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  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 16: Issue 4: 13th March, 2026: A Review of Five Books by Afghan Women

    The following article was printed in The Conversation: Books and Ideas on the 6th March this year, and reviews five recent publications by women from Afghanistan.

    The Taliban wages war on women, but their voices roar on the page. Here are 5 essential books by Afghan women writers by Ayesha Jehangir, Lecturer, Journalism and Communication, UNSW Sydney

    There is something profoundly defiant, almost incendiary, about Afghan women writers. When the Taliban regained control of Kabul in August 2021, images of women protesting in the streets and girls being barred from classrooms circulated around the world.

    Since then, regressive laws have been introduced as part of the systemic suppression of women’s public life in Afghanistan, including banning women from speaking in public. Recently, 140 titles authored by women were blacklisted as “anti-Sharia” by the Taliban’s educational authorities.

    Amid this institutionalised erasure, writing becomes an act of resistance. Recent Afghan women’s literature challenges this erasure. It is a way of reclaiming agency.

    Afghanistan frequently reaches Australian readers through the hard grammar of war reporting and the procedural language of policy debate. Literature offers a different vantage point. Here are five essential books by contemporary Afghan women writers.

    1. My Dear Kabul: A Year in the Life of an Afghan Women’s Writing Group

    My Dear Kabul (2024) is not a traditional memoir told in a single voice, but a cartography of lived experience. It contains the voices of 21 Afghan women writers who ran a clandestine digital writing group as the Taliban consolidated power.

    Drawn from WhatsApp exchanges that have been downloaded, translated and compiled into a collective diary, the book is a visceral account of life as a political system collapses.

    Contributors vary in locale and literary temperament. Their entries oscillate between reportage, testimonies, narrative reflection and fragmented poetic utterance. The women in My Dear Kabul are mostly in their 20s and 30s, although there is one in her 60s. This plurality challenges monolithic representations of Afghan women.

    We experience personal fear through the story of Sadaf, a teacher who describes the abrupt end to her classroom when the head teacher interrupts an exam to dismiss her Year 8 students because the Taliban are entering the city.

    Fakhta, a law student from Daikundi province, had to flee the city along with other students in a university hostel. Her writing combines minute personal details with the existential uncertainty of the moment. “Towards an unknown fate,” she writes, “we all kept moving.”

    A second book, Rising After the Fall (2023), edited by Lucy Hannah and Zarghuna Kargar, with illustrations by Sara Rahmani, has adapted the collective concept of My Dear Kabul for younger readers. Rising After the Fall has voices of different ages.

    The book distils fragments of lived experience through glimpses of domestic resistance, displaced schooling and truncated freedoms. The edition situates Afghan girls not as passive recipients but as active narrators of their worlds. I find myself returning to it as an ideal birthday gift for young readers, a gesture of imaginative solidarity.

    • My Pen Is the Wing of a Bird: New Fiction by Afghan Women

    Edited by Lyse Doucet and Lucy Hannah, My Pen is the Wing of a Bird (2022) gathers short fiction by 18 Afghan women living inside the country. The stories have been written in Afghanistan’s two principal languages, Pashto and Dari, and translated into English by Afghans, several of them writers themselves.

    These narratives, some of which are set in the claustrophobic domestic sphere and others in speculative or transitional landscapes, interrogate the conditions of life under patriarchal authoritarianism.

    In Sharifa Pasun’s “The Late Shift”, for example, the reader encounters Sanga, a young mother and a journalist in 1980s Afghanistan, who navigates the overlapping demands of professional life, family responsibilities and existential threat.

    Sanga works evening shifts, broadcasting the day’s news under the constant threat of rocket fire. By day, she attends Kabul University, then returns home to her two-year-old child, Ghamai.

    Pasun uses the figure of a working mother to depict the labour of care against a backdrop of violence. As she writes:

    the roads were busy with ambulances. The rockets couldn’t be heard anymore. Sanga knew that the opposition had run out of rockets. They must be tired like her, she thought.

    • We Are Still Here: Afghan Women on Courage, Freedom, and the Fight to Be Heard

    Edited by Nahid Shahalimi, We Are Still Here (2022) compiles essays, testimonies and reflections by 13 Afghan women journalists, activists, educators, scientists, coders, musicians and artists. It covers the period before and after the Taliban’s takeover.

    Individual lives are situated within global militarisation, evacuation, refugee displacement and the international humanitarian regime, without personal voices being reduced to geopolitical abstractions. Contributors refuse both silence and pity.

    The book foregrounds women’s agency in shaping narratives of resistance, belonging and intellectual continuity.

    The story of Razia Barakzai, a former official who worked in Afghanistan’s presidential office, stands out. Barakzai describes how she and other young women organised demonstrations in Kabul, even as the risks became immediate and personal. They carried placards in Dari, Pashto and English, declaring that Afghan women still existed and demanded their rights.

    Her reflections capture the moral clarity driving these protests. Her story illustrates how Afghan women’s resistance often emerges through collective courage — transforming fear into solidarity and refusing both erasure and pity.

    “To be silent,” she writes, “would mean we were accepting and surrendering to the Taliban’s power.”

    • Dancing in the Mosque: An Afghan Mother’s Letter to Her Son

    Although Homeira Qaderi’s memoir Dancing in the Mosque (2021) predates the fall of Kabul, it gained renewed urgency in the post-2021 landscape. It is written as a letter to Qaderi’s son, whom she was forced to relinquish after divorcing her abusive husband. Afghan custody laws and social norms overwhelmingly favour fathers after divorce.

    The book’s title comes from a formative childhood memory. As a young girl, Qaderi accompanies her grandmother to a mosque where women gather to pray and mourn. At one point, carried away by a moment of joy, she begins to spin and dance. The reaction is immediate. The women around her reprimand her sharply, reminding her such movement is “inappropriate in a sacred space”.

    The moment becomes emblematic. The mosque, which should be a place of spiritual refuge, becomes a site where a girl first learns the boundaries placed on her body and voice. Yet the image of the girl dancing also signals a stubborn impulse toward freedom that persists even within those confines.

    The book moves associatively, drifting between childhood memories, reflections on motherhood, moments from Qaderi’s marriage, and the act of writing to her absent son. The narrative often circles back on itself, lingering on small sensory details: a room, a conversation, a fleeting moment of joy or grief.

    The fragmented structure mirrors the turbulence that shapes Qaderi’s life: the dislocations of war, the contradictions of love and loss, and the unresolved ache of separation from her child. The memoir is an intimate act of remembering, where memories surface unevenly, guided by feeling rather than the orderly progression of events.

    The looping, pausing and returning evokes the turbulence Afghan women have navigated. In a context where women’s education itself has been criminalised, Qaderi’s text stands as an enduring testament to the interior life as a site of resistance.

    • The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

    “I knew nothing about pearls and shells either,” Nadia Hashimi writes in The Pearl that Broke Its Shell (2014), “except that one had to free itself from the other.”

    The novel explores the quiet ingenuity with which Afghan women navigate restrictive gender norms. At its centre is Rahima, a young girl in Kabul who becomes a bacha posh (a girl temporarily raised in boys’ clothes so she can move freely in public and support her family).

    The transformation allows Rahima to experience freedoms otherwise denied to her, such as attending school, running errands, even riding a bicycle through the city streets. Yet this fragile autonomy is always temporary. As Rahima reflects, “To be a bacha posh is to borrow a boy’s freedom until you are old enough to give it back.”

    Across the 69 chapters of her novel, Hashimi interweaves Rahima’s story with that of her great-great-grandmother Shekiba – “born at the turn of the twentieth century, in an Afghanistan eyed lasciviously by Russia and Britain” – who also survived by inhabiting roles typically reserved for men.

    Through these parallel narratives, The Pearl that Broke Its Shell reveals how Afghan women have long devised creative strategies for survival within patriarchal systems. The result is a moving portrait of resilience, one that suggests that beneath the constraints placed on them, Afghan women have courage and aspirations that persist across generations.

  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 16: Issue 3:  23rd February, 2026:               Some books tackled since 1st January including Stone’s ‘Michelangelo’.

    I’ve continued reading since the Christmas/New Year period, and as always like to share something about that material which this time includes some older publications.  Only a short selection of readings this time, however some substantial commentary has been provided for the third listed book below.

    • Last One Out by Jane Harper, pub. 2025;
    • The Rainbow and the Rose, by Nevil Shute, pub. 1958;
    • The Agony and the Ecstasy: the biographical novel of Michelangelo, by Irving Stone, pub. 1961;
    • Atonement by Ian McEwan, pub. 2001.

    13th January

    The latest novel by Australian author Jane Harper called ‘Last One Out’, published in 2025, of 373 pages, a slow-moving novel which built up to its leading crescendo of awareness in the closing pages. A true mystery I guess, where the reader may well assume that the killer[s] are someone still in the town, but not revealed until the appropriate time. In some ways, as I read, I found myself silently saying ‘get on with the story’, yet still a difficult book to put down!! 

    “Last One Out” is a gripping mystery novel by Jane Harper that explores the disappearance of a young man and the haunting impact it has on his family and a small rural community.

    The story revolves around Ro Crowley, who is waiting for her son Sam to return home on the night of his 21st birthday. However, Sam never arrives, and his disappearance sends shockwaves through the community of Carralon Ridge, and eventually Ro leaves her husband Cliff as they both struggle in different ways to overcome their loss.

    Five years later, Ro returns to the now desolate town for Sam’s annual memorial, only to find it transformed by the encroaching coal mine that has driven most residents away. As she revisits the abandoned houses where Sam’s footprints were found, Ro seeks answers about her son’s fate, uncovering secrets that the remaining townsfolk may hold. The skeletal community is now an echo of itself, having fractured under the pressure of the coal mine operating on its outskirts.  But Ro still wants answers. Only a few people remain. If the truth is to be found in that town, does it lie among them? She has not given up hope that Sam is still alive and is desperate to make sense of his final hours

    From Australian Book Review of December, 2025, the reviewer, Barbara Pezzotti describes the affect of the mine on the town thus –  ‘In Harper’s descriptive language, the presence of the mine  is not only visible through the destruction of the landscape; it is also constantly felt and heard by the inhabitants of Carrolan Ridge. The rumbling and rattling of the machinery [24 hours a day] scarring the ground and destroying nature is constant, day and night. Replacing birdsong, it is the background to walking, eating, sleeping and talking….Heavy vehicles lumber their way up and down past people’s front doors. A grey layer of coal dust covers every flat surface, the taste of the water  and the smell of sulphur  in the air, a constant reminder of the mine’s devilish presence’

    She also describes [in line with my opening paragraph above]  where ‘In this slow-burn, stand-alone mystery, police investigation is non-existent and the burden of the enquiry rests only on Ro’s shoulders.  Through flashbacks, the narrative gives an account of Ro’s five-year-long investigation. A new, unexpected clue materialises only towards the end of the novel, bringing finality’.

    Chris Gordon, writing for Readings [Sept 2025] summarises the book as follows

    “Jane Harper’s latest novel is a heartbreaker. There is no ruggedly handsome detective trying to make sense of his own frailties while solving a murder. Last One Out does something different to Harper’s previous works. The story concentrates on a family with a son, Sam, who disappeared five years prior to the book’s beginning. The novel’s focus remains on the mother, Ro, a doctor who fled her marriage and the community after the initial trauma. Yet she returns each year to the failing town to acknowledge her loss and to connect with the friends and family who remain.  And here lies the other tragic component of the novel: the entire story is set in Carralon Ridge – an isolated rural town that has run out of steam and has been purchased for mining. The residents who haven’t left are bitter – defeated, even – and certainly nostalgic for times that now do not exist. The men seem to cower from change, while the women support everyone, clean, and hide their pain. Harper does an excellent job of working into the narrative the relentless nature of the dust, the noise of the mining, and the heat. This is not a town for tourists. This is a town that screams resentment and frustration. And this time, Ro’s annual visit uncovers the past – and her son’s murderer.

    Harper has written a wonderful literary exposé of a disappearing town. The metaphors she uses are damning of the environmental damage caused by mining. She perfectly captures the limbo in which the dispirited locals are trapped, along with the social fractures and fear the uncertainty causes. This is a universal story of decline. Readers of Harper’s previous crime novels – and this is another – will delight in her steady pace and astute character observations. I found this novel painfully affecting: our rural past is swept up in the dust with more than one victim.

