formative fiction

Most writers can reel off a handful of titles of books they’d call formative, typically read for the first time during their teens. One of mine is Wuthering Heights (1847) by Emily Brontë, a classic of incomparable passion despite no explicit sexual content. Another is William Golding’s Lord of the Flies (1954). The most engrossing novel prescribed during my four years at high school, it marked gen Xers Donna Tartt and Alex Garland, to judge by their debut novels, The Secret History (1992) and The Beach (1996), respectively: the former transplanting the action – secluded group turning savage – to classics students in the academy; the latter to a South-East Asian island backpacker mecca.

Author Rachel Kushner says the books you read when young ‘sink in deep and are a part of your encoding’. Indeed. But the impact of books read before puberty is harder to gauge, their contents hazier. I know I read Beatrix Potter, The Wind in the Willows and Pookie and the Swallows, or they were read to me, but I can’t recall my response, beyond liking the pictures of anthropomorphised animals enough to want to illustrate books when I grew up. Not until I read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, at nineteen, did the transformative power of literature hit me.

Kushner says she read The Catcher in the Rye at thirteen. Deterred by the cryptic title, I gave it a miss at school: defying authority like the protagonist. My English teacher, Mr M, remonstrated with me in vain; I spent too much time alone reading already. The shocking news, years later, that Mr M had shot himself fatally, saddened me (he’d treated us, at 14, like young adults) and I regretted not having been more receptive. Now I wonder how much he’d related to the troubled narrator of JD Salinger’s teen angst classic. When I finally read it to humour a wannabe YA writer, I found it tame compared to The Bell Jar (1963), a female slant on related themes. Though The Catcher in the Rye preceded it (1951), Plath didn’t stop at suicidal ideation, topping herself a month after The Bell Jar was published. (Salinger died of natural causes at 91.)

Before that came scores of horsy books, most of which ended happily – unlike ‘The Little Mermaid’ by Hans Christian Andersen, more disturbing, with its Christian morality, than Paul Gallico’s The Poseidon Adventure (1969) or Peter Benchley’s Jaws (1974). While those exploit fear of the deep, Andersen conjured worse fears: oblivion or limbo awaits the mermaid when the prince weds someone else.

Last year I sold the family home, but kept a few books found in the process. I wanted to revisit stories I recalled as formative, which might have played a part in shaping my expectations of life or, at least, the fiction I’d written. So I began at random with a novel that looked familiar: Rebecca (1938) by Daphne du Maurier. Yet no recognition dawned as I read. It seems I’d only read about it, which may be for the best. Neither the passive narrator nor the manipulative titular character would have set a good example. Apparently Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre (1847) had marked du Maurier: poor young narrator falls for rich older man haunted by his psycho ex-wife until his manor house burns down.

As I reached for the next book, a historical romance, I promised myself I’d stop if it didn’t impress me. Apart from Rebecca, the closest I’d come to reading romance in at least two decades was AS Byatt’s Booker-winning, genre-juggling Possession; so I had doubts about rereading Jenny (1957), a bodice ripper by Ada Lewis. (Who?) Embarrassingly, I found it unputdownable. Who’d have thought? Uncommonly immune to my analytical powers, it seemed as familiar as if I’d once learned every line by heart; as if key scenes hadn’t just imprinted my mind but become part of it. How could its trite conventions exert such a potent spell? Was I compelled onwards by the uncanny impression that Jenny’s voice already lived in my head?

No doubt the first line intrigued teenage me, hinting at sex and sin: ‘Today, as I came out of Mr. Currie’s glove shop, I saw a harlot being whipped through the street at the tail of a wagon.’ And on the next page the narrator says: ‘It’s not that I am afraid. But once you have seen the face of disaster, you are marked. Afterwards you do not see things as other people do.’ Though I didn’t know it, these lines foreshadowed my future.

The jacket on my copy shows a sepia portrait of a pretty redhead with a low neckline, her visible arm cropped above the elbow, a gendered lack her other charms supposedly offset. Pert-nosed, quick-witted, born illegitimately, Jenny Archer is the quintessential romantic heroine. Most men she meets desire her and several are hopelessly smitten, including the dark and handsome hero, her fair and impossibly handsome first lover, her violently jealous half-brother and her bull-necked country cousin. My youthful naivety made Jenny educational (a pregnant woman’s nipples change colour?); the narrator at nineteen seemed old to me in my early (or mid? I was sheltered) teens. A shy magnet for misfits, I envied her.

Now, I recognise echoes of the gothic romances of the Brontës, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth. Then, I hadn’t yet heard of them. Jenny appeared on the sunroom shelf as a singular invention, standing out from the far less seductive books around it. And after Lewis’s deftly crafted page-turner, the requisite happy ending of which, like a slap in the face, restored critical distance, I revisited another anomaly from my parents’ shelves: the notorious bestseller Peyton Place (1956) by Grace Metalious. It reminded the adult me of Middlemarch (1871–2) with all its small-town characters, if not the depth, scope and intelligence of George Eliot’s classic (nor could it even rival Jenny for style, pace, wit and suspense). But I grew up reading for hours each day to escape. An anomaly myself amid kids of suburban white-collar workers, I longed for relatable role models. Drama and tragedy gripped me partly because I craved accounts of individuals pushing the boundaries, giving free rein to wild desires and redefining the terms of acceptable self-expression.

Both coming-of-age novels despite their different genres, Jenny and Peyton Place end well for their heroines, who encounter poverty, sexual scandal, domestic violence, abortion, murder, madness and suicide, yet emerge stronger and wiser. I never expected these themes to dominate my writing. Nor did I aspire to write at all (unlike Allison, the character in Peyton Place based on Metalious). Yet, other novels from my teens, like Stephen King’s Carrie and JRR Tolkien’s The Hobbit, weren’t so memorable (is that why horror and fantasy rarely tempt me?). What could a girl whose emotions wreak havoc without her even needing to speak or dwarfish Middle-earthers with hairy feet possibly teach me about my own latent talents or sexuality?

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The Lie of the Learned: Sydney Writers’ Festival 2019

RACHEL KUSHNER: WHAT IT MEANS TO BE FREE May 2, 6.30–7.30pm University of Sydney Social Sciences Lecture Theatre (‘One of America’s finest writers, Rachel Kushner, joins Professor Annamarie Jagose to discuss her latest novel The Mars Room and a body of work that traverses eras and inner lives.’)

The theme of this event, the first I attended, bore no connection to the festival’s broad theme of ‘Lie to Me’. Nor did Kushner’s examples of true stories used in The Mars Room, about ‘what it means to be poor and female in America’, i.e., incarcerated. As for ‘what it means to be free’, the conversation dwelt instead on characteristics of the US prison system with which Kushner is familiar through her human-rights work inside. From which it follows that freedom means, among other things, privacy – an idea that begs the question of just how free any of us can be as our technologies monitor and regulate our contacts and behaviours with increasing invasiveness.

