a striking resemblance to the body of lynched teenager Emmett Till. Two Black detectives try to unravel what's going on, as the bodies mount up and the circumstances grow more bizarre and inexplicable.

Everett's special genius is for dialogue. It fizzes and crackles like electricity through these pages, pulling the reader inexorably through a landscape of horror and rage that might otherwise be unendurable. The Trees is both furious and droll, eminently readable and starkly appalling. Everett makes the case for the history of lynching in the US as a kind of slow motion genocide, forcing us to confront the unspeakable cruelty that is a continuing reality.

The Trees was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. If great things come in threes, I can't wait to see what Everett produces after this and James.

Question 7

Question 7 by Richard Flanagan came in at number 65 in the ABC Radio National Top 100 Books of the 21st century countdown, and the description of it prompted me to borrow it from the local library. It was published in 2023 but somehow I'd failed to seek it out; I did realise while reading it that I'd read an extract, or part of the work in progress, at some time, I assume in The Monthly.

Question 7 took my breath away. What an extraordinary, profound, elegant, supple, brilliant and moving book. Part autobiography, part history, part fictionalised history, it is a book that defies categorisation. Broken into short, easily digestible chunks, it weaves together Flanagan's family history (his father, who spent time in the Japanese death camps; his mother, who raised six children in hardship; his shrewd, demanding grandmother) together with the development of the atomic bomb, via HG Wells' affair with Rebecca West, Leo Szilard's campaign for peace, the horrific attempted Tasmanian genocide and Flanagan's own near-death experience of drowning in river rapids at twenty-one.

This is superb writing. I must confess, I have found Richard Flanagan's fiction too strong meat for me -- I didn't even attempt The Narrow Road to the Deep North, though I'm sure it's incredible -- but Question 7 is the best book I've read this year. If I was voting in the Top 100 again, it would be in my list without question (no pun intended).

Dragons in the Waters

Madeleine L'Engle's 1976 novel Dragons in the Waters was another find from City Basement Books. I looked at it quickly and it didn't ring a bell, so I was pretty sure I hadn't read it before. And it didn't ring a bell as I was reading it, either. But lo and behold, when I went to file it on my bookshelf, what should I discover but... another copy of Dragons in the Waters! Oh, dear. I'm not sure when I first acquired it, but it must have been a long time ago, and it seemingly made No Impression Whatsoever on my reading brain.

You would think it would be memorable, because it involves a ship sailing to Venezuela (I paid extra attention to that because Venezuela is in the news at the moment -- and particularly because the plot line concerned smuggling, which is the issue that Trump is objecting to). It also centres on a stolen portrait, an idyllic indigenous community, a flawed white explorer... This makes me think that this book might have stayed with me more securely if I'd read it more recently, because it does deal with subject matter in which I now take a keener interest than I did say, fifteen years ago. Not saying that I necessarily agree with the way that L'Engle handled those topics, but I certainly had opinions about them.
 

Letters to Sherlock Holmes

Letters to Sherlock Holmes, edited by Richard Lancelyn Green (son of Arthurian scholar Roger)and published in 1985, was an impulse buy to pad out an order from Brotherhood Books -- it looked like a lot of fun. 

For decades, people had written to Sherlock Holmes at 221b Baker St, even though that address was occupied by a bank (it's now the site, sensibly, of the Sherlock Holmes museum). Some letter writers seemed genuinely hazy about the reality of Holmes, while others clearly realised that they were partaking in a shared fiction. He received letters inviting him to solve crimes, congratulations on his birthday, general admiration, or burning questions. The bank employed someone to answer these queries, which apparently arrived at the rate of a couple a day.

Well, all this sounds like a delightful whimsy, and the subtitle of the book promises 'the most interesting and entertaining letters,' but I'm sorry to say that in fact most of the letters are pretty dull. The questions are repetitive, the expressions of fandom are boring. It must have seemed like a cracking idea for a book, but it was a sorry disappointment. Luckily, it didn't take long to read.

Quartet in Autumn

 

Another Barbara Pym novel, but Quartet in Autumn comes from the end of her career, rather than the beginning. Published in 1977, it was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, a substantial accolade after her previous novel had been ignominiously rejected fifteen years earlier. She went on to publish two more books before her death in 1980, so at least she knew that she was appreciated after that long humiliating hiatus.