    Reverting back to Pezzotti’s analysis –  ‘Last One Out lacks the rhythm and suspense of Harper’s earlier work [all of which I have read]. The sociological and psychological study of a disappearing community is compelling, but it distracts from the crime plot…………..This is not an uplifting story of resistance and empowerment, nor is it a sharp condemnation of the evils of neo-liberalism and globalisation. The moral of the story is simply to accept the inevitable consequences of corporate greed and focus on personal regeneration , even at the expense of community’. 

    In an article I included in this Column a few months ago, Harper’s novel was criticised to the extent, that as with her past books, the Aboriginal population did not feature . The original Australians don’t appear to have a place in this town or in her novels, so far!

    25th January

    A novel written many years ago, which I’ve just caught up with was ‘The Rainbow and the Rose’, by Nevil Shute, published in 1958, of 306 pages.    When seasoned pilot Johnny Pascoe tries to rescue a sick girl from the Tasmanian outback, his plane crashes and leaves him stranded and dangerously injured. Ronnie Clarke, who was trained by Pascoe, attempts to fly a doctor in to help, but rough weather makes his mission more difficult than he imagined. As he waits overnight at Pascoe’s house for a chance to try again the next day, Clarke revisits the past of this unusual man [which he does through dreams he has while asleep]—and reveals the shocking and tragic secrets that have influenced his life.

    The title is taken from a sonnet “The Treasure” by Rupert Brooke, which is quoted in full as a preface:

    Wikipedia summary of the novel [readers’ spoiler]

    The story concerns the life of Canadian Johnnie Pascoe, a retired commercial and military pilot, who has crashed while attempting a medevac flight in difficult weather conditions into a small airstrip a mountainous region of Tasmania. Unconscious and suffering from a dangerous head injury, he lies in the house of the child he had been sent to help, which is inaccessible by road and in contact with the outside world only by radio. Hearing of his plight, Ronnie Clarke — an airline pilot and student of Pascoe decades earlier — offers to try and land a young doctor. After two failed flights in one of Pascoe’s own Taylorcraft Auster aircraft from the small flight school Pascoe set up after retirement, Clarke rests overnight at Pascoe’s house, meets Pascoe’s two daughters, and narrates the life of his former mentor through three dream episodes.

    In the first episode, Pascoe is a young fighter pilot in the Royal Flying Corps during The Great War and marries an up-and-coming actress. At war’s end they separate when she accepts a role in Hollywood, moves in with another man, and files for divorce from there with sole custody of their daughter.

    A few years later, in the 1920s, Pascoe is chief pilot at the small flying school where Clarke learned to fly, and becomes romantically involved with a student pilot, Brenda Marshall, whose husband is in a mental asylum after sexually assaulting children. Things go awry after the birth of Pascoe’s and Marshall’s baby daughter, and when Marshall learns that her husband has refused to grant a divorce, she commits suicide by deliberately crashing her de Havilland Moth. Pascoe leaves the country, with the baby in the care of Marshall’s mother, and shortly afterwards he learns that the baby has died

    In the final dream episode, after having served with Ferry Command during the Second World War beside Clarke, Pascoe is a senior pilot with fictitious AusCan Airlines in the 1950s, flying routes between Canada and Australia, and approaching mandatory retirement at age 60. Peggy Dawson, a flight attendant and former nurse in her late 20s, asks to join his cabin crew and impresses him during the interview. They begin to spend more time together during layovers, and he develops feelings for her that he notes are non-sexual. With retirement approaching, Pascoe wants to find a way to keep Dawson in his life, so he proposes marriage, even though he does not believe that his feelings are romantic. Dawson reveals that she rightfully should be named Brenda Maragaret Pascoe. She is Pascoe’s daughter with Brenda Marshall, who Pascoe believed to have died in infancy; she had left nursing and joined AusCan airlines to observe her father and possibly to make contact with him. The framing story closes with Ronnie Clarke making a successful attempt to land the doctor and Pascoe’s daughter Nurse Dawson in clear weather the next morning, only to learn that Pascoe had died during the night. Dawson remains to arrange for an informal burial, then plans to hike 40 miles (64 km) back through to bush with the rescue party to deal with her father’s estate. There is a strong suggestion that Dawson and the young doctor have developed feelings for each other.

    Clarke returns to Melbourne, 36 hours after he left, and notes that his life is full of blessings with his spouse and children, while Pascoe, who was (in his opinion) the better man, had so little joy in life.

    Like Conrad, Shute often uses a narrator to tell the story; in The Rainbow and the Rose, the narrator periodically shifts from Clarke to Pascoe.

    16 February

    The Agony and the Ecstasy: the biographical novel of MICHELANGELO by Irving Stone, published in 1958, of 664 pages.  I can’t admit to reading this mammoth book in the hurry –  in fact recall when it actually came into my possession, many years ago, or whether it was a purchase or s gift.  My copy was personally signed by the author. In any case, I began to read it many years ago, put it aside, probably for a couple of decades, only getting back to it early this year, and determined to see it through!

    I found it not just a biography of a great artist [in novel form] but also a fascinating depiction of the historical events of the period of his life and of the political and religious strife of Italy and surrounding areas of the then Europe. Reading in particular about the Popes of those times –   well hardly comparative to the perceived moral and religious authority of the modern-day Pope. That’s a story on it’s own!!

    Just one of many examples:  [page 636] “Cardinal Giovanni Pietro Caraffa became Pope Paul IV. No-one quite knew how he had been elected. He was a thoroughly disagreeable man, violent of nature, intolerant of all about him. Pope Paul IV, knowing how completely he was hated, said: ‘I do not know why they elected me Pope, so I am bound to conclude that it is not the cardinals  but God who makes the Popes’.

    Published in 1961, this is a captivating novel that chronicles the life of Michelangelo Buonarroti, exploring his artistic genius and personal struggles during the Renaissance and exploring the historical context of the time. The book is not only a tribute to Michelangelo’s genius, and at times, hi complex character, and the often  tumultuous relationships he had with artists such as Leonardo de Vinci, but also a reflection on the broader tensions faced by artists in pursuit of their vision

    The narrative begins with a young Michelangelo, grappling with feelings of loneliness and a desire for love following the death of his mother. His journey into artistry sees him facing both physical and emotional struggles, driven by an insatiable pursuit of perfection and the agony of creating masterpieces only to witness their destruction, and regularly facing the demands and changes of those demands by different Popes and other authorities of the time. Announcing that it was his ambition to wipe out all heresy in Italy, he unleashed on the Roman people the horrors of the Spanish inquisition”.

    However, this book is about Michelangelo, although in reading through it, one quickly learns of the powerful influence that the various Popes of his time had on his work, his lifestyle, his relationships, and even at times, his life and freedom itself.

    The novel emphasizes several key themes, including:

    Irving Stone conducted extensive research for the novel including translating Michelangelo’s letters and studying his techniques. This meticulous approach allowed Stone to blend historical facts with fictional narrative, while the novel has been divided into precise sections that detail distinct periods of Michelangelo’s life, making the story both informative and engaging.  Stone trawled through every document, including Michelangelo’s bills and legal documents, and even worked sat one time in an Italian quarry.

    Writing in a publication from Sep 27-October3, 1997, called ‘The Vulture’ [an article which described itself as ‘Picks over the bones of contemporary culture], it was noted that ‘This version of the artist’s long, difficult life takes no risks. What we get is an intricate skeleton of events and a carefully textured skin of meticulous local colour. It is a fascinating canvas so long as you don’t expect much psychological flesh’.  Well, if merely  a skeleton, the 647 pages I read certainly contained plenty of skin and flesh!!

    Having noted also with special interest the years and efforts and trials Michelangelo put into creating many if not all of his ‘masterpieces’,  I found myself adding to my ‘bucket list of things I’ll never achieve’ a genuine desire to see in person those existing masterpieces such as the Sistine Chapel Ceiling, The Last Judgement, the statue David, The Garden of Eden, the Pieta, Moses,  St. Peters, and so on [see following].

    Getting back to the novel –

    Key characters include Lodovico, Michelangelo’s father, whose harsh expectations and lack of affection contribute significantly to Michelangelo’s personal challenges. Lorenzo de’ Medici, a significant patron, embodies the Renaissance ideals that inspire Michelangelo, while Contessina de’ Medici and Clarissa Saffi represent the romantic entanglements that are ultimately thwarted by social constraints and Michelangelo’s artistic obsessions. Vittoria Colonna, a devoted reformist, captures his admiration later in life, though their relationship remains platonic. Lastly, Tommaso de Cavalieri serves as a devoted companion in his later years, showcasing the importance of friendship amidst Michelangelo’s solitary existence. This rich tapestry of relationships illuminates the artist’s life, highlighting the balance of agony and ecstasy inherent in his quest for artistic immortality.

    As one reviewer noted –  the novel explores his quest to become the living representation of Renaissance humanism, a journey filled with personal and professional hurdles. Michelangelo must navigate familial opposition, religious constraints, political manoeuvrings, and the competitive nature of artistic patronage to fulfill his vision.

     From a Wikipedia summary we note that:

    Beginnings and Early Challenges

    Despite his father’s disapproval, young Michelangelo earns an apprenticeship under the painter Ghirlandaio, and later, the sculptor Bertoldo, who works under the sponsorship of Lorenzo de’ Medici, a prominent Florentine patron. Michelangelo quickly gains Lorenzo’s admiration and forms connections with his children, including future popes Giulio and Giovanni, and Contessina, his first love. He faces hostility from envious peers, including an infamous encounter with Torrigiani that leaves him physically marked, but through illicit study of anatomy, he hones the skills crucial to his craft. As Savonarola rises to power, threatening the Medici family and the cultural landscape of Florence, Michelangelo finds himself at a crossroads.

    Rome: A Turning Point

    Seeking refuge in Bologna during Savonarola’s reign, Michelangelo encounters Clarissa Saffi and creates “Bambino,” drawing the attention of Leo Baglioni. His first visit to Rome introduces him to influential figures such as banker Jacopo Galli, who commissions his work, and architects Giuliano Sangallo and Bramante, the latter becoming a rival. Here, Michelangelo sculpts the renowned Pieta, learns the intricacies of patronage, and becomes involved in the ambitious project of St. Peter’s Basilica, which will dominate his later years.

    Return to Florence

    Back in Florence, Michelangelo creates his monumental statue, “the Giant,” or David, which comes to symbolize the city itself. He crosses paths with Leonardo da Vinci, his chief rival, and Raphael, forming a triumvirate of Italian Renaissance art. Michelangelo’s rivalry with Leonardo intensifies as they compete to paint frescoes for Florence’s rulers. Pope Julius takes note of Michelangelo’s prowess and summons him to Rome, compelling him to work in bronze and undertake the monumental task of painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Julius’s vision of a new St. Peter’s aligns with Michelangelo’s burgeoning architectural ambitions.

    Under Papal Influence

    Following Julius, the Medici popes Giovanni and Giulio add new dimensions to Michelangelo’s challenges. Giovanni demands that Michelangelo procure marble from the remote Pietrasanta, inadvertently turning him into an engineer, while Giulio’s forces require him to fortify Florence, utilizing his engineering acumen. Pope Paul III commissions Michelangelo for the Last Judgment and appoints him architect of St. Peter’s amidst ongoing disputes. Michelangelo’s culminating achievement is the dome of St. Peter’s, a fitting testament to his artistic and architectural legacy. Alongside his professional triumphs, he finds personal solace in the company of Tommaso de Cavalieri, who would carry on his work on St. Peter’s, and Vittoria Colonna, his intellectual companion and muse.

    Looking at perhaps the most famous of his works, with copies of these to follow:

    David, completed by Michelangelo in 1504, is one of the most renowned works of the Renaissance.  The masterwork definitively established his prominence as a sculptor of extraordinary technical skill and strength of symbolic imagination –  created from 1501 to 1504.

    The Last Judgement: is a fresco by the Italian Renaissance painter Michelangelo covering the whole altar wall of the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City. It is a depiction of the Second Coming of Christ and the final and eternal judgment by God of all humanity. 

    The Sistine Chapel: from the creation to Noah in 175 individual paintings covering 12,000 square feet

    The creation of Adam (bottom), the creation of Eve from Adam’s rib (centre) and the temptation and expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden (top)

    The Pieta: this is Michelangelo’s masterpiece that depicts the Virgin Mary cradling the lifeless body of Jesus after his crucifixion.