Kushner opened the session by reading from The Mars Room. And her evident concern with humanising prisoners, many of whom she counts as friends, is commendable. Yet nothing about her writing tempted me to read the rest of her novel. However, she did discuss some content that intrigued me. So, later, I searched through The Mars Room and read the passage that opens Chapter 10, and though I could find no specific acknowledgement, I knew the account of killing and eating a wild porcupine had been lifted from the Unabomber’s diaries (owned by a friend who’d decoded them). But to what end? It can’t have been her intention to upstage her own invention, but having recently read a haunting essay on Kaczynski, I found his words more gripping than hers. It’s easy to imagine him killing people with the same detachment that makes his record of dispatching the porcupine so creepy. But what’s that got to do with the injustices of the prison system?

Embedding readymade diary entries in fiction seems almost like cheating. And it’s not hard to sympathise with a character whose crimes arise from social injustice or disadvantage; while too easy to despise an educated psychopath, to deny them the empathy they couldn’t feel for their victims. Does Kushner need to emphasise her contempt for Kaczynski so her use of his words won’t be construed as politically incorrect? Funnily enough, Kaczynski took a dim view of leftists and his critique is no less relevant today because he’s batshit crazy – though, like Kushner, I’m quoting him out of context:

Leftism is in the long run inconsistent with wild nature, with human freedom and with the elimination of modern technology. Leftism is collectivist; it seeks to bind together the entire world (both nature and the human race) into a unified whole. But this implies management of nature and of human life by organized society, and it requires advanced technology. […] Assuming that industrial society survives, it is likely that technology will eventually acquire something approaching complete control over human behavior.

The thing is, information freed from its original context characterises contemporary culture, affecting elections (shame, Morrison, shame!) and causing widespread, ongoing confusion about global warming, immigration, corporate surveillance and so much more.

Which reminds me that, though I find Kaczynski’s crimes indefensible, Kushner’s appropriation of his diaries unsettled me. But hey, I grew up having my right to privacy denied by parents who cared deeply about theirs.

Anyway, what ‘free’ meant to me in the context of this event was not having to pay for a front row seat a few metres from two engaging speakers, an increasingly rare treat with each new Sydney Writers’ Festival, which seems ever more geared to humouring well-heeled baby boomers and less inclusive of struggling students and pensioners who might read and write. (Which sounds like our government’s style of funding…)

CAN YOU SPOT A LIAR? May 3, 1.30–2.30pm Carriageworks, Bay 20 (‘Crime reporter Matthew Condon, investigative journalist Kate McClymont and forensic psychiatrist Dr Calum Smith talk with Chris Taylor about whether it’s possible to spot a liar.)

It’s often the case that festival panels not only lack the charged interaction of live TV panel shows (e.g., Q&A) but disappoint like short story anthologies of uneven quality. And the price is comparable. So I went to this event only because a friend shouted me. The shrink was the sole panelist with more to offer than anecdotes (yawn!) but Taylor didn’t give him a chance. Nor did he leave enough time for questions from the audience. Relieved when this undisguised exercise in marketing ended, my friend and I talked for hours about the liars in our lives.

IAN PARKER: THE TALENTED DAN MALLORY May 4, 10–11am Carriageworks, Bay 24 (‘Malcolm Knox speaks with New Yorker writer Ian Parker about his viral investigation into the lies and deceptions trailing bestselling thriller writer Dan Mallory.’)

In this session Parker and Knox, a top local investigative journo, discussed an author who’s just as unreliable as the narrator of his debut thriller and instant #1 New York Times bestseller, The Woman in the Window, after which audience members asked Parker lots of questions, including whether he thought his story would ‘change anything’. Parker, who presents as self-effacing, yet who’d need to be phenomenally tenacious, didn’t think so, but the question struck me as vague. And what did this woman think needed changing?

Funnily enough, Mallory’s history of lying in public about dramatic medical conditions, whether his own or those of others (e.g., his battle with cancer, the disease that supposedly killed his mother), reminded me of someone my friend had discussed the previous day, who, since they’d been dating, had suffered an impressive array of serious if invisible mental and physical afflictions, then raged and threatened to end their two-and-a-half-year-old relationship whenever my friend dared refer to not yet having met anyone who knows them nor even once been to their home.

For those of us faced with people whose stories don’t add up, whether on the personal or political front, surely it’s useful to read about real-life cases of deceit, if only because the knowledge that such pathologies exist could help us to see manipulation for what it is and to resist it.

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Dementia is relative

The last time I visited my mother she expressed great surprise. And not because she hadn’t been warned in advance: I stopped doing that around the time she forgot that phones were an option. She isn’t surprised when ‘waiters’ bring meals and meds or put her to bed, so she did seem to know who I was… until she asked me about the weather ‘where you come from’.

Maybe because memory failed her, she sidestepped questions about her own life by politely inquiring after mine. How did I feel about ‘changing countries’? What did I do ‘in England’? I explained I’d spent only two weeks there more than 25 years ago. So then she just stared at the mute TV, confused as to why she couldn’t hear it, while a report on a TV in the next room attributed the decline of Earth’s oceans to humans.

At one point my mother said she hadn’t seen any magazines, though four lay within easy reach. The copy of Hello! open in front of her gave me a clue: lacking recall of me, she’d taken cues from a glossy British weekly.

This is what dementia looks like. And yet not even her doctors can say exactly when my mother’s ignorance of me began to signify brain changes rather than mere disdain. When did chronic depression tip over into ‘dementia’? Apparently, professionals use the label loosely (also true of the word ‘hysteria’ during the Victorian era; labels tend to shift the focus off the context and onto their subject). And for the purposes of these musings, I’ll use the word loosely too.

So if dementia can look like, e.g., someone reduced to viewing others exclusively through the lens of whatever media they’ve been consuming, the condition could be said to afflict our whole society, the severity of its symptoms in each of us just a matter of degree.

Since my mother’s move into residential aged care, I’ve watched the progress of her dementia speed up. Carers are quick to locate the cause somewhere in her brain – but what about the system? Surrounded by residents with vacant expressions who don’t interact, free only to refuse social contact (such as it is), and denied any privacy, who wouldn’t slide towards mindless oblivion? And maybe my mother, who’s never read widely, let alone travelled far, while warding off challenges to her values, had a head start?

In our society it’s not just the aged who face deepening isolation, with more and more activities that used to involve direct human contact – banking, shopping, studying, chatting etc. – migrating online. Touch, smell, and visual and aural complexity are fading from the field of daily social interaction, especially for those who live alone (an increasingly common phenomenon).