 

Quartet in Autumn has a different feel from her earlier work. The characters are still diffident and awkward as they move through the world, but that world has changed so drastically around them that they seem stranded in a different time line altogether. Pym's widows and spinsters in her novels from the 1950s were still assured of a recognised place in society, however uncomfortable. Now they seem utterly out of kilter with the modern world. The four office colleagues are just waiting for retirement, when their department will be shut down; their work is vague and apparently completely meaningless. Marcia, Letty, Norman and Edwin are drifting toward death and seem powerless to control anything around them. Only at the very end does Letty realise that she does have the ability to choose her fate, however slight that power might be.

 

Because of this melancholy atmosphere, Quartet in Autumn is less amusing than the three novels I've already read, but it has an elegiac depth that makes it more moving. Pym is a masterful, spare writer who packs a great deal into a few pages.

Meet The Austins

A browse in City Basement Books in the city yielded a handful of prizes, including a couple of Madeleine L'Engle books. I wasn't sure whether I'd already read Meet the Austins, until I came to the very last chapter and remembered the grandfather who lived in a stable by the sea, with the stalls lined with books -- that stayed with me! Lucky Grandfather.

L'Engle's books often contain some kind of paranormal or other-worldly aspect, but Meet the Austins is firmly set in the everyday world. The Austins are a big, loving, slightly chaotic family which is stretched when they are joined by ten year old Maggy, suddenly orphaned when her pilot father is killed. Maggy is quite difficult to handle, not surprisingly. Twelve year old Vicky is our narrator, and she leads us through various episodes: Maggy's confronting behaviour, Vicky's own poor judgment which leads to a serious injury, a visit from a mysterious woman who is not who she seems to be, and finally the visit to Grandfather, where little brother Rob goes missing. It's all very wholesome and the family are mostly thoughtful and considerate, though they do make mistakes. 

Meet the Austins was published in 1960 and it is an old-fashioned book in some ways, though the Austins are a wonderful model for gentle parenting (mostly -- there is some spanking). A lovely comfort read, with enough philosophical questioning to keep it from being too complacent. 
 

Warra Warra Wai

Confession: I purchased this book at the Sorrento Writers' Festival because I felt like I should buy something, but my expectations honestly weren't that high, and it's languished at the bottom of my TBR pile ever since. Well, joke's on me, because it's actually really good, and has won a history prize.

Warra Warra Wai, co-written by Darren Rix and Craig Cormick, has a nice premise: it traces Captain Cook's path up the east of Australia, juxtaposing his observations with the stories of the First Peoples who watched his progress, both traditional cultural stories about Country, and stories about Endeavour and its crew. Rix, a First Nations man, did the travelling and interviewing; Cormick stayed in the archives and contributed the often disturbing history of settlement contact and conflict.

I think because it's divided into bite-sized chunks with each new tribal Country that Cook passed, this is not an overwhelming read; it becomes a fascinating travelogue as well as a history, with glimpses into each local language and Dreaming stories. It would make a wonderful companion to a leisurely road trip from Victoria up to Cape York, insightful and packed with history which too often whitefellas just don't know. 

Top 100 Books of the 21st Century

I spent such an enjoyable weekend keeping an eye on, or listening to, the countdown on ABC Radio National of the Top 100 Books of the 21st Century, which played over this last Saturday and Sunday afternoons (Melbourne time -- it was broadcast simultaneously over the whole of Australia). I voted for my own top ten on the first day without thinking about it too hard, and of course since then I did have second thoughts, and remembered books that I'd forgotten. 

I have read 62 of the final 100 -- I think. I'm not sure if I have actually read Horse, by Geraldine Brookes -- I think I have -- which would make it 63. Five of my personal ten made it into the Top 100 (Piranesi, This House of Grief, Dark Emu, Wifedom and Wolf Hall). There were a couple of books that I loathed that rated highly with other people (looking at you, Where the Crawdads Sing). There were many books that I loved, but didn't vote for, that I cheered for when they appeared (My Brilliant Friend, Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, Normal People, Burial Rites, The Slap, Limberlost). Some books I know are probably amazing, but I know I don't have the emotional strength to face them (The Road, A Little Life). Some books I am determined to seek out, having found out a bit more about them (A Gentleman in Moscow, Question 7, Bel Canto). There are books that I've tried to read, but which defeated me (Carpentaria, Prophet Song).

But the best part was hearing so many people get excited about books and reading. It doesn't matter what books are your favourites. It gave me hope that reading and literacy isn't completely dead, and I hope that bookshops and libraries get a boost from people seeking out titles they've missed, like me.
 