    David by Michelangelo Florence Galleria dell’Accademia

    [David]

    The Last Judgement [1536-41]in the Sistine Chapel, Vatican City.

    The Sistine Chapel ceiling, in the Vatican Palace [1508-1512],  Vatican Palace, Vatican City

    The Creation

    Above -Madonna and Child [1524-34], Medici Chapel, Florence; and below, The Last Judgement [1536-41]in the Sistine Chapel, Vatican City.

    In conclusion, the night before Michelangelo died [in Irving Stone’s fictional biographical terms]

    [page 647] “That night, as he lay sleepless in bed, he thought, ‘Life has been good. God did not create me to abandon me. I have loved marble, yes, and paint too. I have loved architecture, and poetry too. I have loved my family and my friends. I have loved God, the forms of the earth and the heavens, and people too. I have loved life to the full, and now I love death as its natural termination. Il Magnifico would be happy: for me, the forces of destruction never overcame creativity.” 

    19th February

    Another book from earlier years –  Atonement by Ian McEwan, published in 2001, of 372 pages. This book was shortlisted for the 2001 Booker Prize, and after reading, I was not surprised with that nomination. Widely regarded as one of McEwan’s best works, ‘Time’ magazine named Atonement in its list of the 100 greatest English-language novels since 1923.

    It is set in three time periods, 1935 England, second World War England and France, and present-day England, and covers an upper-class girl’s half-innocent mistake that ruins lives, her adulthood in the shadow of that mistake, and a reflection on the nature of writing.

    On the hottest day of the summer of 1935, thirteen-year-old Briony Tallis sees from a distance,  her sister Cecilia strip off into her underwear, and plunge into the fountain in the garden of their country house to retrieve a vase that has been thrown in by the son of the estate’s cleaner, who has virtually been a part of the family since childhood. . Watching her too is that family friend,  Robbie Turner who, like Cecilia, has recently come down from Cambridge. By the end of that day, the lives of all three will have been changed for ever. Robbie and Cecilia will have crossed a boundary they had not even imagined at its start, and will young become innocent victims of a young girl’s imagination and writing ambitions as Briony commits a crime for which she will spend the rest of her life trying to atone, while the other two, and the extended family suffer  and have their lives changed in various ways.

    As noted on the ‘Bookaholic Academy’ a few years ago  –  ‘Some books are just stories, and then there are those that feel like they’ve crawled under your skin and left a mark. Ian McEwan’s Atonement falls into the latter category. It’s not just a novel – it’s a gut punch wrapped in beautiful prose, a story about guilt, love, and the slippery nature of truth. If you’ve ever wondered how one mistake can ripple through lives like a stone thrown into water, this book gives you the answer in heartbreaking detail’.

     That and the vivid heart-rending depictions of the allies and civilians as they flee from the Germans towards Dunkirk [the second period of the book], and the horrific [to a bystander as a reader] experiences of both Briony and her sister as nurses in the English  hospitals attending to the wounded arriving from across the Channel from France [third time period] emphasise so strongly that second category mentioned above.

    I’ve copied below the full synopsis of the book, as published by Wikipedia, which is basically a spoiler for those who may be intending to read the book.  As a ‘non-spoiler’,  a brief plot overview could be:-

    ‘At it’s core, Atonement is about Briony Tallis, a 13-year-old girl, with an overactive imagination. One hot summer day in 1935, she witnesses something she doesn’t fully understand. But instead of keeping her confusion to herself, she makes an accusation – one that changes the lives of her sister Cecilia and Cecilia’s lover, Robbie, forever. From there, McEwan drags us through the brutality of World War II, the fragility of love in a world torn apart, and the crushing weight of regret. The structure is layered, moving from a childhood mistake to its devastating consequences, and finally to the lasting scars left behind’.

    At this point, if you don’t want to read the spoiler, stop reading here!

    From a Wikipedia contribution about ‘Atonement’

    Part one

    Briony Tallis, a 13-year-old English girl with a talent for writing, lives at her family’s country estate with her parents Jack and Emily Tallis, who are members of the landed gentry. Her older sister Cecilia has recently graduated from the University of Cambridge with Robbie Turner, the Tallis family housekeeper’s son and Cecilia’s childhood friend, whose university education was funded by Jack Tallis.

    In the summer of 1935, Briony’s maternal cousins, 15-year-old Lola and 9-year-old twins Jackson and Pierrot, visit the family amidst their parents’ divorce. Cecilia’s older brother Leon returns from London, accompanied by his friend from Oxford, the well-off manufacturer Paul Marshall. Cecilia and Robbie bicker over a vase, which breaks and falls into a fountain. Cecilia strips to her underwear and dives in to retrieve the pieces, surprising Robbie. Briony, watching from a window, is confused and intrigued by Cecilia and Robbie’s actions. She is inspired to begin writing psychological realism, and the reader is informed that this will eventually become a hallmark of her fiction.

    In the wake of the incident by the pond, Robbie realizes he is attracted to Cecilia, and writes several drafts of a love letter to her. He gives the letter to Briony to deliver to Cecilia; however, he inadvertently gives her a version he had meant to discard, which contains lewd references (“In my dreams I kiss your cunt“). By the time Robbie realizes his mistake, Briony has already returned to the house with his letter.

    Despite Robbie’s instructions to the contrary, Briony opens the letter and reads it. She is shocked by its vulgar language, and becomes convinced that Robbie intends to harm Cecilia. An injured Lola goes to Briony for comfort, claiming that her younger brothers attacked her, although it is implied to have instead been Paul Marshall, who has a long scratch on his face. Briony relays the contents of the letter to Lola, who labels Robbie a “maniac,” re-affirming Briony’s feelings. Robbie arrives at the main house for a family dinner party, and is confronted by Cecilia. He confesses his feelings to her, and she responds in kind. Later the same evening, Briony walks in on Robbie and Cecilia having sex in the library. The immature Briony believes she interrupted a vicious assault on Cecilia, and stands stunned while Robbie and Cecilia quickly exit.

    At the dinner, which is generally tense, it is discovered the twins have run away. The party breaks into teams to search for them. When Cecilia goes with Leon, Robbie and Briony each set off on their own. In the darkness, while everyone is searching for the twins, Briony discovers her cousin Lola being raped by an assailant neither girl can clearly see. The attacker flees. Briony, convinced that it must have been Robbie, gets Lola to agree that she likely heard Robbie’s voice. The girls return home, and Briony identifies Robbie to the police as the rapist, claiming she saw his face in the dark. Lola is sedated by the local doctor, Cecilia screams at Briony and locks herself in her room, and Paul Marshall shares cigarettes with the policemen.

    Robbie does not return, and the family and police officers stay awake waiting for him. As dawn breaks, Robbie appears in the driveway with Jackson and Pierrot, having found and rescued them. He is arrested on the spot and taken away, with only Cecilia and his mother believing his protestations of innocence. Briony is satisfied by this conclusion to her mythologized version of the events, with her as the hero and Robbie as the villain.

    Part two

    By the time the Second World War has started, Robbie has spent several years in prison. He and Cecilia have passed several years exchanging letters, maintaining their love for each other. Robbie is released from prison on the condition he enlist in the army. Meanwhile, Cecilia has completed training as a nurse, and cut off all contact with her family for the parts they played in locking Robbie up. Shortly before Robbie is deployed to France, they meet once for half an hour, during Cecilia’s lunch break. Their reunion starts awkwardly, but they share a kiss before leaving each other.

    In France, the war is going badly, and the army is retreating to Dunkirk. As the injured Robbie makes his way there, he thinks about his love for Cecilia and his hatred for Briony. However, he eventually concludes that Briony was too young to be blamed fully, and writes Cecilia a letter encouraging her to reconnect with her family. His condition deteriorates over the course of the section; he weakens and becomes delirious. Robbie falls asleep in Dunkirk, one day before the evacuation begins.

    Part three

    A remorseful Briony, now eighteen years old, has refused her place at Cambridge and instead is a trainee nurse in London. She has realised the full extent of her mistake and decides it was Paul Marshall, Leon’s friend, whom she saw with Lola.

    Briony still writes fiction, and receives a letter from Cyril Connolly at the hospital where she works. Cyril is rejecting Briony’s submitted draft of her latest work to his magazine, Horizon, but providing kindly and constructive feedback. The work is in fact the first draft of the first section of this novel.

    Briony travels to attend the wedding of Paul Marshall and her cousin Lola, with the knowledge that Lola is marrying her rapist. Briony considers speaking up during the wedding, but does not. Afterwards, she visits Cecilia, who is cold but invites Briony in nonetheless. While Briony is apologizing to Cecilia, Robbie unexpectedly appears from the bedroom. He has been living with Cecilia while he is on leave from the army. Robbie expresses his fury at Briony, but with Cecilia’s soothing remains civil.

    Cecilia and Robbie both refuse to forgive Briony, who nonetheless tells them she will try to put things right. She promises to begin the legal procedures needed to exonerate Robbie, even though Paul Marshall will never be held responsible for his crime because of his marriage to Lola. As Briony leaves Cecilia’s, she is optimistic about her role in Robbie’s exoneration, thinking that it will be “a new draft, an atonement” and that she is ready to begin.

    Postscript

    The final section, titled “London 1999”, is narrated by Briony herself in the form of a diary entry. Now 77, she is a successful novelist who has recently been diagnosed with vascular dementia, so she is facing rapid mental decline.

    It is confirmed that Briony is the author of the preceding three sections of the novel. She attends a party in her honor at the Tallis family home, where the extended Tallis children perform The Trials of Arabella, the play that 13-year-old Briony had written and unsuccessfully attempted to stage with her cousins in the summer of 1935. Leon and Pierrot are in attendance, Jackson is fifteen years deceased, and Lola is alive but does not attend. Finally, Briony reveals to the reader that Robbie Turner died of septicaemia on the beaches of Dunkirk, that Cecilia was killed several months later when a bomb destroyed Balham Underground station during the Blitz, and that Briony’s story of seeing them together in 1940 was a fabrication. Briony did attend Lola’s wedding to Paul Marshall, but confesses she was too “cowardly” to visit the recently bereaved Cecilia to make amends. The novel, which she says is factually true apart from Robbie and Cecilia being reunited, is her lifelong attempt at “atonement” for what she did to them.

    Briony justifies her invented happy ending by saying she does not see what purpose it would serve to give readers a “pitiless” story. She writes, “I like to think that it isn’t weakness or evasion, but a final act of kindness, a stand against oblivion and despair, to let my lovers live and to unite them at the end.”

    _____________________________________________________________________—

  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 16: Issue 1: 25th January 2026:  Australians of the Year

    I usually like to provide a summary of these awards each year, and decided 2026 should not be an exception.

    There were 33 nominees for the four ‘Australian of the Year’ Awards for 2026 from the various Australian States and Territories – those award categories were:

    • Australian of the Year;
    • Senior Australian of the Year;
    • Young Australian of the Year; and,
    • Local Hero/

    The Australian of the Year is a national award conferred on an Australian citizen by the National Australia Day Council, a not-for-profit Australian Government-owned social enterprise. Similar awards are also conferred at the state and territory level and the respective winners of those Awards represent the nominees at the national level.  The award offers an insight into Australian identity, reflecting the nation’s evolving relationship with world, the role of sport in Australian culture, the impact of multiculturalism, and the special status of Indigenous Australians. It has also provoked spirited debate about the fields of endeavour that are most worthy of public recognition.  The award program promotes active citizenship and seeks to elevate certain people as role models. The three companion awards recognise both Young and Senior Australians, as well as the efforts of those who work at a grass roots level through the ‘Australia’s Local Hero’ award.

    In the following article, we will:

    • Summarise each of the respective nominations in each of the four award categories; and;
    • Reveal the four winners of the National awards.