Once upon a time, our species had respect (palely echoed today by green activism) for the vast web of terrestrial life. But as our brains grew in size we began to move up the food chain. And now, having enjoyed a brief interlude on top, we’ve been displaced by technology. In the vast artificial web that newly connects us, people are disposable, places are negotiable, and things are the new religion. Things – machines – make life more convenient, so who’s complaining? But today, many bank staff can’t add a few figures manually, never mind manage long division. Social media is training our brains to respond to ‘likes’, infantile emojis and throwaway comments the way a lab rat’s brain responds to a hit of cocaine. And as social media moguls like Mark Zuckerberg know, reward for next to no effort promotes compliance and docility.

According to psychiatrist and brain researcher Iain McGilchrist, in The Master and His Emissary (2009), our whole society demonstrates a left-hemisphere emphasis, evident in its focus on detail to the detriment of the big picture. Yet long before I began to read his paradigm-busting tome, even I could see that our reality is atomised. For the sake of analogy, take the plastic polluting our air, earth and oceans, its degrading microparticles hidden in the countless creatures (marketed as seafood) that eat and breathe them, so that humans keep consuming what they’ve tried to get rid of.

Like plastic waste, dementia can’t be neatly corralled. And yet our society lumps sufferers of the latter together (in facilities that bury them like landfill) as if their slippage were their identity. A common response when I volunteer facts about my mother to nursing home staff is the single, simple word ‘Dementia’ – an institutionally sanctioned excuse for not paying too much attention.

Of course my take is generalised and simplistic. But so is the standard medical narrative, which sometimes seems designed above all to disguise its own ignorance. And to what extent does ageism stop society at large from inquiring more closely? Like most, if not all, mental health diagnoses, dementia carries a stigma, which predisposes those not yet affected to dissociate – as if we weren’t dissociated already.

‘Dementia’ as an explanation is like an injunction not to think. And given similarly simplistic accounts in other areas of life, too many tend to take them at face value. Not that our education system equips us to challenge official versions of reality. Rewarded in the short term for conforming, the majority adopt prescribed roles, a compromise that seldom pays off if or when they get old.

Maintaining optimal cognitive function means bypassing well-worn paths through the brain to engage with the external world in multiple, improvised ways – such as if, due to injury, you were to use your left hand instead of the right, or toes or teeth instead of fingers. According to psychiatrist Norman Doidge in The Brain That Changes Itself (2010):

Anything that requires highly focused attention will help [the control system for plasticity]—learning new physical activities that require concentration, solving challenging puzzles, or making a career change that requires that you master new skills and material (p. 87).

Does solving challenging puzzles include grappling with new kinds of literature? Of course any suggestion that dependency on social media, the popular press and/or formulaic fiction etc. is stunting our neural potential can be criticised as elitist. And it seems unlikely that lovers of difficult reading (Ulysses? Infinite Jest?) run less risk of developing dementia. Reading texts that bend and stretch the mind is no kind of substitute for reading the world and deeply comprehending it. Nonetheless, a diet of The Australian Women’s Weekly, Reader’s Digest and Hello! doesn’t come recommended.

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Everything is connected

One of the oft-discussed features of the mental disorder called schizophrenia is an extreme preoccupation with meaning. In a society increasingly suffering from the malaise of meaninglessness – a sense that something is missing exploited by a vast range of purveyors of books, DVDs, workshops, courses, retreats, spiritual tourism and more – the pathologising of failure to monetise a sense of meaning may itself be symptomatic of a collective disorder.

A sense of meaning tends to emerge when we see connections between things. Symbols and signs hold meaning only to the extent that they point to or represent something else. Some meanings, such as those represented by $$, remain constant compared to, say, the underrated significance of mass extinction.

With the rise of science, or rationalism, many old systems of meaning (e.g., astrology) have lost their former status. What once was plain to see (e.g., planetary line-ups, eclipses etc.) has been displaced by increasingly mediated, specialised, theoretical research. And with the explosion of data attending each new discovery, today’s info overload alongside heated debate about how to tackle global warming, and other such threats to life as we know it, has fostered an atmosphere of fragmentation.

It’s a case of TMI, whether from too many sources or from only one but strategically distorted, and often presented in simplistic terms or disconnected from context. Bombarded by input 24/7, we often struggle to discriminate between real and fake news, truth and spin. We’ve never had access to more facts and on such a massive scale, yet much of what we learn leads to confusion. We overdose on factoids then seek yet more distraction. In a consumerist age where such notions as an all-seeing God and an orderly cosmos are outmoded, we’re shoppers trying on a range of options for restoring meaning. Imagine the appeal of a package that promises to simplify and demystify how our universe works. What if Einstein got it all wrong?

But in a world where packaging counts for more than content, basic psychology might trump a PhD in physics if you want to sell an alternative cosmology. The meteoric development of science and high tech in recent decades has caused many to fear – or experience – redundancy. No wonder some turn to YouTube, where both experts and cranks can share their views and news, subject to their Google ranking. Online, for instance, flat-earthers and those compelled to convince them that Earth is round can engage in a virtual shouting match on a level playing field. Like democratic votes, hits decide whose theory rules.

In the early ’90s I read a book called Worlds in Collision (1950) by a Freudian shrink, Immanuel Velikovsky, whose highly creative synthesis of analytic theory and ancient myth put a new spin on the history of our solar system. Supposedly, catastrophic events described in the Old Testament and the myths of ancient cultures, Eastern and Western, had been repressed at the collective level. So the human race needed to face the truth – overcome our species’ amnesia – to avert nuclear doom and realise world peace. His ideas had such an impact on the ’60s and ’70s counterculture that some of his acolytes never outgrew them, but continued the work of their guru, disseminating their findings online, soliciting crowdfunding for research… So his vision lives on in The Thunderbolts Project, whose founders are senior citizens now. And what most struck me about a YouTube presentation by one, electric universe theorist, Wal Thornhill, was his pre-emptive introduction:

Before I tell the epic story, a warning. Our education systems train students to memorise a litany of facts which produces global groupthink. Students are not given the time or encouragement to critically examine the history of ideas. A leading researcher into the learning functions of the divided brain, Dr Iain McGilchrist, has shown such blinkered left-hemisphere training renders students functionally blind to alternative ways of looking at a problem. ‘The left hemisphere simply blocks out everything that doesn’t fit with its take. It doesn’t see it, actually, at all.’ So scientists with their narrow specialised training may look at but cannot see what to a non-expert may seem obvious. They will be the last to see a paradigm shift in the making.