White Noise

I'm still working my way through the 2025 CBCA Young Adult Notables list -- only a couple of books to go, but I'm still finding gems that didn't quite make it to the final round. Raelke Grimmer's White Noise is really good. It's rare to find a novel set in Darwin (the closest I've been to Darwin is applying for a job there -- I can't imagine how different my life would have been if I'd actually got it!) and White Noise is very evocative of the tropics, with lightning storms, oppressive heat and humidity, and outdoor markets. In other ways, Emma's life is utterly relatable, with friendship difficulties, a possible new boyfriend and navigating grief for her dead mother.

But what really sets White Noise apart is that it's a first person autism story. Emma has meltdowns where she completely shuts down; she forgets to eat; she misreads some social signals; she finds noisy, crowded environments difficult; she doesn't register pain well. All these things directly affect her daily life, and I don't know that I've seen such a realistic, empathetic portrayal of life with autism in YA fiction. It definitely helped me to understand what it might be like to live with autism from day to day.

I loved the portrayal of Emma and Summer's friendship, which hits some bumps in Year 10, and also Em's relationship with her father, who is still dealing with his own unresolved grief. At the end of the book, not everything is tied up neatly, which I also appreciated. White Noise is great, especially for a debut, and I'm interested to see what Grimmer does next.
 

Pissants

I don't know that I can say that I exactly enjoyed ex-AFL player Brandon Jack's debut novel, Pissants, though certainly parts of it are very funny. Young straight men are the demographic with whom I've always felt least comfortable, and Pissants takes us into the heart of their territory, a world that Jack knows only too well, inside what he (and every football player, coach and commentator) calls 'the Four Walls,' the inner sanctum of the AFL club.

Pissants is kind of a novel, and Jack claims that it's fiction, but it reads as more like a series of linked short stories or vignettes in which the same group of characters recur. These are the marginal playing cohort, good enough to get onto an AFL list, not quite good enough to break into the team every week, their playing lives precarious, hostage to their own and others' injuries and form. This group often find themselves at a loose end, perhaps aware that trying harder isn't going to work a miracle, frittering away their days and nights in pointless drinking games and elaborate pranks.

Getting a glimpse into their world is definitely interesting, sometimes disturbing, occasionally very dark indeed. Helen Garner puts it well in her blurb: 'Under its foul-mouthed, laughing bravado lie deep wounds, a humble and endearing loneliness that moved me.' This is the Pissants paradox; though the boy/men move in a pack and grope for identity in each others' reflected presence, ultimately they are heart-breakingly separate from one another. Terrified to show vulnerability or make a genuine trusting connection, they swear and fart and text and hunt and drink and snort and kick and run, each in his own desperate bubble.

We are always being told how problematic masculinity can be. Pissants  is like an uncomfortable, entertaining textbook of how it can go so wrong. 

Searching for Charmian

I discovered the story behind this book through watching Suzanne Chick's daughter Gina win Alone Australia. Suzanne only found out at the age of forty eight that the biological mother who had given her up for adoption was the famous writer, Charmian Clift; Clift is therefore Gina Chick's grandmother. Searching for Charmian was published in 1994, not long after the discovery, decades before Gina found her own fame as Alone winner and writer in her own right.

Searching for Charmian is a highly emotional book, buzzing with questions and unresolved feelings. Suzanne had vaguely heard of Clift, but knew little about her eventful life; the book traces her eager research, connecting with Nadia Wheatley, Clift's biographer (they agreed to cease contact when Suzanne decided to writer her own book) and with friends of Clift and her husband, writer George Johnston, who mined their marriage for material. Famously, the Johnstons lived for years on the Greek island of Hydra and became the nucleus of an artistic and literary community there (young Leonard Cohen was a friend). Tragically, Clift took her own life in 1969, so Suzanne was never able to reunite with her in person. Suzanne presents her own history in parallel with her mother's, showing where each of them was in certain years; amazingly, they almost overlapped at times and could have walked past each other in the street.

Suzanne Chick seems to have inherited her biological mother's gift with words, though she spent her life as an art teacher. Searching for Charmian takes us on a poignant, very readable journey, questioning motherhood, adoption, the demands of creativity, love and loyalty, addiction and grief, beauty and confidence, aging and family. It was fascinating to read that young Gina took comfort from learning of her ancestry, having felt that perhaps her own personality was 'too wild' and over the top (though she seems to have learned to lean into that side of herself in later years). This is an engaging chronicle of an extraordinary family story.
 