    Nominations in each category were as follows

    Australian of the year

    The eight nominations for the Australian of the Year Award this year with brief biographies [full bios can be found on the National Australia Day website] are as follows, the winner to be chosen from each of the respective state and territory nominations

    • ACT: Professor Rose McGready has spent three decades providing health services to displaced people in the border region between Thailand and Myanmar, with her commitment, compassion and clinical expertise providing life-saving aid to some of the world’s most vulnerable communities.
    • NSW: Dr Alison Thompson has deployed thousands of volunteers to the world’s worst disaster zones, and in doing so, building resilience in local communities through sustainable, locally driven disaster prevention and recovery.
    •  NT: Dr Felix Ho tirelessly serves remote communities in the Northern Territory as a medical practitioner. Through the St. John Youth Program, he brings people together across geography and generations to equip Australia’s youth to save lives through first aid in an emergency.
    • Qld:  Dr Rolf Gomes has had a far-reaching impact on rural health and medicine, through amongst other efforts, his launching of the first Heart of Australia mobile ‘Heart trucks’ to visit remote communities.
    • SA: Katherine Bennell-Pegg is creating history as the first Australian to qualify as an astronaut  under Australia’s space program, having trained as part of a class of six by the European Astronaut Centre in Germany, chosen from a field of over 22,500 applicants. She is considered a trailblazer in Australia’s emerging space industry.
    • Tas:  Dr Jorian [Jo] Kippax was part of a specialist team of rescuers involved in freeing a whitewater rafter trapped in the Franklin River rapids in 2024. That rescue was just one chapter in Jo’s long career in emergency medicine, disaster response and search and rescue.
    • Vic: Carrie Bickmore is a radio and television presenter who has changed the way that brain cancer research is funded in Australia, and in 2021, she established the Brain Cancer Centre to bring together the brightest minds in research to find a cure.
    • WA: Dr. Daniela Vecchio is the head of mental health and addiction services at the Fiona Stanley Hospital, and is a pioneer in establishing in 2022 the first publicly funded gaming disorder clinic in Australia

    Senior Australian of the Year

    • Tas: Julie Dunbabib: a pioneer in school nutrition, who is changing the way education departments and schools prepare and deliver school lunches to children. 
    • NSW: Professor Henry Brodaty: he is transforming the diagnosis, care and prevention of dementia – improving countless lives, both in Australia and around the world. 
    • SA: James Currie: his filmography reads like a list of South Australia’s most successful films over the past 50 years. His work as a sound designer, recordist and mixer includes titles such as Breaker Morant, The Lighthorsemen, Bad Boy Bubby, The Tracker, Wolf Creek, Ten Canoes, Red Dog and, most recently, the AACTA award-winning documentary My Name is Gulpilil.

    And: Malcolm Benoy: he has made a significant contribution to climate change research in his role as a volunteer citizen scientist, helping to preserve valuable records and data relating to South Australia’s meteorologicalhistory.  

    • NT: Jenny Duggan OAM: For decades, Jenny  has shown extraordinary grassroots leadership as Katherine’s ‘rubbish warrior’, quietly transforming the landscape and community spirit of her town. 

    Each morning Jenny walks the banks of the Katherine River to remove litter. In collecting hundreds of kilograms of rubbish, she’s put the spotlight on environmental safety. 

    • QLD: Cheryl Harris: Cheryl Harris has been instrumental in driving volunteer engagement and championing the important work that volunteers perform on the Sunshine Coast. 
    • ACT: Heather Reid AM: has made it possible for thousands of women to play football, both in the Australian Capital Territory and around Australia.  Heather was instrumental in establishing the Australian National University Women’s Soccer Club in 1978 and the Australian Capital Territory Women’s Soccer Association a year later. 
    •  Vic: Bryan Lippman, AM:  As a young social worker, Bryan witnessed first-hand the appalling conditions in which many elderly homeless people were forced to live. Realising that existing aged care homes were not the answer, he founded Wintringham to provide a safe space where the elderly poor and homeless could live with dignity and respect.  Today, Wintringham supports 3,000 people with accommodation and home care services. 
    • WA: Professor Kingsley Dixon, AO: from The University of Western Australia is an internationally recognised botanist whose devotion to science has transformed Australian native plant conservation. 

    As Foundation Director of Science at Perth’s Kings Park and Botanic Garden, Kingsley shaped a small research unit into one of the world’s top five botanic garden-based science centres. One of Kingsley’s most notable achievements is the 1992 discovery of smoke as a cause for Australian plants to germinate after bushfires.  

    Young Australian of the Year

    • Tas: Alyssia Kennedy: realising how important life skills can be, Alyssia founded the Life After School program, an educational package to help bridge the gap between school education and life knowledge. She now works with schools and youth groups to deliver the program and give young people the tools they need to transition to adulthood. 
    • NSWE: Ned Brockmann:  ultra marathon runner for the homeless:  a then 23-year-old electrician from Forbes, had a goal – to run across Australia and inspire people to do more for themselves and the homeless.   Nedd’s concern for homelessness was sparked by his journey into TAFE every week where he saw too many people sleeping rough on Sydney’s Eddy Avenue. He wanted to do something to highlight homelessness, its complexities and prove that it’s solvable.
    • SA: Chloe Wyatt-Jasper: Chloe Wyatt-Jasper has applied her lived experience of trauma and mental health challenges to help other people facing similar issues. Chloe experienced a domestic violence family tragedy at a very young age and has lived with profound mental health conditions as a result. In speaking out about these challenges, Chloe hopes to help other people overcome the stigma often associated with mental health.
    • NT: Jaiden Dickensen: as a proud Warumungu man Jaiden Dickenson is a beacon of hope and resilience for young people in the Tennant Creek, Ali Curung and Elliott communities.   In his role as a Tennant Creek Mob Youth Diversion Officer, Jaiden helps young people address the trauma at the root of crime and social disorder by taking responsibility for their behaviour, overcoming their personal challenges and moving towards rehabilitation. 
    • Qld: Jarib Branfield-Bradshaw: youth worker and mentor: As a proud Kooma man and youth worker, has made a huge difference to the town of Cunnamulla by opening a youth neighbourhood centre. As a local himself, Jarib knows what it’s like to live in a quiet town where there’s not a lot for young people to do outside the home.  
    • ACT: Sita Sargeant: historian and guide: Sita is forging a distinctive approach to storytelling and historical research, highlighting little-known women’s stories and their impact on towns and cities across Australia.  She is the founder of She Shapes History, a historical tourism company and social enterprise dedicated to uncovering the often-overlooked stories of women who have shaped Australia in ways that receive little or no recognition. Through walking tours, digital content, and partnerships with cultural institutions and historic sites, Sita reveals how women’s contributions have long been ignored by mainstream history
    • Vic: Abraham Kual: Abraham Kuol is a respected youth leader who uses his knowledge of the police and justice system in Victoria to help young people in his community.  Day to day, Abraham devotes his time to mentoring and guiding young people, running sports programs and building community ties – all while studying for a PhD in Criminology at Deakin University where his research is having a real-world impact.
    • WA: Dr Haseeb Riaz and Gareth Shanthikumar: positive masculinity educators: Haseeb and Gareth felt that negative stereotypes of masculinity were harming young men, so they established MAN UP to help young men strengthen their mental health, communicate openly and build pathways to healthier lives. Through workshops on male culture, respectful relationships and emotional coping, they provide boys with safe, relatable spaces to explore identity, relationships and emotional literacy.

    Local Hero Award

    • NSW: Theresa Mitchell: Theresa cares for people who are homeless or in crisis, providing a compassionate lifeline for people who’ve fallen through the gaps.   Opening its doors in 2009, Agape Outreach Inc began when Theresa found she couldn’t walk past homeless people on the street anymore. So, she handed out meals she cooked in her own kitchen, and it went on from there.
    • SA: Ayesha Safdar: community leader. Ayesha has dedicated herself to helping newly-arrived migrant and refugee women find their place in Australian society.  In 2010, Ayesha founded the Adelaide Pakistani Women’s Association (APWA) to create a safe, inclusive space for Pakistani women adjusting to life in Australia. Today, the association works with women from all backgrounds, helping them to navigate their way through a new culture and acquire language skills, education and employment. Ayesha is empowering women to build their confidence and develop the skills they need to create a new life in Australia
    • NT: Ron Green, BM ESM: Emergency services and St. John Ambulance volunteer: Local legend Ron has volunteered hundreds of hours keeping his community safe in times of crisis.   Since 2005, he’s grown and strengthened the success of the Katherine Volunteer Unit of the Northern Territory Emergency Service. Ron also fights bushfires and attends vehicle crashes as a volunteer for the Northern Territory Fire and Rescue Service. On top of this, he leads the Katherine Youth Division of St John Ambulance, where he inspires and trains future generations of emergency first responders. 
    • QLD: Ian Gay: he has dedicated more than 20 years to helping people with disabilities enjoy the surf in a fun, safe way. As a volunteer with the Disabled Surfers Association Gold Coast (DSAGC), Ian has held many roles and was branch vice president until 2015 and then branch president from 2015 to present.
    • ACT: Ben Alexander: Ben is well known in Canberra for his rugby career with the Brumbies and Wallabies.   Since retiring, he has turned his focus to mental health, co-founding Running for Resilience (R4R) with Matt Breen to help make Canberra suicide-free by 2033.   R4R helps people overcome personal struggles by exercising and connecting with others. Every week, hundreds join free runs and walks across Canberra to boost their physical and mental health.
    • Vic: Linda Widupp: Linda is bringing hope to Australian farmers in their time of need, organising deliveries of invaluable feed in response to drought and natural disasters.  Linda founded Aussie Hay Runners in 2019, starting out with just four trucks delivering hay to help farmers feed their livestock. The voluntary organisation now has more than 70 trucks it can call on, clocking up millions of kilometres and delivering over 90,000 bales of fodder to farmers needing a helping hand
    • WA: Frank Mitchell: Indigenous construction leader: he is a proud Whadjuk-Yued Noongar man, co-director of Wilco Electrical and co-founder/director, of Kardan, Baldja and Bilyaa in the trades and construction industry.  Frank’s commitment to change was shaped by early lived experiences of suicide and the loss of best friends. As a young single father, being offered an electrical apprenticeship felt like a profound opportunity. When he became a business owner in 2015, he pledged to create the same opportunities for Mob.  
    • Tas: Emily Briffa: Emily’s social enterprise, Hamlet, has helped many disadvantaged and marginalised people in Hobart overcome employment barriers and transform their lives.  Hamlet is a community café that provides individualised training, work readiness and wrap-around support to Tasmanians with disability, neurodivergence, and mental health concerns who are experiencing barriers to employment

    And the four Australian of the Year Award winners as announced by the Prime Minister of Australia in Canberra tonight were:

     Australian of the Year 2026

    From South Australia, Katherine Bennell-Pegg IS THE Australian of the Year. She is creating history as the first Australian to qualify as an astronaut  under Australia’s space program, having trained as part of a class of six by the European Astronaut Centre in Germany, chosen from a field of over 22,500 applicants. She is considered a trailblazer in Australia’s emerging space industry, yet finds time to present to schoolchildren and industry leaders about the captivating wonders of space.

    “I can tell you that, having got out and about across Australia over the last year, that there are so many young people dreaming of the stars,” she said.   “Curiosity and potential have no postcode and no gender, but talent is everywhere, and aspiration can be, if we foster that confidence.”

    Senior Australian of the Year 2026

    From New South Wales:  Professor Henry Brodaty is Senior Australian of the Year: he is transforming the diagnosis, care and prevention of dementia – improving countless lives, both in Australia and around the world. When his father was diagnosed with dementia in 1972, at the age of just 52, dementia was not widely understood and there was little support.  Professor Brodaty’s experience led to a lifetime commitment to improve the lives of people living with dementia and their families.  He co-founded the Centre for Healthy Brain Ageing in 2012 and led research that increased understanding of the risk and prevention steps for dementia.

    \Young Australian of the Year 2026

    From New South Wales, the Young Australian of the Year is Nedd Brockman: Forbes electrician Nedd aged 23, set off to run across Australia inspiring people to do more for the homeless. He completed the more than 3,900 km journey from Perth to Sydney over 46 days, becoming the fastest ever Australian to do so. And his run raised more than $2.6 million. Mr Brockmann went on to start Nedd’s Uncomfortable Challenge in 2024 — where people were urged to choose a challenge that made them uncomfortable and stick with it for 10 days.  Brockmann challenged himself to run around the Sydney Olympic Park athletics track for 1,600 km — which he took 12 days to complete. The challenge raised another $8 million for homelessness support.

    “We need innovative ways to help these people who need help,” Mr Brockmann said.  “I dream of a world where there is no homelessness.”

    Local Hero of the Year 2026

    From Western Australia, the Local Hero of the Year is Frank Mitchell, an Indigeneous constriction leader. Frank has co-founded three construction companies in the past decade and has created over 70 upskilling positions in the electrical and construction industry for First Nations people. Being offered an apprenticeship as a young single father helped Mr Mitchell get his life on track and he resolved to do his best to provide opportunities for others. “The electrical apprenticeship gave me so much, I started to think things and achieve things that I never thought [possible],” he said. Today, his four companies collectively employ more than 200 full-time staff.

  • Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 15: Issue 17: A modern view of a classic novel

    I studied the Russian novel ‘Crime and Punishment’ back in 1964 as part of an English Literature course that year, so was interested to find the following article published as the Friday Essay in the on-line edition of ‘The Conversation’ earlier this month. Written by Kevin John Brophy, the Emeritus Professor of Creative writing at the University of Melbourne, on December 5th, he also was returning to the novel after 60 years, and claimed to be still ‘awed’ by it.

    I share his reflections of ‘Crime and Punishment’ by Fyodor Dostoevsky below. Whether I ever make the time to reread the novel remains to be seen, perhaps Brophy’s return to it may suffice!

    The old woman who once sliced our front garden hose with a knife has just walked past our home without pausing. Not long after the hose incident I confronted her with what she had done and she denied ever walking along our street, let alone cutting anyone’s hose, or even carrying a knife.

    In fact she emptied her bag for me and there was no knife in it. I had been searching on the web about strange behaviour among the elderly and one source noted that it is not uncommon for aged women to carry a knife in their bag. I am not sure what this means, but each time I see the old woman (and I see her often on our street), I feel reassured when she manages to pass by our front garden without a glance in the direction of the hose – though the lingering question of the motive for her crime remains.

    I am rereading Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment 60 years after first being enthralled by it, with the idea of testing myself against an experience I’ve long been convinced upended me as a teenage reader, then shaped me as a university student of the 1970s who channelled his version of Dostoevsky’s protagonist, Raskolnikov – a name that means something like “heretic”, or one who cuts themselves away from their community.

    Rereading is a risk, of course, for the book might fail to stand up to my memory of it as powerful, original, frightening, scandalous and utterly compelling. It might no longer surprise me and I might have to shrink it back to a diminished place among books that are not, after all, lastingly great in my reading life.

    Early on, a first surprise for me is that Raskolnikov was handsome. In my memory his figure is physically as repulsive as his psyche. But no, on the first page of the novel Dostoevsky is at pains to tell the reader that his student was attractive. Later, Raskolnikov’s sister, Dunya, who looks just like him, is repeatedly the subject of men’s desires on account of her beauty.

    My second surprise in these early pages is the drunkard, Marmeladov, saying he’s drinking up his eldest daughter’s income from “the yellow card”, that is, from her work as a prostitute. Did I even know what the man was talking about when I was 14?

    I was a Catholic boy from a family of nine children and being the first son, I was the one who would go into a monastery at 18 and last there for two years of study, silence and prayer. How was it that I had even come across such a novel on the faintly rural fringe of early-1960s Melbourne in the outer suburb of Watsonia, where soldiers of the second world war had been given blocks of land at bargain prices?

    I had been a comics reader as much as a book consumer through my childhood and early teens, and Classic Comics had introduced me to a world of “classic” stories, including Dostoevsky’s. Classic comics made the stories look dramatic and serious. I wanted intensely to go further into that realm.

    Like any young reader discovering the world’s rich history of storytelling I wanted to read what was beyond my understanding and capacity. The thick weightiness of Crime and Punishment (first published in 1866), a handsome paperback, its ultra-thin pages, the adult gravity of such small print and the dully serious, high-art cover, all of this made me feel I had arrived at something worth curling up with for days on end. The novel took a grip on me even through the fog of a devout Catholicism and the security of a tightly-guarded family circle.

    Soon after we meet him, Raskolnikov receives a long letter from his mother promising money in a few days’ time, while going on to narrate a brief and apparently fortuitous courting of his sister by a vain and forceful businessman more than twice her age. And yet, his mother writes, this suitor appears to be kind and, as he says himself, without prejudice. She ends her letter remembering Raskolnikov as a child babbling prayers on her lap. “I fear in my heart”, she writes, “that you may have been affected by this latest fashion of unbelief.”

    Not softened by his mother’s love, her generosity, or even by her fears, Raskolnikov goes out into the streets of St Petersburg with a face “distorted” by a “nasty, lugubrious, jaundiced smile snaking across his lips” as he vows never to allow his sister’s marriage to take place.

    Throughout the first vodka-soaked chapters, not only does a man confess to living off his daughter’s prostitution, but a drunken teenage girl on the street, only partly dressed and most likely already abused, is openly followed by a man who wants her for his pleasures, and Raskolnikov recalls, or dreams (it is unclear) the beating of a horse to death, after remembering that he used to play in a certain cemetery where his brother, who died at six months, was buried.

    In each episode, Raskolnikov seems to be both an element of Petersburg’s abject street life and a lone figure of sobriety, decency and compassion. He protects the young girl on the street until she is safe. He suffers for the horse. But we are also witness to the fact that he has already condemned his own soul for indulging in the desire to kill an old woman.

    Reading anew the passage describing the beating of a horse outside a drinking house, (in my Penguin edition, translated by David McDuff), I remember that as a child I had seen a man do just this to a horse. Is it a true memory though? When I was a child I used to accept rides on a milkman’s cart in the mornings on my way to the local church to serve as an altar-boy at early mass, so it was not unusual to see horses in mid-1950s Melbourne.

    Or perhaps while reading this passage I was reliving my first encounter with it as if it was a scene I had witnessed myself. I can’t be certain. The scene in the novel, horrific and gothic, is barely realist though utterly real. In my memory I have an image of my father driving me past a patch of grass outside flats along Murray Road in Coburg where we passed a man flogging a horse. My memory is that this was the first time I fully realised humans had absolute and merciless power over animals.

    The beating to death of the horse works as the first murder in the novel, a climax to the phantasmagoria of cruelty, immorality, decadence and drunkenness we have been witness to in the early pages. The beating of the horse, so unsettling to Raskolnikov, is an uncanny rehearsal of the wanton brutality he’s contemplating committing himself. The novel swings between chaos encountered on the streets and an inner world of tormented thoughts with such pressing vertigo that one becomes a mirror of the other.

    That the murder of the old woman happens so early in the book startled me then and still does. I remember wanting to know from the inside the mind of a character capable of such a crime. There was something of the voyeur to my desire, but something too of a hint that through this reading experience I was in connection with a real and dangerous part of myself.

    And now, so much later, from this end of life, I perceive Raskolnikov not so much as a possible me, but as a victim of his thinking, reading, youthful extravagance, boundless ambition and of course his fashionable unbelief. The novel was possibly a dangerous one for me to be reading as a naïve 14-year-old.

    It was nearly another ten years beyond my first reading Crime and Punishment when a late 20th century version of fashionable unbelief took me from the Catholic Church towards what I experienced as freedom from belief in God.

    Through my twenties I lived at least partly as a version of Raskolnikov: a student, chronically poor, renting rooms in share houses, intense to a fault, absorbed in a feverish imagination, dressed in worn-out clothes. And like Raskolnikov, I chose to live this way. In the 1970s there were whole suburbs of students living like this around inner-city universities. But the murderer in Raskolnikov was seemingly forgotten by me at this time, perhaps in denial, but just as it is ignored through long passages of the novel.

    Re-reading now the scene of the murder of the old woman, I am shocked that I had forgotten it was a double murder, and that the second murder was so cold-bloodedly executed on the old woman’s younger sister, the one whose life might have been, in Raskolnikov’s earlier thoughts, saved and transformed by the death of her miserly, oppressive, older sister.

    At the moment of the double murder all sympathy for Raskolnikov should disappear. In fact, perhaps at this point of the novel some readers would simply abandon the book unwilling to go the journey with such a character for another 500 pages. In 1866, when it appeared in monthly instalments in The Russian Messenger, then an influential, progressive literary journal, the book caused a sensation. Some readers were so affected they felt ill. Many put the novel aside, though most, like me a century later, were unable to put it down.

    The attraction of the book might have something to do with it being almost a crime, one feels, to keep reading after the murder scene. Other later works of fiction such as Nabakov’s Lolita, Robert Block’s Psycho, Louis-Ferdinand Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night, or Anais Nin’s diaries also powerfully attract as much as they repel and distress.

    In hindsight, this was my introduction to intimations of a dark side to literature, leading me to writers such as Franz Kafka, Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad, Sigmund Freud, T.S. Eliot, Thomas Mann, Virginia Woolf and the agonied loneliness of so many characters in modernist novel after novel, on to the suicidal ruminations of Thomas Bernhard’s fiction, and even the tortured and hilariously desperate isolation of Gerald Murnane’s young men in his early works. Raskolnikov showed the way ahead to a century and more of misfits and misanthropes.

    In a new biography of composer and writer Erik Satie, Ian Penman makes a plea for re-balancing the story of modernity:

    Why this general tendency to fetishise ‘darkness’? Why is so much reflection about modernity tangled up with melancholy? Why do we overstress the abject, the obscene, the transgressive? […] I mean, don’t we all want to be happy? Why fight against it?

    His plea for relief makes good sense, especially perhaps for music, but the crises in the hearts of characters from Mary Shelley’s monster onwards, through Charles Dickens’ villains, to the grotesque creations of Wilkie Collins and later Camus’ murderous Meursault, are too urgently conjured for this reader to turn entirely from them.

    So I do keep reading this time and not out of any sense of duty to literature or my former self, but because the novel does, once again, grip. It compels me forward by the force of scene after scene that screws Raskolnikov closer and closer to whatever might be the punishment promised in the title.

    And if his conscience does bring him to punishment, how are we to know what is just? And how might his heart or his thinking bring him to embrace his punishment? What would it mean for my feelings about him if he gets away with it or does not feel something like remorse and revulsion over what he has done?

    And was it, after all, a motiveless crime? Was it an act of unfeeling pride so misguided and mangled that one has to feel equal horror and sympathy for a killer who can sometimes act so selflessly? Is Raskolnikov finally as capable of love as he is of murder?

    Current events snag on the novel as I read it this time. Its questions swirl around the criminal trial and sentencing of Erin Patterson, found guilty of murdering three members of her extended family with a carefully prepared meal of death cap mushrooms (a conviction she is now appealing). An almost unimaginable crime. Everyone with an interest in the case must imagine for themselves what might have been going on inside her as the murder was planned. A growing number of videos and podcasts explore what might have been Patterson’s motivations. At her public sentencing, Justice Beale at last addressed her directly on the reasons for her crimes with: “Only you know why you committed them.”

    And as with Raskolnikov, Patterson is smart, but she was clumsy too. When Raskolnikov defends himself against accusations of being a lecher, accusations manufactured by his sister’s suitor, Luzhin, he remarks about him (but equally about himself), “He’s a clever man, but in order to act cleverly, cleverness alone is not enough.”

    I don’t sympathise with Raskolnikov, but I don’t turn from him as a monster either. He can be compassionate without being saintly, generous to his last kopeck, honest to his own detriment, and instinctively respectful of those who suffer – and yet there he was with the axe in that room.

    At almost breakneck speed Dostoevsky lets the murderer loose on the streets, where he encounters more prostitutes, gives away money, mock-confesses to committing the axe-murder at a night club, watches a suicidal woman jump into the city’s main canal only to be rescued against her will, possibly saving him from the same experience.

    Then, as he is on his way to the police station to make an actual confession, he rescues the drunken Marmeladov from under the panicked horses of a barouche and delivers him, dying, to his destitute family, summoning a doctor and leaving the new widow with all the money (his mother’s gift) he has in his possession.

    In almost every respect he seems an innocent in a world of depravity. Of course Dostoevsky is playing with his readers, daring us to sympathise with this young man, to witness his compassion, and to put aside for pages at a time the knowledge of the double murder he has committed. This is such a risky skating across thin ice that one does not want to stop following until the far bank is reached. I have no idea what my young self was making of all this beyond deciding to read on through it trusting the storyteller and trusting that the story would be a large and lasting one because it is, well, Russian, a masterpiece, and a “classic”.

    I am shocked all over again by the fact that Raskolnikov himself does not seem to remember that he killed not just “one old woman”, but two women. He is repeatedly far too ready to minimise his crime.

    When the young, accommodating docotor Zosimov begins talking at length out of vanity and pride, as most characters in the novel do when they launch into speeches, he tells Raskolnikov’s mother and sister, that Raskolnikov might be displaying a certain idée fixe, suggesting a case of “monomania” – a condition so interesting that he, Zosimov, is conducting a special study of it.