McGilchrist’s book, The Master and His Emissary: The Divided Brain and the Making of the Western World, sure looks more thoroughly researched than Thornhill’s ‘epic story’, though what follows Thornhill’s induction (forgive the electrical pun) went over my head. I can’t actually prove that Earth never orbited Saturn – but his loose logic arouses suspicion. (Take this random example of ‘what to a non-expert may seem obvious’: ‘In reality… the horizon will always be at eye level no matter how high you go! No curvature will be seen.’ Obvious until surveying instruments confuse the issue.) Nor could I make sense of Thornhill’s concluding warning:

Along with the genius Carl Jung, [Velikovsky] warned that mankind is his own worst enemy. So the cultural change offered by Electric Universe cosmology is essential for our survival. By offering a real understanding of the universe and our history, it offers hope and inspiration where presently there is none. There is far more to life in the electric universe than is dreamt of presently. We are all intimately connected with each other and the Earth.

Do such platitudes encourage one ‘to critically examine’ Thornhill’s ideas? And as Jung’s genius didn’t extend to physics, what does his warning, or Velikovsky’s, have to do with the price of fish? For all their brilliance, Thornhill’s heroes (shrinks, including McGilchrist) aren’t scientists – and Thornhill’s conclusion has nothing to do with the physical universe. He promises something less tangible than knowledge – salvation from fear, despair, aloneness and emptiness. In a society characterised by left-hemisphere dominance, such feelings are epidemic. But mightn’t the opposite blind us to category mistakes?

The height of Velikovsky’s fame came late. A celebrity in his 70s, he inspired students and outsiders all over America with his heresies. Accused by others of delusions of grandeur, he lacked the humility essential to the work of a historian – variations in translation, selective revisions over millennia and the subjectivity of memory, among other issues, render all historical accounts provisional. His faith in biblical history, though, led Velikovsky, trained as a shrink, to radically rethink other disciplines (e.g., physics and astronomy, a far cry from theories of the unconscious). And yet, unsatisfied with cult status as an anti-establishment hero, he never ceased chasing mainstream acceptance for his ideas.

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The Hoarder’s Daughter

Has anyone else noticed a growing trend towards novels titled The Something-or-other’s Daughter? Apparently they have. Lists abound. Mine, a short one, includes The Astrologer’s Daughter (2014), The Botanist’s Daughter (2018) and The Clockmaker’s Daughter (2018).

According to Canadian author Emily St. John Mandel, publishers may be behind these unoriginal titles. She asks a favourite bookseller who says readers buy what’s familiar. And indeed, these titles typically feature traditional jobs – no AI engineers or data scientists. The only one I’ve read is The Ringmaster’s Daughter (2001) by Jostein Gaarder, a twisted tale of unwitting incest from a male perspective. (Yawn.)

Personally, I’m tired of patriarchal narratives: these titles perpetuate the anonymity of women. And historically, ‘daughter’ carries baggage to do with being someone’s property, a chattel to be married for political and/or financial advantage.

Preferring to be identified by my profession, like the fictional parents of all these fictional females, I’ve rarely thought of myself as a daughter. A word that implies relatedness in the sense of belonging to anyone, irrespective of gender, feels loaded to me. Styled by my mother as a smaller version of herself, I sought my own identity through rebellion. By age three, I’d become ‘a real handful’ and she panicked. Diagnosed as agoraphobic, medicated on Librium, she took her doctor’s advice to find a hobby. And for the next few decades she sewed countless items of clothing, curtains, cushion covers, dachshund doorstops etc., hiding humble objects like toilet seats and boxes of tissues inside pastel padded quilting and frills.

Also covered up, I’ve since learned, was her conception out of wedlock (her parents had married just four months before her birth) and her brother’s illegitimate daughter when he was nineteen. His fiancée sued him for breach of promise and his mother, who paid the price, kept the receipt. When I discovered it I knew what it pertained to because my formerly secret cousin had told me. I’d learned about her after answering a letter from a second cousin, which I’d found among reams of overlooked mail my mother had hoarded for decades.

Anyway, culling my mother’s possessions has led me to reflect on why so much female creativity should be devoted to decorating – covering up – manmade inventions, something I never used to question. My mother encouraged me from an early age to master knitting. Then came crochet, macramé, copper enamelling, origami… But each of these hobbies soon bored me; riding a horse or even a skateboard would have been far more rewarding.

On leaving school, I explored more exciting ways to kill time than making Afghan rugs, cloche hats and toe socks while watching TV. Handicrafts existed to keep restless girls like me out of trouble, out of touch with real-world issues, safely out of sight – too sheltered to develop courage, strength or an intellect. Patience? To the extent that repetition is trance inducing, these pastimes may be a form of meditation. But the fruit of any truly spiritual practice isn’t as tangible as a beaded belt or a woollen tank top. Besides, why bother when technology was churning out blouses, trousers and knitwear much faster and more cheaply than my mother could make them by hand?

The thing was, these pursuits not only quietened her anxiety; they connected her to a local social sewing circle of women who eventually became her friends for life. One of these friends even met my illegitimate cousin’s father during a holiday in Bali – providing photos of him and his family that fill a chronological gap.

But what my mother didn’t consider, as she steered me towards domesticity, was that my peers had other interests. So I knitted, knotted and crocheted in solitude until art school offered escape. I moved out of home at the first opportunity, which on a student allowance meant a tiny room in a huge share house. Suddenly my social life and world view expanded. And the more I craved travel, the less I wanted to own things that wouldn’t fit in a backpack. What mattered were skills like improvising meals at short notice for hordes of people – resourcefulness and flexibility, not dependence on patterns. Loath to be seen in a hand-knitted scarf or beanie, I bought boho clothes from op shops, while my mother stored my cast-offs in plastic bags with mothballs.

Last month a bric-a-brac dealer came to pick through family heirlooms and rubbish (now my widowed mother’s confined to a small shared room with only one cupboard – the sort of place you can land when you abandon normal hygiene standards and neglect to answer your phone and front door). And the first dealer gave my number to a second – who turned out to be a woman I’d lived with in that huge share house. Hunting through the mess in search of retro treasures, my former housemate stumbled on a stash of child-sized crocheted clothes. As she started to laugh, I cringed with shame. But, ‘I like these!’ she said, and added them to her haul. I never let on who’d made them.

One early sign of my mother’s decline was her loss of interest in such activities. Sewing got sidelined while she nursed her dying husband, to be resumed after his death – but without conviction. And as time passed, and her depression didn’t, unfinished garments stuck full of pins piled up. She couldn’t imagine herself as other than a wife (and a mother): defined by her relationship – of necessity – to loved ones. Meanwhile her sewing circle dispersed, to aged care and beyond, leaving her alone. And finally I was left to dispose of the hundreds of out-of-date handmade tops, pants, skirts, frocks, jackets and jumpers she’d refused to sell or donate during the 14 years that much of it lay untouched in musty cupboards.