A House Divided

I enjoyed Clare Hallifax's middle grade novel, A House Divided, immensely. I guess it would be classed as historical fiction, as it's set in 1975, the year of the Whitlam dismissal. My family was in PNG in the mid-70s, so I don't remember anything contemporary from this time; I didn't become aware of (and horrified by) these political events until a few years later. 

In A House Divided, grade 6 student Juliet's dad works in the heart of the Whitlam government, and journalists, public servants and politicians, even Gough himself, are familiar figures in her home. But Juliet's grandmother is much more conservative, and her new friend Robbie's parents are alos public servants, but lean more to the right. It's not all politics, though; this is also a story about tensions in a friendship, and just about growing up in the Australia of the 70's -- watching Countdown and Dr Who, the excitement of colour TV, riding bikes and swimming unsupervised, boring food, European migration, the loosening of divorce laws, no smart phones for easy contact, Norman Gunston.

A House Divided was a really fun and engaging read, and I hope that kids find it and enjoy it for its own sake, and not for the nostalgia that undoubtedly coloured my own experience. (PS What a gorgeous cover!) 

Orbital

There is a long queue at the local library for Booker Prize winner, Samantha Harvey's novel Orbital, but I was able to find it on the shelf at the Athenaeum. Orbital traces a single twenty-four hour period on a space station circling high above the Earth, staffed by six astronauts; the space station loops around the planet sixteen times in the 'day.'

Orbital is an elegant, beautiful little novel with not a word out of place. It flows effortlessly between the very small -- tiny details of the astronauts' life in the cramped tin can -- and the very big -- the beauty of the continents viewed from space, without borders or any hint of human habitation, except for the city lights at night, and the vastness of the galaxy beyond. There is not much in the way of plot, but this is not a novel about story. It's a meditative, gorgeous, thoughtful voyage, compressing big ideas into a few pages.

Orbital has popped up on a few people's Top 10 books lists (the ABC is running a countdown of 21st century books at the moment ), and I can understand why. This is a book to treasure, and a worthy Booker winner.

Exterminate! Regenerate! The Story of Doctor Who

Exterminate! Regenerate!, John Higgs' satisfyingly chunky book about Doctor Who was another birthday present for myself, and I cannot tell you how incredibly enjoyable it was to read. This is not about the character of the Doctor, or even about the history of the production, with behind-the-scenes anecdotes and secrets about filming from the supporting cast (though there is some of that content). Rather, this is a discussion and a history of the phenomenon of Doctor Who -- how it was and is created, what it means in broader culture, the multiple changes that have swung through each switch in actor and producer. Higgs comes to the conclusion that after sixty years, Doctor Who has now achieved a life of its own, irrespective of whether the show is even being made and who it's being made by.

Doctor Who was created as an educational family show in 1963 to fill a BBC scheduling gap. Almost all the staff who were approached to make it declined, not wanting to sully their reputations by working on something as grubby as science fiction, so the first director and producer were a young woman and an Indian man -- thus, as Higgs points out, the viewpoint of the outsider was baked into the very creation of the programme. A TV show like this differs from the creation of a character like Sherlock Holmes, the product of one writer's imagination; the Doctor was woven from many different contributions.

At different times, Doctor Who has been an Earth-bound action series; a scary, Gothic, horror show; a philosophical examination of eternity, identity and morality; a charming romp; a twisted, paradoxical story interweaving multiple timelines. The Doctor themself has appeared young and old, female and male, Black and white -- a curly-haired, long scarfed agent of chaos; a hot 'space boyfriend;' a warm, friendly blonde; a cranky old man (okay, that last one a couple of times) and even a borderline psychopath, stretching and transforming the character over and over without destroying their integrity. The adventures screened on television are just the tip of an iceberg of other stories, novelisations, audio narratives and fan fiction, and the concept of Doctor Who is now self-sustaining, with many involved in the current incarnation themselves life-long fans of the show.

Beautifully, Higgs quotes one companion who said that the Doctor has two hearts because one belongs to the character and one to the actor who plays them. I also loved his drawing a parallel between the all-powerful Time Lords and the bigwigs of the BBC, who themselves would put the Doctor 'on trial,' demand the impossible or confine him to Earth (for budgetary reasons). Exterminate! Regenerate! is an insightful, hilarious, absorbing and fascinating overview of a strange and wonderful phenomenon that has long outgrown the control of any of us paltry humans. Long live the Doctor!
 

The Player's Boy and The Players and the Rebels

Here is a real treat! I read these two books of historical fiction together, as Antonia Forest originally intended them to be just one volume; they were split into two by her publisher, Faber. I managed to get hold of the Girls Gone By edition of second part, The Players and the Rebels, a few years ago, but they've only just reissued part one. So I was able to read The Player's Boy for the first time since I left my high school library behind, decades ago. Woo-hoo!