    Monomania? I don’t remember this word quite popping out at me that first time the way it does now. It is strangely medical, strangely decisive. After some reading on it I discover that this was a relatively recently invented psychiatric diagnosis introduced to medicine in the first two decades of the 19th century partly through a Dr Etienne-Jean Georget who first defined Monomania as an idée fixe – a single pathological preoccupation in an otherwise sound mind.

    After Georget’s published speculations on whether criminals could be defended on the basis that a monomania might diminish their culpability, French lawyers took up this line of defence so enthusiastically that the diagnosis had become discredited by the 1850s. You might say that monomania became a legal idée fixe.

    For Dostoevsky’s readers it might have been a medical-sounding word, but one that also rang of sham psychiatry. In this scene the diagnosis washes through mother and daughter and Zosimov leaves in a hurry. But reference to the diagnosis keeps recurring, and oddly it will finally be tangled with Raskolnikov’s fate.

    In a remarkably tense scene in the central police station, Detective Porfiry Petrovich exposes Raskolnikov’s authorship of a philosophical article that argued for the superiority of certain rare individuals above the norms of common humanity. These individuals can and apparently, must, commit crimes in order to do the work that will benefit humanity.

    Raskolnikov tries to say his article is no more than a mild acceptance of what history has demonstrated, until, from the corner of the room, Amyotov, to whom Raskolnikov had made his mock confession, says, “Perhaps it was some budding Napoleon who did in old Alyona Ivanovna with an axe last week.”

    Reading this now, it is difficult not to think of the sovereign citizens movement, far right conspiracy theorists, white supremacists, cults of the Christian kind and others who consider themselves to be outside norms and law – an often smart and always disturbing minority presciently described in Dostoevsky’s novel. Raskolnikov is an outrageous outsider, and like many of the far right conspiracists now, initially his complaints and suspicions about the hypocrisies of the powerful are acute and accurate until the line of argument takes him to its farthest reaches, to murder.

    Sometimes an image seems to have been thrown into a novel just to see what will happen. Like a stone into a pond, a fishing line into surf, a boot into a crowd, a hat into the air. The troubling and provocative figure of Svidrigailov appears, a wealthy widower infatuated with Raskolnikov’s sister, possibly guilty of murdering his wife, and almost certainly guilty of raping a disabled girl – a twisted mirror image of Raskolnikov if Raskolnikov ever fully embraced the nihilism and exceptionalism he wrote of in his journal article. It is Svidrigailov who suggests eternity might be a small room no larger than a country bathhouse with soot on the walls and spiders in every corner. In fact, he says, this is the way he would have it if he had been given the job of designing things.

    Do I remember first encountering this image of eternity? I think I do, and it connects for me with room 101 in George Orwell’s 1984, only here it is not the ultimate in torture, it is all there is that can be hoped for. The lasting effect of this image of eternity might have had something to do with the standard Catholic versions feeling, to me, either bland or illogical or too medieval.

    Svidrigailov’s empty, cobwebbed room said more about the frightening nature of the idea of eternity than anything I had come across.

    Sonya, Marmeladov’s prostitute-daughter, takes an increasingly central role as the book nears its end. She might herself be a lost soul, or a figure of Christ himself, perhaps a type of Mary Magdalene, a figure of blind faith, or of stubbornness beyond sense, and loyalty beyond reason.

    Progressive critics at the time of publication condemned the novel for attaching Sonya to conservative (that is, peasant) Christian beliefs. But, as with much literature, the story is open to many ways in, so that reading it in 2025, Sonya for me is a figure simply of love, and of the simplest most willing love offered to one person from another. She doesn’t ever ask Raskolnikov to pray to her God, but only to accept love. If monotheism could be a form of monomania, she is not disfigured by it, despite her faith.

    When Raskolnikov comes to confess his crimes, it is to her, and it is the killing of her friend, Alyona’s younger sister, Lizaveta, that he must most shamefully explain: that she was killed for simply being there. “How, how could you, a man like you […] do a thing like this?” Sonya has to ask.

    Raskolnikov takes himself through the reasons: he killed because the money to be stolen would see him through a university degree in style. But no, he did not even rob the woman properly and the little he did take he buried away. He says he killed her to know if he could kill “without a thought”; or he killed the old woman because she was after all “a louse – a loathsome, useless, harmful louse”.

    Sonya makes the only reply possible: “But that louse was a human being!”

    Her statement echoes all the way to Kafka’s Red Peter, the killers Dick Hickock and Perry Smith from Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, Patrick White’s Mr Voss and Lionel Shriver’s Kevin. Even if there was no conscious connection with Crime and Punishment for Kafka as he wrote The Metamorphosis, I cannot but think that Kafka’s story is a long meditation in response to Sonya’s cry.

    To Sonya the only way out for Raskolnikov is to confess and accept the suffering that comes with shame. But the novel spins on possibilities to the very end as a scapegoat emerges who might stand in for the murderer, thus creating a last opportunity to avoid both punishment and even conscience.

    On the final pages of the novel this time, I had tears in my eyes. I was exhausted, wrung out, needing Raskolnikov to be punished, but still hopeful for the young man he sometimes was, and I had for a time thought I was.

    Perhaps the novel, in the end, inspires the reader to match Sonya’s love for a man who in all reasonableness does not deserve love or for that matter faith or respect. Having uncovered that flip side of pride, which is shame, in justice we should leave him in that state. But I felt tender towards him.

    I suspect that as a 14-year-old I felt this tenderness too, and perhaps in response to Sonya’s love for him. This feeling though has never diminished my horror at his act, a horror mingled with a strange sense of relief that the act took place in a book of fiction so that I could bear it.

    Some others have asked me how I could have ever wanted to emulate a murderer or side with a man who thought he was a superior exception to all moral values. I ask myself this question too and the only answer I can reach for is that reading the novel is something of a chaotic experience and that to be open to this figure of Raskolnikov is to find something dark within oneself that’s not easy to shrug off or deny.

    In literature a subterranean world of wild emotions and thoughts normally repressed, controlled and civilised can be given explicit and shocking presence – and this might be one aspect of the book that helped make me, for life, a reader.

    The novel this time has done a different kind of work on a different me, but again it has been a powerfully affecting work. I remain grateful to it and in awe of it.

    Sometimes these days I stop to talk with the hose-cutting old woman as she passes along our street. I have learned her name and some of her history, including her grief for a son suddenly lost. I’m not sure that she always remembers who I am, but in speaking to her she comes alive for me in new ways. She is not dangerous, she is not insane or useless, and definitely not harmful. No need for us to talk any more about the knife. She is someone I am coming to know a little and I hope our encounters on the street help her to feel the safety of recognition.

  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 15: Issue 15: 10th October, 2025: A further selection of recent reads!!

    A shorter, but varied selection of recently read books on this occasion,

    • East Of Eden by John Steinbeck [1952];
    • The Turing Protocol’ by Nick Croydon [2015];
    • Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov  [1955];
    • A Beautiful Family’ by Jennifer Trevelyan [2025];
    • The Shortest History of Music by Andrew Ford [2024]

    7th September

    A book just read, was actually published when I was 6 years old, it’s taken me a while to get to it  –   ‘East of Eden’ written by John Steinbeck, and first published in the USA in 1952, this  a Penguin edition of 602 pages. I’d actually had this story on my bookshelves in another format for some 20 years or so, just never read it!

    This was a wonderful story, which was at one time described by The New York Times Book Review as ‘A fantasia of history and myth, a strange and original work of art’. My edition is preceded by an interesting 23 page  introduction and further references by David Wyatt. Many of you may have one of his other great novels – ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ published in 1939.

    Essentially, ‘East of Eden’ is a ‘family saga’, the book which has been described as Steinbeck’s most ambitious novel, this sprawling and often brutal novel brings to life the intricate details of two families, the Trasks and the Hamiltons, and their interwoven stories. The Hamilton family in the novel is said to be based on the real-life family of Samuel Hamilton, Steinbeck’s maternal grandfather.

    In short, ‘Goodreads’ describes the story as revolving around Adam Trask who came to California from the East to farm and raise his family on the new rich land. But the birth of his twins, Cal and Aaron, brings his wife to the brink of madness, and Adam is left alone to raise his boys to manhood. One boy thrives nurtured by the love of all those around him; the other grows up in loneliness enveloped by a mysterious darkness.
    First published in 1952, East of Eden is the work in which Steinbeck created his most mesmerizing characters and explored his most enduring themes: the mystery of identity, the inexplicability of love, and the murderous consequences of love’s absence. A masterpiece of Steinbeck’s later years, East of Eden is a powerful and vastly ambitious novel that is at once a family saga and a modern retelling of the Book of Genesis.

    More broadly, the book explores themes of depravity, beneficence, love, the struggle for acceptance and greatness, the capacity for self-destruction, and of guilt and freedom. It ties these themes together with references to and many parallels with the biblical Book of Genesis with much of the storyline revolving around a fractious relationship between the two Trask brothers.  Steinbeck’s inspiration for the novel comes from the fourth chapter of Genesis, verses 1 – 16, which recounts the story of Cain and Abel. Steinbeck took the title, East of Eden, from Genesis, Chapter 4, verse 16: “And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord, and dwelt in the Land of Nod, on the east of Eden” (King James Version). 

    Mind you, as indicated by the above comments, there are many unpleasant lifestyles depicted in the story, which can be a bit off-putting at times, but I was able to never allow that to tarnish my overall enjoyment of the book, which was difficult to put down much of the time.

    In the beginning of East of Eden, before introducing his characters, Steinbeck carefully establishes the setting with a description of the Salinas Valley in Central California. The story is primarily set in the Salinas Valley, California, between the beginning of the twentieth century and the end of World War I. The first fourteen chapters, set in Connecticut and Massachusetts, go as far back as the American Civil War and serve as backstory for Adam Trask, his brother Charles, their father Cyrus, and Cathy Ames.

    Steinbeck wrote to a friend after completing his manuscript, “I finished my book a week ago…Much the longest and surely the most difficult work I have ever done… I have put all the things I have wanted to write all my life. This is ‘the book.’ If it is not good I have fooled myself all the time. I don’t mean I will stop but this is a definite milestone and I feel released. Having done this I can do anything I want. Always I had this book waiting to be written.”

    John Steinbeck was born in Salinas, California, in 1902. He grew up in a fertile agricultural valley about twenty-five miles from the Pacific Coast – and both valley and coast would serve as settings for some of his best fiction. He died in 1968, having won a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1962.

    A synopsis of the novel  – taken from a Wikipedia article which I felt provides a fair summary of the novel. If you haven’t read the book, but intend to yet but don’t want to have too much revealed about the storyline, perhaps overlook this part…………………

    Adam Trask – newly wed with newly inherited wealth from his late father – arrives in California and settles with his pregnant wife Cathy Ames in the Salinas Valley. Without Adam’s knowledge, Cathy had tried to abort the pregnancy with a knitting needle. In their new home, she warns Adam that she had not wanted to move to California and plans to leave as soon as she can. Adam dismisses her, saying “Nonsense!”

    Cathy gives birth to twin boys, shoots Adam in the shoulder after convincing him to unlock the bedroom door, and flees. Adam survives and falls into a deep depression. His Chinese-American servant, Lee, and his neighbor, the inventive Irish immigrant Samuel Hamilton, rouse Adam out of it enough for him to name his sons Aaron and Caleb, after biblical characters.

    Lee becomes a good friend and adopted family member and has long philosophical talks with Adam and Samuel, particularly about the story of Cain and Abel. Maintaining that it has been imperfectly translated in English-language bibles, Lee tells how his relatives in San Francisco, a group of Chinese scholars, spent two years studying Hebrew so that they might discover the moral of the Cain and Abel story. Their discovery that the Hebrew word timshel means “thou mayest”, which becomes an important symbol in the novel of a person’s power to choose their paths, meaning that human beings are neither compelled to pursue sainthood nor doomed to sin.

    Meanwhile, Cathy becomes a prostitute at the most respectable brothel in the city of Salinas. She renames herself “Kate Albey”, ingratiates herself with the madam, murders her, and inherits the business. She makes her new brothel infamous as a den of sexual sadism and a source of blackmail on the rich and powerful of Salinas Valley.