On my parents’ vintage cane bookshelf I found Catherine Gaskin’s Daughter of the House (1952) and A Daughter of the Land (1918) by Gene Stratton-Porter – ‘daughter’ has featured in book titles for a long time. But even now, where are the titles referring to men as belonging to women? (The Lap Dancer’s Son; The Checkout Chick’s Husband; The Romance Novelist’s Uncle…?) Apparently they exist. Yet one comprehensive commentary notes that males are less likely to be defined by their relationships.

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The illusion of realism

There was a time when painting from photos was radical, or denounced as cheating. Now it’s taken for granted, while styles like expressionism are out of fashion. It’s as if the ubiquity of the photographic image, fuelled by digital media, promotes blandly sterile art geared to impress superficially rather than evoke deep feeling – which negates at least one good reason for working in a tactile medium.

What a paradox that, despite its fidelity and speed, modern technology can’t beat painting straight from life for immediacy. The artist must submit to the limits imposed by using a sitter who tires, twitches and shifts unpredictably. And during the process, an atmosphere, a mood, develops in the studio, whether or not artist and model chat and/or hold eye contact – an unavoidable intimacy that makes the stakes higher (as with plein-air painting, through exposure to weather, insects etc.).

A painter friend of mine sometimes used to pay me to model for him. I appreciated the cash in hand, but a typical pose would mean standing, perhaps with an arm raised or most of my weight on one leg for hours, the time between breaks diminishing as blood drained from my limbs, one side of me covered in gooseflesh, the other seared by the kerosene heater. My friend – I’ll call him R – was dedicated to realism, seeking verisimilitude in the smallest details.

And yet, an elusive strangeness distinguished his paintings. The ambiguous relationship of the figures to the settings – some looked displaced, others like actors in an obscure ritual – partly explained the surreal effect. And inevitably, some unfortunate distortion – of a hand or a mouth or a leg’s foreshortening – would shoot any illusion of realism in the foot.

I never knew whether R couldn’t afford the time (or the money) to fix these flaws, whether he couldn’t actually see them, or whether he just didn’t care. But no dealer would represent him. In all the years of our friendship I never saw his work hung in a gallery, only on or stacked against the walls of his front room-cum-studio. The odds of success were stacked against R.

Originality rarely commands gallery space, except in retrospect. It alienates investors shopping for a sure bet. But contacts count. And R, the defiant cuss, would get drunk and shoot his mouth off at openings. His mentor, an art-world darling (and a more docile drunk), did his best. Yet R made wealthy middle-class art collectors uncomfortable.

So what? I loved R’s paintings. Even those that didn’t work emanated mystery, not least by defamiliarising recognisable places. Carting a stretched canvas, R would bike to local sites like the stairs below Sydney Harbour Bridge, where he’d set up and paint, despite stares and questions from passers-by. His enigmatic compositions of places and figures couldn’t be called landscapes or portraits, though some would fit the ‘genre’ definition: scenes from everyday life, of ordinary people at work or play, depicted in a generally realistic way. And a fair few, flaws and all, deserved to be Sulman Prize finalists, the criteria for eligibility being confusingly broad. In fact, one did get hung, once (before I knew R, so I never saw it).

Does genre mean something different in the context of fiction? Its typically formulaic plots have little to do with the quotidian. Which leaves literary fiction to do the heavy lifting of depicting everyday life (even if ordinary folk watch TV more than they read) – much like the work of realist painters who, however highly skilled, lack the mystical vision that gripped R between stints at his day job as builder. According to novelist Amitav Ghosh: ‘the very gestures with which [the “realist” novel] conjures up reality are actually a concealment of the real’. And media theorist McKenzie Wark more or less agrees: ‘The bourgeois novel is a genre of fantasy fiction smeared with naturalistic details – filler – to make it appear otherwise.’

As for the visual arts equivalent, viewers of last year’s leading local portrait exhibitions could be forgiven for thinking that most painters today are realists, seeking verisimilitude in the smallest details. Yet nothing strange distinguishes their paintings. Attempts to duplicate the 2D photographic image, with or without false sentiment, the best being hard to distinguish from an enlarged colour print, all tend to look somewhat similar, even if hyperrealist. Flaunting every blemish, hair, pore, vein and wrinkle, the latter are smeared with naturalistic details, to quote Wark again. Filler.

Yet most portrait subjects today, whether public figures, family or friends, lack the time and/or the will to sit still for hours on end, so photos assist the painter to achieve a recognisable likeness and, often, a slicker product than if the subject were present. Realist painting became redundant, though, with the invention of the camera. Freed from the task of recording, painters followed their visions inwards or out to the further reaches of abstraction; defied the conventions of representation. Art, as the Nazis recognised, hence their violent suppression of it, once had the power to shape culture. But is that true now? That so many contemporary artists aspire only to mimic what technology already does better points to a kind of mindlessness, a loss of imagination.

One of the 20th century’s most original artists, Francis Bacon, leaned heavily on photographic sources, yet transformed them. In contrast, the artists favoured by most art prize judges today trade in cliché: the illustrated idea of their subject rather than a direct experience. These artists, whose skill is often outshone by that of top magazine illustrators, could more aptly be termed craftspeople. Demonstrating technical control, if not mastery, they might even achieve a striking likeness. Yet Bacon understood that for a work to be truly good, he had to risk some loss of control. Writes Gilles Deleuze in Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, ‘Narration is the correlate of illustration.’ Bacon resisted both. Narration, illustration – both serve the purpose of mediation. Narration leads, distracts, diverts, hypnotises, manipulates, shepherding the reader’s/viewer’s/listener’s attention. Illustrations interpret. They instruct. They entertain. In children’s books, they direct (and contain) the young reader’s imagination. Most advertising relies on narration and illustration.

Bacon sought a more direct expression. He lived dangerously. But an artist like Bacon couldn’t exist, or at least couldn’t succeed, today. Our fetishisation of technology (and attendant dissociation from nature, both inner and outer) has increasingly inclined us to seek virtual thrills and actual safety. Meanwhile, technology dwarfs our capacity for memory, the faculty we humans use to produce what we call reality. And it’s as if, in the process, we’ve forgotten what makes us truly human – messy emotion, immediacy, vulnerability, openness to the unknown…

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Interview with a good old-fashioned troublemaker

Initially I encountered X through a random assignment via the automated system on a writers’ site. Unlike most of the thousand or so other site users whose work I’d critiqued, he was breaking the rules of how to write publisher-friendly fiction yet wished to keep doing so. Though unschooled in the clichés peddled by handbooks, workshops and tertiary courses, this solitary outsider had instead been reading widely. A provocative correspondence ensued, via email and airmail – a cultural exchange that’s lasted nearly three years and rocks to this day…

Observer of Times: Over the years, I’ve noticed that most writers – of fiction, at least – appear to be writing for readers not unlike themselves. So, from reading a few anonymous pages it’s possible to guess an author’s gender, class, level of education, and even their age group. Yet when I first read your work, knowing nothing but your nationality, I nailed just one attribute: picked you for a Gen X-er but only suspected you might be male. Do you have a concept of an audience for your writing and, if so, how would you define or describe it?