The eponymous player's boy is Nicholas Marlow, an Elizabethan ancestor of the Marlow family of Forest's other books, who runs away from home and ends up joining Will Shakespere's theatre company. As the expert forewords to both volumes make clear, while Forest did lots of research and used the best resources available at the time (the books were published in 1970 and 1971 respectively), Shakespeare scholarship has moved on since her time and some of her conclusions and characters might not agree exactly with current thinking (for example, there is no way that yeoman's son Nicholas and high-born page Humfrey would ever be friends). Still, Forest excels at evoking everyday Elizabethan life and the fascinating detail of the player's life -- some things don't seem to have changed at all. As ever, she is so skilful at showing us rivalry between players, conflicting loyalties, political subtleties, and the real perils of Elizabethan life, from plague to knife fights to execution for heresy.

There are loads of echoes for Marlow fans, or should that be foreshadowing? Nicholas's personality is very similar to modern Nicola's. They are both beautiful but unself-conscious singers and spend time with falcons, though Nicholas's acting skills are more of a nod to Lawrie than her twin. Nicholas and Nicola are both afraid of ghosts and are drawn to the sea. Nicholas hero-worships Sir Walter Ralegh just as Nicola adores Nelson. And there are other references to Forest's other books, like gentle Humfrey who worries about his own lack of courage, just like Peter Marlow. One thing that did pass completely over my head when I read these books at school was the subtle gay content, though it seemed a little implausible that Nicholas, who is 17 or 18 by the end of the story, seems not to be bothered by any sexual yearnings at all!  

I did vividly remember the poignant character of Will Kemp, the company's clown, who finds his improv skills crowded out by increasingly strict scripts. In fact, Kemp seems more like a modern stand-up, creating his own material and responsive to the mood of the crowd. He ends up leaving the troupe, his job pretty much obsolete.

The Rebel part of the story doesn't really come into properly until the last third of the second book, though it's ably set up by what comes before. I think fans of the Elizabethans and of Shakespeare would find a lot to enjoy here, and Will in particular is a most attractive character, kind, dry, level-headed and intelligent, with a hidden melancholy but also wry humour. I really relished making my reacquaintance with these books, and they will join my other Forest volumes in the frequently re-read stack. 

The Family Next Door

We all watched and enjoyed the ABC adaptation of Sally Hepworth's novel The Family Next Door, and younger daughter bought the book as her next tram read. It was interesting to compare the two versions of the story; perhaps it's format bias, but I think the drama worked slightly better in the TV series. A whole new subplot (and family) was added; two subplots were merged; and the emphasis of the narrative was heavily weighted toward the missing child thread, while in the book, the secret difficulties of each family were given roughly equal weight. On TV, the setting was altered to become a seaside town rather than a city suburb, although confusingly, the beach scenes were actually filmed in the suburbs where they were originally set in the novel (Sandringham, Black Rock -- I only know this because my husband grew up there).

In all senses, The Family Next Door would make a perfect beach read -- absorbing without being too demanding, eminently readable -- and it made a perfect basis for a TV adaptation. Success all round. 

First Knowledges: Ceremony

 The latest volume in the wonderful First Knowledges series is Ceremony: All Our Yesterdays for Today by Wesley Enoch and Georgia Curran. It's fitting to have a male and female co-author, because ceremonies can differ for different genders and purposes. Enoch and Curran distinguish between public-facing ceremonies, shared and open to all, like Welcomes to Country and funeral rituals, and inward-directed ceremony, restricted to certain people and sacred in intent.

Enoch makes the excellent point that it would be preferable to support and celebrate the continuing and evolving practice of actually holding ceremony, rather than giving priority to recording performances and collecting artefacts for a static, frozen archive (though I can see the importance of that, too). Ceremony is a living, ephemeral practice, constantly repeated and renewed through performance, and as such, it's difficult for Western cultures, so centred on knowledge through texts and material objects, to value it appropriately.

As always, this First Knowledges volume contains much food for thought and insight into First Nations history and culture (including a note at the front of the book that points out that some Aboriginal people dislike the term 'First Nations' which has its origin in North America. Oh, dear! I think I'll keep using it, though, even though I appreciate that 'nations' is probably not the best descriptor of Australian Indigenous peoples.) The next title will be Politics -- should be an interesting and maybe confronting read!