    Adam’s sons, Caleb (“Cal”) and Aaron (“Aron”) – echoing Cain and Abel – grow up oblivious of their mother’s situation. They are opposites: Aron is virtuous and dutiful, Cal wild and rebellious. At an early age, Aron meets a girl, Abra Bacon, from a well-to-do family, and the two fall in love. Although there are rumors around town that Cal and Aron’s mother is not dead but is actually still in Salinas, the boys do not yet know that she is Kate.

    Inspired by Samuel’s inventiveness, Adam starts an ill-fated business venture and loses almost all of the family fortune. The boys, particularly Aron, are horrified that their father is now the town’s laughingstock and are mocked by their peers for his failure.

    As the boys reach the end of their school days, Cal decides to pursue a career in farming, and Aron goes to college to become an Episcopal priest. Cal, restless and tortured by guilt about his very human failings, shuns everyone around him and takes to wandering around town late at night. During one of these ramblings, he discovers that his mother is alive and the madam of a brothel. He goes to see her, and she spitefully tells him they are just alike. Cal replies that she is simply afraid and leaves.

    Cal goes into business with Samuel’s son Will, who is now a successful automobile dealer. Cal’s plan is to earn his father’s approval and his money back by capitalizing on World War I and selling beans grown in the Salinas Valley to nations in Europe for a considerable profit. He succeeds beyond his wildest expectations and wraps up a gift of $15,000 in cash which he plans to give to Adam at Thanksgiving.

    Aron returns from Stanford University for the holiday. There is tension in the air because Aron has not yet told their father that he intends to drop out of college. Rather than let Aron steal the moment, Cal gives Adam the money at dinner, expecting his father to be proud of him. Adam refuses to accept it, however, and tells Cal to give it back to the poor farmers he exploited.

    In a fit of rage and jealousy, Cal takes Aron to see their mother, knowing it will be a shock to him. Sure enough, Aron immediately sees Kate for who she is and recoils from her in disgust. Wracked with self-hatred, Kate signs her estate over to Aron and commits suicide.

    Aron, his idealistic worldview shattered, enlists in the Army to fight in World War I. He is killed in action in the last year of the war, and Adam suffers a stroke upon hearing the news from Lee. Cal, who began a relationship with Aron’s girlfriend Abra after Aron went to war, tries to convince her to run away with him. She instead persuades him to return home.

    Lee pleads with the bedridden and dying Adam to forgive his only remaining son. Adam responds by non-verbally indicating that he forgives Cal and then says “timshel,” giving Cal the choice to break the cycle and conquer sin.

    9th September

    Something rather different  –  ‘The Turing Protocol’ by Nick Croydon, published in 2025, of 314 pages –  probably not a book I would have chosen, were it not a gift  – however, interesting enough from the point of view of the coverage of major world events from prior to World War Two up until the current Ukraine crisis. Where the book lost me a bit – well, I guess it was built into the theme of the story – that of an individual having the power to change history, simply a bit too fanciful for my taste – a good and apt description to describe my reaction was ‘its gripping narrative and intriguing premise, with readers and authors alike highlighting its blend of historical fiction and speculative elements’.  I think it was the ‘speculative elements’ that got this reader offside a little.  This is Croydon’s debut novel.

    In short, in the midst of World War II, Enigma codebreaker Alan Turing has created a machine named Nautilus that can send a message back into the recent past. After Turing uses it to help the Allied forces succeed on D-Day, he sees the power (and potential danger) of what he has created. He knows he can only entrust it to one person: Joan, the mother of his secret child.  Over the next seventy years, the Nautilus is passed down through the Turing family, who all must decide for themselves when to use this powerful invention. Will it save the world – or destroy it?

    Three words to describe the book –  a ‘romp’ [yes, short, fast-reading chapters, sometimes just a couple of pages]. ‘thought-provoking’ [though too unrealistic to my mind, but then with modern technology who knows what’s ahead of us?], and ‘entertaining’ [well, I couldn’t put it down until I reached the end, which would suggest one wanted to see where it was going to lead us to?].  Other authors have described it as a “smart, gripping thriller with an amazing big idea behind it,” and a “fascinating alternative history with an intriguing ‘what if’ at its core”.  All very good, I just wasn’t keen on the ‘what-ifs’ in the alternative scenarios raised!

    A useful summary – “The Turing Protocol” is recognized for its engaging storytelling and thought-provoking themes, making it a compelling read for fans of historical fiction and speculative narratives. The combination of Turing’s legacy and the ethical questions surrounding time travel adds depth to the narrative, appealing to a wide range of readers. A scenario where the past can be changed to save the future!

    The man upon which much of the storyline was based was Alan Turing [1912-1954], who was a British mathematician and logician who made major contributions to mathematics, cryptanalysis, logic, philosophy, and mathematical biology and also to the new areas later named computer science, cognitive science, artificial intelligence, and artificial life.

    28th September

    I’ve just read ‘Lolita’ by Vladimir Nabokov, published in 1955, this book a Penguin edition of 361 pages. I bought this edition on the spur of the moment whilst visiting Dymock’s book store recently. Interesting book – I’m not sure what I was expecting in view of all the publicity on it’s initial publication, and subsequently!

    But as noted in the ‘Forward’ by John Ray Jnr – “True, not a single obscene term is to be found in the whole work; indeed the robust philistine who is conditioned by modern conventions into accepting without qualms a lavish array of four-letter words in a banal novel, will be quite shocked by their absence here.” I was actually quite pleased by that missing element, but at the same time, disturbed by much of what I read.

    My personal feeling, as I read through the book, that despite those ‘modern conventions’ a novel of this kind would be hard-pressed today to get published [by a reputable publisher anyway] – mainly because of the modern attitude to ‘sexual crimes’ against the under-aged, and the manner in which such crimes are pursued by both the law, and the public in general, as they quite rightly should be. Yet in 1959, Nabolov got away with it – as Ray goes on to say, looking to the time beyond 1959 and today, that ‘Lolita should make all of us – parents, social workers, educators – apply ourselves with still greater vigilance and vision in the task of bringing up a better generation in a safer world’.

    On a broader scale, for those interested, I found a very succinct [but also a plot giveaway] from an organisation called ‘sparknotes.com’. But if you don’t want to spoil the storyline before reading, that summary appears at the end of this ‘review’.

    Meanwhile, a less revealing synopsis, and comments, follow.

    As noted in Wikipedia – ‘Lolita is a novel by Vladimir Nabokov. The book was written in English. It was published in Paris in 1955. It was translated into Russian by Nabokov. The story is about the sexual relationship that develops in the United States between a middle-aged British professor and a 12-year-old girl after he becomes her stepfather. It was a very controversial book. The novel was made into a movie by Stanley Kubrick in 1962, and remade in 1997’. I may have seen the movie, but honestly can’t recall doing so.

    In any case, it’s being described as the most famous and controversial novel from one of the [so-called, by some] greatest writers of the twentieth century. It tells the story of Humbert Humbert’s obsessive, devouring, and doomed passion for the nymphet Dolores Haze [“The conjunction of a sense of humour with a sense of horror [results in] satire of a very special kind.” [claimed The New Yorker].

    Britannica writes: “Lolita, is a novel by Vladimir Nabokov, published in 1955 in France. Upon its American publication in 1958, Lolita created a cultural and literary sensation. The novel is presented as the posthumously published memoirs of its antihero, Humbert Humbert. A European intellectual and pedophile, Humbert lusts obsessively after 12-year-old nymphet Lolita (real name, Dolores Haze), who becomes his willing inamorata. The work examines love in the light of lechery

    Awe and exhilaration—along with heartbreak and mordant wit—abound in Lolita, which tells the story of the aging Humbert Humbert’s obsession for the nymphet Dolores Haze. Lolita is also the story of a hypercivilized European colliding with the cheerful barbarism of postwar America. Most of all, it is a meditation on love—love as outrage and hallucination, madness and transformation.

    Now, from sparknotes.com.

    In the novel’s foreword, the fictional John Ray, Jr., Ph.D., explains the strange story that will follow. According to Ray, he received the manuscript, entitled Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male, from the author’s lawyer. The author himself, known by the pseudonym of Humbert Humbert (or H. H.), died in jail of coronary thrombosis while awaiting a trial. Ray asserts that while the author’s actions are despicable, his writing remains beautiful and persuasive. He also indicates that the novel will become a favorite in psychiatric circles as well as encourage parents to raise better children in a better world.

    In the manuscript, Humbert relates his peaceful upbringing on the Riviera, where he encounters his first love, the twelve-year-old Annabel Leigh. Annabel and the thirteen-year-old Humbert never consummate their love, and Annabel’s death from typhus four months later haunts Humbert. Although Humbert goes on to a career as a teacher of English literature, he spends time in a mental institution and works a succession of odd jobs. Despite his marriage to an adult woman, which eventually fails, Humbert remains obsessed with sexually desirable and sexually aware young girls. These nymphets, as he calls them, remind him of Annabel, though he fails to find another like her. Eventually, Humbert comes to the United States and takes a room in the house of widow Charlotte Haze in a sleepy, suburban New England town. He becomes instantly infatuated with her twelve-year-old daughter Dolores, also known as Lolita. Humbert follows Lolita’s moves constantly, occasionally flirts with her, and confides his pedophiliac longings to a journal. Meanwhile, Charlotte Haze, whom Humbert loathes, has fallen in love with him. When Charlotte sends Lolita off to summer camp, Humbert marries Charlotte in order to stay near his true love. Humbert wants to be alone with Lolita and even toys with the idea of killing Charlotte, but he can’t go through with it. However, Charlotte finds his diary and, after learning that he hates her but loves her daughter, confronts him. Humbert denies everything, but Charlotte tells him she is leaving him and storms out of the house. At that moment, a car hits her and she dies instantly.

    Humbert goes to the summer camp and picks up Lolita. Only when they arrive at a motel does he tell her that Charlotte has died. In his account of events, Humbert claims that Lolita seduces him, rather than the other way around. The two drive across the country for nearly a year, during which time Humbert becomes increasingly obsessed with Lolita and she learns to manipulate him. When she engages in tantrums or refuses his advances, Humbert threatens to put her in an orphanage. At the same time, a strange man seems to take an interest in Humbert and Lolita and appears to be following them in their travels.

    Humbert eventually gets a job at Beardsley College somewhere in the Northeast, and Lolita enrolls in school. Her wish to socialize with boys her own age causes a strain in their relationship, and Humbert becomes more restrictive in his rules. Nonetheless, he allows her to appear in a school play. Lolita begins to behave secretively around Humbert, and he accuses her of being unfaithful and takes her away on another road trip. On the road, Humbert suspects that they are being followed. Lolita doesn’t notice anything, and Humbert accuses her of conspiring with their stalker.

    Lolita becomes ill, and Humbert must take her to the hospital. However, when Humbert returns to get her, the nurses tell him that her uncle has already picked her up. Humbert flies into a rage, but then he calms himself and leaves the hospital, heartbroken and angry.

    For the next two years, Humbert searches for Lolita, unearthing clues about her kidnapper in order to exact his revenge. He halfheartedly takes up with a woman named Rita, but then he receives a note from Lolita, now married and pregnant, asking for money. Assuming that Lolita has married the man who had followed them on their travels, Humbert becomes determined to kill him. He finds Lolita, poor and pregnant at seventeen. Humbert realizes that Lolita’s husband is not the man who kidnapped her from the hospital. When pressed, Lolita admits that Clare Quilty, a playwright whose presence has been felt from the beginning of the book, had taken her from the hospital. Lolita loved Quilty, but he kicked her out when she refused to participate in a child pornography orgy. Still devoted to Lolita, Humbert begs her to return to him. Lolita gently refuses. Humbert gives her 4,000 dollars and then departs. He tracks down Quilty at his house and shoots him multiple times, killing him. Humbert is arrested and put in jail, where he continues to write his memoir, stipulating that it can only be published upon Lolita’s death. After Lolita dies in childbirth, Humbert dies of heart failure, and the manuscript is sent to John Ray, Jr., Ph.D.

    1 October, 2025

    Back to 2025 we find   ‘A Beautiful Family’ by Jennifer Trevelyan, published in 2025, of 328 pages  –  one of those light novels I like to turn to now and then as some quick relief from more serious reading.

    Easily read, an entertaining enough story, although I was a little disappointed at the way the author finished the story – as though it was assumed the reader would be fully aware of the likely outcome of the various scenarios which arise during the course of the novel. I guess that writing style of a novel appeals to some readers, but I probably would have preferred a ‘tidier’ ending, which I felt a little cheated out of!!