Gen X-er: I like the idea of trying to give people what they didn’t know existed, and that sort of an approach rather precludes having a definite audience in mind. As a reader, what I’m always hoping to discover is work that subverts the conventions in some way. I’m not alone in this. There are other picky, adventurous readers out there. That’s who I like to think I’m writing for – though of course my primary allegiance is to my characters.

O: Your idea of trying to give readers what they don’t yet know exists (and to which I also subscribe) deviates from (to put it mildly) the model most publishers use for profit. Devoting the bulk of their marketing budget to formulaic escapism (and at frequent, predictable intervals offering a top-up), they need – and therefore breed – passive, conformist readers.

Which writers have most inspired you, and why? And did they have trouble getting their work published?

X: I can pinpoint what sparked my interest in fiction: non-linear bombsite narratives. The Cornelius stories by Michael Moorcock – and others – were what I found I could relate to in my early teens. Those novels and short stories (and cartoon strips) were contemporary, urban, anarchic, funny, strange and yet familiar (or vice versa). The city I lived in was pitted with thirty-year-old bombsites; it wasn’t difficult to imagine the characters from The English Assassin visiting a weapons dump near the school I went to. From the new wavers I was led, predictably enough perhaps, on to Burroughs and to the realization that a novel can be a type of bizarre sketch show. The writers I respect are seldom, if ever, literary purists.

Modernists, postmodernists, mythologizers, fabulists, surrealists, whatever the convenient tag, I appreciate writers who draw from a diverse range of sources, adopting and adapting techniques from various 20th-century art movements, from cinema, pop culture, television, info tech, any new advance fiction can’t afford to ignore.

Moorcock, Ballard and Angela Carter didn’t, as far as I know, have major struggles getting their work published. Or at least they didn’t in the 1970s, an era when publishing seems to have been more foetidly healthy than it is today. (I only learned this recently but Alice in Wonderland was self-published. It did okay, I hear.)

O: In a note Moorcock wrote on his Cornelius stories in ’76, he says that part of his original intention was ‘to “liberate” the narrative; to leave it open to the reader’s interpretation as much as possible – to involve the reader in such a way as to bring their own imagination into play’. From what I’ve read of your work, I’d guess that’s part of your intention. If so, and given the growing challenge of finding active readers today, how do you know if you’ve left your narrative open enough to their interpretation?

X: You guess right, and the truth is I’m not always sure whether I’ve negotiated a successful path between the too obvious and the too obscure. But why not go all out, run the risk of alienating some readers and trusting that you’ll intrigue some of the, dare I say, more discriminating ones? For me it comes down to imagery. Take an image as sharp as, say, de Chirico’s The Mystery and Melancholy of a Street. There, the real work’s done and each viewer’s free to come up with an interpretation to satisfy themselves. Chances are it will then change and develop over time. Interpretations have a habit of doing just that.

Gut feeling is also crucial. A writer can’t go too far wrong when she seizes upon what’s surprised her most while immersed in a project. That said, I’ve had reactions of polar extremity to the same story, incomprehension on the one hand, ‘I know where this comes from’ on the other. One reader’s scary neighbourhood turns out to be another reader’s backyard.

O: You recently identified your strengths (rather modestly) as ‘comedy and casual grotesquery’. Others I can think of include your feel for the surreal conveyed through inventive turns of phrase that reveal the known world in strange new ways, which de Chirico does so hauntingly with paint. As a fellow former art student, I’m partial to comparisons between visual and literary vocabularies. But a painting can be viewed in its entirety in an instant, while all but the briefest flash fictions demand an investment of at least a few minutes, with some tomes even taking months. As a writer who (like me) has worked full-time on fiction for 20+ years, what have you done so far to find readers and get feedback?

X: Early on, I’d submit first drafts to publishers – entire manuscripts, no copyediting. I sure knew how not to do it. Nevertheless, the first MS I submitted was considered, briefly, for publication by an up and coming (now defunct) indie imprint. I am happy to report that the deal, the ghost of one at least, came to nothing. The embarrassment of having my name tied to the dross I was hammering out at the time might have thrown cold water on my desire to write. I had short stories published in small press magazines, and I dipped a toe into the cyber paddling pool of a writers’ online community. I’d recommend it for the small number of serious writers you get to correspond with. Lately, I admit, I’ve not felt motivated to seek outlets for my stuff. There’s something off-putting about the relative ease with which it’s now possible to have work published as an e-book. As you’ve said, everyone’s a writer now, published on social media. Access for all, great, I’m nothing if not an indie DIY fan at heart. Only its downside is a typo-polluted, unedited ocean of ordure I’d sooner avoid catching a whiff of. Or add to its stink, for that matter. Laugh.

O: Besides such obvious parallels as a narrow escape from premature indie publication, some short works in print, and exposure to wildly divergent feedback through the writers’ site where we met, it seems we share certain values and attitudes. Have I mentioned how much I deplore the growing incidence of humans viewing other humans solely as potential consumers? (Oz writer Stephen Wright aptly refers to ‘mutant, vultured, panopticised supercapitalism’ in a call for subversion.) And whether our capitalist system creates or results from narcissism, literary culture has changed radically in recent years. Originality, quality and depth can’t figure when today’s author reportedly needs to spend 90% of their time on marketing, not writing, to succeed. No longer can we hide and let the text speak for itself. Once upon a time, publishers handled publicity, leaving us to mine our imaginations. Now our role has been turned inside out. Being read depends on being observed, first of all by the writer: a split. A state towards which writers already tend, it may be a precondition for creating some, if not all, kinds of fiction. But brand building is more restrictive.

And as writers who can’t or won’t conform to the new cultural norm by using (and having our data mined by) corporate-geared social media, we find ourselves with few (if any) readers: a high price to pay for a kind of freedom. But, in 140 characters or less – just stirring – what do you think you gain by not joining the herd?

X: Well, you hang on to the designation: writer. That’s important. If you spend 90% of your time on marketing you’re not a writer. You’re ‘in marketing’. You’re a self-publicist with a cheesy photo grin. You’ve turned yourself into an easily digestible fiction – e.g.: ‘from rags to riches’, ‘I survived’, ‘phew, what a lot of drugs I took’ etc – to sell fiction. What you become is a cheerleader for material success. ‘Hey guys, I sold my zombie sex tales for $$$s and now I own this luxury yacht! Buy my Ten Steps to Successful Authorship and you can be like me. (Please be like me. I own a yacht but I’m still lonely.)’ What kind of a writer needs a bloody yacht?! In my book (okay, MS), a writer cannot help but set herself against the norms. She’s a good old-fashioned troublemaker. Asking awkward questions and making people feel uncomfortable is what she’s all about. (Whoops, that’s over 140 characters…) What you gain from not joining the herd is, above all else, time in which to refine your troublemaking. Time is oh so much more important than amassing cash, self-aggrandizement or shopping. Lack of decent publishing outlets and rejection only sharpens you up. A positive spin, there. Also, it’s worth remembering that having something published can be an anticlimactic experience. You can find yourself thinking I’m sure that isn’t quite what I meant to say.

The bottom line is this: Fernando Pessoa died in relative obscurity and left a trunk full of his writings. Pessoa’s a genius who gains more readers with each passing year. Conversely, there are individuals – you can’t call them writers – who have had a ‘publishing phenomenon’, and have made $$$s. In a less money-mad world, they’d get a horsewhipping. And nobody in the future is going to read them because the era in which they fit so snugly will have vanished. …

O: Your mini pitches – ‘I survived’ etc. – sound like formulas for top-selling memoirs. But spending most of our time on self-promotion won’t make us rich – unless we can outshine or outwit the competition.

It’s true that publication can be anticlimactic – and not always because the author falls short of their own standards. Take one writer I met, whose debut novel sank without a trace. He left his manuscript with the editor while he spent the advance on time out to write his second novel. When he finally saw the end product he barely recognised it. The young editor had slashed 100 pages plus a main character. And if he’d stuck around to negotiate, they’d have had a power struggle. No art dealer does that to the work of a painter (though much can go wrong in the process of framing or hanging) – which raises some interesting questions re what readers want or expect from a narrative.

Pessoa’s a fascinating case (not least because experts can’t agree on how to sequence his fragments). Do you think something similar could occur in today’s world (maybe even an online version)? Or has the value we place on literature changed? Does today’s reader seek anything more than diversion, entertainment?

X: In our 2-for-1 cliché giveaway: Stranger things have happened – but I wouldn’t hold my breath. The internet, it worries me. Despite its surface flashiness, I have more faith in the old trunk and the 1000-year-old landfill site as repositories for litter, literature and for litter that through some strange alchemical transmutation is finally lauded as literature. Get a hard copy. A major systems meltdown or the Hiroshima of cyber-attacks could, conceivably, obliterate the communications landscape. Get hard copies. Invest, maybe, in a sturdy trunk. Because if Pessoa teaches us nothing else…

The value we place on literature – no, I don’t believe that has changed. Not for committed, lifelong readers it hasn’t. They still hope to see the world illuminated in unheralded, magical ways. (Yep, I used the word ‘magical’.)

The sheer volume of diverting ephemera, of dumb entertainment, makes it seem otherwise. We are living through a play-it-safe period, not only in the literary sphere, in most of them, terrorism and reckless gambling with eco ruin excepted.

(Look at car design. New cars all look the same these days. They all have the same rounded chassis. More often than not they’re shiny metallic grey. ‘Don’t notice me!’ Though it’s hard not to when they’re screaming it.)

However, with TV boxed sets offering what the Victorian triple-decker novel once did – the plot twists and big reveals we all know are coming, even if we are a bit sketchy on the details – I don’t see why more writers don’t grasp the opportunity to short-circuit expectations, to try to do other things. That’s the tricky part – tricky but fun.

O: Shouldn’t the internet worry us all – if only because we’ve come to depend on it for so much in such a short time? Without it, you and I (and countless others) might never have met. And convenience is addictive.

The thing is, when you talk about ‘committed, lifelong readers’ who ‘still hope to see the world illuminated in unheralded, magical ways’, I’m sure many Harry Potter tragics would relate, even if you or I think J K Rowling – who, unlike Pessoa, rates an entry in my dictionary; yes, there’s nothing between pessimistic and pest! – exemplifies the play-it-safe mentality you mention.

You won’t find JG Ballard, Italo Calvino or Angela Carter in my dictionary either. And since it’s the standard reference for Oz editors – and writers – maybe that’s a clue to why writers don’t defy expectations? Though how do we know more writers aren’t trying to do other things, like us, yet can’t get past the gatekeepers? Or are most writers, like most readers (or zombie film extras) herd animals?

X: The many positives of the internet are offset by its breathtaking toxicity. Read some of the comments on internet message boards and one could be forgiven for believing we’d perfected a technology for exposing users’ character flaws. Did its inventors anticipate that? Or did it take them by surprise? If the internet did go on the permanent blink I reckon we’d cope. The baby boomers would. (It’d give them a warm post-war frisson.) You and I, and most other Gen X tykes, would. For us it would mean a return to the slow club of letters and postcards. For the millennials, though, it would feel like the end of their world, and the clinics would overflow with nerve-racked youngsters cut off from their fix.

J K Rowling rates an entry in your dictionary? That just goes to show that money talks. The gatekeepers are usually bean counters as well.

I should perhaps have put ‘unheralded, mysterious ways’. The writer I had in mind when I used the word ‘magical’ was in fact – no, not J K – David Foster Wallace. He used that very word while talking about mind-to-mind experiential transference via the printed page. (And he even smiles. It’s on YouTube. He didn’t grimace the way he had a habit of doing during interviews, as if what he was saying was half killing him with embarrassment. It’s rather a heartening moment.) I didn’t mean to conjure up – groan – any Disneyesque wand-waving malarkey.

J K Rowling’s cobbling together of road-tested favourites – as in, Tom Brown’s Wizardy Dracula Schooldays – was heralded, by bean counters, rather than unheralded, I’d argue. Yet no one can deny that J K got masses of kids reading. Some of those Potter fans will go on to read DFW, or Lautreamont (dark magic), or whoever. Or already have. (Okay, I must admit to being a tad sniffy about adult Potter fans. Read something aimed at grownups, why don’t you. I’m not consistent, though. I see no wrong in anyone of whatever age reading Lewis Carroll. And everyone should goof off now and then. It’s good for you. But those adult Potter fans, they should know better…)

It’s funny but I suspect that I’m probably more pessimistic than you about life in general and less pessimistic about the future of lit. Is there something in that? Hey, it’s a lot darker where I live. I have to try and stay upbeat about something.

The problem, as I see it, is writers and their publishers chasing a dead cert payday. Sound financial bland out is all you’ll get from trying to second-guess readers’ expectations. No, no, no, Observer of Times, writers aren’t herd animals. They’re solitary cats or lone wolves. (Maybe some of the commercial ones are still solitary cats or lone wolves at heart.) It’s just that most of the solitary cats are sleeping, and most of the lone wolves have lost their teeth.

The strange ones and the one-offs are still out there. They always are.

Getting past the bean counting gatekeepers? I’m not sure what you say to people who are only attuned to the song of the cash register. Um, why are you so boring?

O: If the internet got knocked out, a fair few boomers might die; we Westerners rely on it in ways we aren’t even aware of, and humans tend to revert to infantile helplessness with relatively little incitement. But we’ll get to the topic of your optimism in a minute…

A thriller writer/reader recently asked me what authors I like, and, on googling most of them, discovered that Foster Wallace was ‘one of the most influential authors of the twentieth century’. Will J K Rowling leave behind such a legacy? Of course Lewis Carroll’s in a different league. And 19th-century children, despite being seen and not heard, became adults earlier. Take Mary Shelley: could any twenty-year-old publish a novel like Frankenstein today?

Now, how do you figure you’re more pessimistic about life than I am? I’m the person who thinks corporate-funded AI will render our species obsolete if Earth doesn’t get too hot for us first. And the future of lit is in algorithms, just like CGI and animation are replacing flesh and blood actors on film – pessimism or realism? But don’t let me rain on your parade; you must get more than enough rain in Coventry.

When referring to herd animals I was using the term ‘writer’ broadly, thinking of every blogger, every fanfic and e-book author – because hasn’t the definition of writer, as we might use it, changed?

I just reread a 1991 essay by Oz author Peter Goldsworthy, who seems down on the most influential Modernists – especially Woolf, but even Kafka and Borges – because they lost sight of story:

Such elements as story, or metaphoric resonance, are of minor importance. This seems to me an exquisite decadence, the decadence perhaps of those who read too much, whose palates become blunted, and need an ever-increasing fix of the new, the different, the tangy.

Personally, I find this argument lame. Sales figures show that hoards of romance and fantasy readers not only read heaps; they continue to crave more of the same. But I’d like to hear your retort to his championing of story as natural, ‘an emotional, often cathartic experience’, which is ‘primarily a process of transport, and rapture’. (I suspect Goldsworthy might be left no less cold by Foster Wallace and the postmodernists…)

X: While the internet and infantilization go together like peaches and cream – more thoughts on this fascinating subject – there are, as ever, contending forces at play, and they are a hardy crop those baby boomers. Some of them have remained stubbornly unimpressed by the web. One can use it to send Auntie Myrtle birthday greetings, ‘but I sent her a card as well because a card is so much nicer. You can keep a card.’ Arguably, the new tech that had the most profound effect on their generation’s behaviour was the Dansette and collection of 45s. Imagination is crucial here, as one sits and dreams the Beatles. The same can’t be said for the internet. Someone is being paid to imagine for you, and doing a slack-arsed job of it.

My guess is J K Rowling’s legacy will be similar to Enid Blyton’s – a sort of heritage blight that hangs around like the smell of damp wallpaper for decades too long. A blighton, if you will.

At least your brand of pessimism, or realism, admits the possibility of change. My fear is that when the robots take over I’ll be one of the humans who won’t be set free. I’ll be left slaving in a 19th-century theme park – a minimum wage prison – where the physical toil is no playact. (The Industrial Revolution was a mistake. The internal combustion engine can do one as well … all those funny little tin boxes on wheels as containers for the ego, and the only gridlocked trip there is to go on ends with psychic death in a garden centre.)

(Rain on my parade? That’s unlikely. I’d never have one in the first place. Mass gatherings of any kind make me uneasy. Besides, you’re more like a summer rain of thought that leaves me feeling refreshed and ready for a bit of a think, and indeed a rethink of what I thought I think. Emoticon: Wink.)

Getting back to those contending forces, the antithesis of lit’s future in algorithms will, I’m sure, produce works of signal-jamming disruption. Every time I scan the shelves in my local Waterstones I’m able to instantly dismiss most of the stuff on offer. The cover art alone tells me I’d be wasting my time. And yet I did find a copy of John Hartley Williams’ Mystery in Spiderville in there one day. To discover work as singular as that, wow! At the margins is where the truly interesting things happen – always at the margins.

(I’m not sure I agree that CGI and animation are replacing flesh and blood actors. I’m too lazy to research the subject, but my bet is the ratio of live action to animated pictures hasn’t changed much since the ’60s. For each animated Disney film I saw as a child I’d see perhaps nine live action flicks. For one thing, animated features took, and still take, longer to make than live action films. All hail the mighty ’puter, but it isn’t up to the task of replacing the human face just yet. CGI is a fashion, as was ‘plastic reality’ before it. Both can now look equally risible, but ‘plastic reality’ had ‘body’, it suggested weight, whereas obvious CGI often looks flimsy. It works best when used in subtle ways viewers fail to notice: changing words on signage without having to hire a signwriter to come and get his paintbrushes out, for example.)

Ah, yes, the Just Do It ‘writer’, busy, busy, busy in every department. They run their own e-business, and writing is just one of the many fun things they do to be an ‘impactful creative’. Of course I’d like to see those fluffy pestilential dweebs chased by rabid dogs.

Hmm, Peter Goldsworthy – going purely on the lines you quoted – seems like a stick-in-the-mud to me. If someone describes themselves as ‘a storyteller first, a writer second’ I think I’m about to be dragged through a take on a tale I’ve heard countless times before, and I’ll find little in the weft and warp of their prose to surprise and delight me. I don’t even agree that Woolf, Kafka, Borges or Joyce, who I’m adding to the list, lost sight of story. They just recognized its limits. Got bored. Tried new approaches. And what’s so bad about a splash of decadence from time to time? (The clichéd signposting of sure and certain cultural decline is a supine Roman in a toga eating grapes. More decadence, say I. More grapes!) Stories don’t grow on trees. (Money does, weirdly: ‘Who’ll buy my apples?’) Stories are no more or less ‘natural’ than any other concept – money, ice cream, death camps etc. What we as a species seem to be is colonisers of the unnatural. Human beings are really strange. ‘Transport, and rapture’, yes, put my name down for some of that. Those things are there by the sackful in Ulysses. I should point out that my route into postmodernism was far from academic. Bugs Bunny introduced the idea to me. Bugs getting into an argument with the cartoonist who’s drawn him… Then there was the nod and the wink of later episodes of The Avengers, silly Cold War spy-fi. The subtext here was: Look, we know this is nonsense. You know this is nonsense. Let’s have fun with it. You’re back at work or school tomorrow. – So, I have no fear of the postmodern. (Maybe there’s a drop of French blood in my veins?)

I see Goldsworthy’s ‘natural’ storyteller sat at the campfire with the village faithful (dull boobs some of them. Nice people, but … you know). I used to love his stories. Now they leave me cold. I’m behind a tree at the edge of the clearing. ‘Psst. Kids,’ I whisper to the other restless souls who pass by. ‘There is more harm in the village than is dreamt of.’

O: What an ideal note to end on, X. Thanks for the conversation and the Mystery in Spiderville recommendation. (Read a few pages and it knocked my socks off.)

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