    Nevertheless, an entertaining little storyline, and related from the point of view of a 10-year-old girl, and while throughout novel one has a fair indication of how situations are or are going to eventuate, these are generally only hinted out in the absence of any clear actual revelation.

    As noted by The Newtown Review of Books   “With sun, swimming, picnics, friends and adventures, A Beautiful Family could be a simple story of a happy family holiday, but Jennifer Trevelyan exploits the adult reader’s awareness of the dangers that Alix, as a naïve ten year old, unknowingly faces; and she allows the underlying tension to build throughout the book until the dramatic and frightening end. We listen to Alix and follow her actions, fearing at times for her safety, but, as in every good mystery, Trevelyan manages to surprise us” in what is apparently her debut novel.

    Amazon’s brief summary tells us  –

    In the past we had always spent our summer holidays in remote places. That had always been my mother’s preference. This year was different…………………………………………………………………………………… …
    As the summer holiday stretches ahead, with her older sister more interested in boys, her mother disappearing on long walks and her father, beer in hand, watching the cricket, the youngest in the family often finds herself alone. At the beach, she meets Kahu, a boy who tells her a tragic story about a little girl who disappeared a couple of years ago, presumed drowned. Suddenly, the summer has purpose-they will find the missing girl and become local heroes.  Between dips in the ocean, afternoon barbecues and lazy sunbaking, their detective work brings to the surface shocking discoveries and dark secrets, even about her own beautiful family …
    Jennifer Trevelyan magnificently captures the confusion and frustration of childhood, the fraught but unshakeable bond between sisters, and the dangers that lurk in the white lies we tell-especially about the people we love most.

    Liane Moriarty [author of ‘Here One Moment’ ] said ‘I absolutely loved this page-turning family mystery and didn’t want it to end’. Probably that’s why I got through it in a few short hours over a couple of days, but as already admitted, didn’t find it ended in the way I would have preferred!!

    10th October 2025

    This afternoon, I finished reading ‘The Shortest History of Music by Andrew Ford, published in 2024, of 233 pages. A very entertaining little book –   apart from most of the second chapter which dealt principally with the technical side of music, notes, structure etc – as a non-musician, most of that I was lost to!!!

    As Ford explains, this is not so much a chronological history [although such an approach comes through] but a focus on a  series, five in all of specific themes in the history of music, and these are approached in terms  of how those themes have played out through the ages. ,

    Those themes are as follows:

    • The tradition of music, from pre-history to the present; BCE to present;
    • Music and notation: blueprints for Building in Sound from 1400 BCE to the present [this section I had the most difficulty with];
    • Music for sale: Paying the Piper from 1000 BCE to the present;
    • Music and Modernism: Reinventing the Art from 1150 to the present; and,
    • Recording music, from 1500 to the present.

    Throughout the book, many well known musicians [and singers] are brought into the story, from the great classical composers, to the music of Blues, Jazz. Folk, Rock and so on, and it was interesting to read about the origins of much of the music of various that I had played for many years on my community radio station –  had this reader thinking he’d like to return to that medium!!

    The book has been described in one way as a ‘thematic’ exploration of music’s evolution, by examining its cultural significance and the human impulse  to create music in various ways and for a multitude of reasons over thousands of years.

    In promoting the book, Amazon and others, describe it as a lively, authoritative tour through several thousand years of music. Packed with colourful characters and surprising details, it sets out to understand what exactly music is – and why humans are irresistibly drawn to making it.   How has music interacted with other social forces, such as religion and the economy? How have technological changes shaped the kinds of music humans make? From lullabies to concert halls, songlines to streaming services, what has music meant to humans at different times and in different places?

    My lack of comprehension of some aspects, as already noted, could perhaps be explained by the following explanatory comment at the beginning of a review of the book by Ash Brom, as appeared in the Arts Hub on the 31 July 2024 where in one observation he wrote that “Giving this book either one star or five stars is kind of meaningless.  The reason for this is because the book is so thick with musical references, knowledge and vocabulary that, in order to keep up with it, the reader needs to know so many musical references, knowledge and vocabulary that they probably don’t need to be reading the book in the first place. There’s so much assumed knowledge that it feels like Ford is a lecturer in a university, and the audience is a room of seasoned academics “Giving this book either one star or five stars is kind of meaningless.  Your brain needs time to sit and work out what that means, but the narrative bolts ahead, assuming that all is understood”. 

    So having said that, I feel I did pretty to have the majority of the contents!!

    Brom went on to say that “David Attenborough’s introduction to natural history, Life on Earth, assumed the reader knew little of the topic matter; Stephen Hawking’s introduction to theoretical cosmology, A Brief History of Time, assumed the reader knew next to nothing; Ford’s book assumes the reader has a degree in classical music history with a major in ethnomusicology, an encyclopaedic knowledge of jazz and fluency in music scales. This is why it is hard to give the book a star rating. It just is what it is – that being an academic text written for people who are already in the club”    He also noted that ‘The works of young, living composers are all too often neglected.’ From the probable hundreds of names in Ford’s book, I’d say that less than 5% are still alive.” 

    That is true, but this after-all was promoted as a ‘short history’ and I guess there was a limit to covering ‘everything and everyone’ – yes, I did note the absence of contemporary  and currently ‘alive’ performers,  but to be honest, I wasn’t really anticipating or seeking an advancement into the 21st century, much of which I don’t actually see as ‘history’!! Others may disagree.

    On the question of shortness of subject matter  –  in the August 2024 edition of the Australian Book Review, Malcolm Gillies notes that ‘This highly readable ‘shortest’ history contrasts with the ‘longest’ currently available, single-authored history of music Richard Tasruskin’s 4,272-page ‘The Oxford History of Western Music’, [2005], which restricts itself  mostly to the notated tradition  of ‘classical’ music. By contrast, Ford celebrates the music  ‘happening all around us all the time’, whether notated, instrumental, or oral, spontaneous or rehearsed, in infancy or old age, and recorded or just ;vibrating in the memory’”

    Returning to Ash Brom, his review was not all negative, as he began  the main body of his review with the following paragraph.

    “Despite the points above, which I think are vital to mention, Ford’s book is an extremely well-written introduction to, basically, humans’ relationship with organised noise from the earliest hominids to circa the 1970s. It covers at length the impacts of first, notation, and second, recording, on our relationship with music. Some of this is genuinely fascinating, especially in a society like ours where microphones and music as tradable, portable commodities are commonplace and ubiquitous – Ford shows us the world before them and after them, and it’s a very different place.”

    So, in summary, if you like music [and I would guess that most people like ‘some form of music’, give this book a go – Ford introduces us, if only briefly at times, to characters who have featured in a broad genre of music styles at least up until around the 1970’s.  One little point of interest with respect to ‘Blues’ music and it’s relationship in development with Jazz  –  apparently there remains much conjecture as to where and how ‘Blues’ music originated;  that I think would be a fascinating topic on its own!!

    As for the author, Andrew Ford has been described as a ‘musical polymath’. On his website he identifies as a ‘composer, writer and broadcaster’., but I think much of the Australian public [well, those that are aware for eg, of the ABC’s Radio National network, would know him best as a broadcaster, given his three decades at the helm of the ABC’s Music Show.

  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 15: Issue 14: 29th September, 2025: The Legend of Troy

    The following article appeared on the 13th September, just past, in the on-line Newsletter ‘The Conversation: Books and Ideas”

    Titled ‘The legend of Troy’, and written &  explained  by Marguerite Johnson, Honorary Professor of Classics and Ancient History, School of Historical and Philosophical Inquiry, The University of Queensland

    The Trojan War is a legend that sprang from a distant memory of a real Greek incursion into the Bronze Age city of Troy (in modern day Türkiye). This may have taken the form  of annual piracy raids and/or encounters based on control of the Aegean Sea.

    These real-life encounters between Greeks and Trojans, led to the destruction of Troy circa 1150 BCE (likely though warfare and fire). Over hundreds of years, they were transformed into oral tales.

    Collectively known as the Trojan War Cycle, these tales were later committed to writing. They were retold and readapted over centuries in Greek and Roman antiquity, with writers and artists changing and adding to the basic plotline to suit their own purposes. Adaptations of the hundreds of stories that make up this cycle continue today, particularly in theatre.

    The immediate cause of the legendary war, as storytellers have told it, was the abduction of King Menelaus’s wife Helen, Queen of Sparta, by the Trojan prince, Paris. (In the shame-based culture of Bronze Age Greek society, this act was deeply humiliating for a man, especially a king).

    In response to the kidnapping, Menelaus’s brother, Agamemnon, King of Mycenae (a city in the Peloponnese), led a military campaign against Troy. The city of around 10,000 people was surrounded and held under siege for ten years.

    The war ended with the ingenious deception of the Trojan Horse. This huge wooden beast was offered to the Trojans as a so-called gift from the Greeks, but secretly contained Greek soldiers. Once inside the city, they crept out, threw open the gates to their fellow Greeks and so began the city’s final days.

    Is any of it true?

    Most of us may find it strangely romantic to believe in a heroic quest for a stolen queen rather than accept that the city of Troy ultimately fell as a result of strategic and economic assaults at the hands of the Mycenaean Greeks.

    Indeed, the actual city of Troy has been located, complete with two archaeological sublayers. Experts have found evidence that attests to the city’s destruction by siege. Similarly, the site of Bronze Age Mycenae, a palatial structure, as old as the particular sublayers of Troy, has been identified at the place of origin for the Greek expeditions.

    But such physical sites cannot prove the historical existence of Helen, Achilles and the other superstars of the storytellers.

    Such heroes and heroines most likely came into being as the stories developed, although some characters may have been partially based on historic leaders, their wives and families.

    The Iliad’s account

    The Iliad (c. eighth century BCE) is the earliest example of how the shadowy, inglorious invasion of a prosperous city was transformed into a monumental national epic. Other stories tell aspects of the myth, for example Euripides’ tragedy, The Trojan Women (415 BCE).

    Attributed to the poet Homer, the Iliad chronicles some weeks in the last year of the war. Composed in dactylic hexameter and divided into 24 “books” (chapters, if you will) that culminate in 15,693 lines of poetry, it is the definitive masterpiece of war literature.

    Moving from the Greek encampment along the shores of northwest Asia Minor (modern-day Türkiye) to the fortified citadel of Troy (the modern-day city of Hisarlik) at the mouth of the Dardarnelles, the Iliad evokes the lives of both Greek and Trojan warriors as well as those of civilians.

    As a war narrative, its battle scenes are visceral and drenched in blood, evoking both courage and cowardice, and certainly not for the squeamish. Yet it also captures the devastation war brings to children, wives, mothers, men too old to fight and hostages, along with soldiers.

    The poem opens with an internal feud among the Greeks themselves, centring on the animosity between Agamemnon, and Achilles, leader of the Myrmidons (from modern-day Thessaly), who is also fighting for the Greeks.

    At the heart of this bitter dispute are two hostages. Chryseis, daughter of the Trojan priest of Apollo, Chryses, has been taken by Agamemnon as a sex slave following a raid. Briseis was awarded to Achilles during a similar incursion.

    The god Apollo sends a plague upon the Greeks as a result of Agamemnon’s refusal to return Chryseis to her father. Achilles – enraged and acting above his station – publicly confronts Agamemnon, demanding he return the young woman. Humiliated, Agamemnon eventually agrees but, in order to regain his preeminent status, takes Briseis from Achilles.

    This scene evokes what modern people might recognise as combat fatigue. There is tension around decision-making, confused thinking, mistrust and anger. This personal feud depicts both men, not only as larger than life warriors, but also as complex human beings enduring almost unendurable conditions.

    While such a situation may seem irrelevant in an epic that tells such a monumental tale, explicating the horrors of war on such a grand and devastating scale, the reality is quite the opposite.

    Firstly, it is a reminder that war can be banal. Indeed, the “mini war” over two sex slaves seized during raiding parties reenacts the overarching “super war” at Troy, reinforcing the vanity of the human condition as well as the recklessness and even malignancy propelling some conflicts.

    Interestingly, the story of the Trojan Horse, the death of Achilles, and the many other instalments that constitute the Trojan War Cycle, do not interest the poet who compiled the Iliad. These are tales told elsewhere, in the fragments that remain of other epics, in the songs of lyric poets and in some of the extant tragedies of playwrights, right up to the literature and art of Late Antiquity.

    Rather, Homer is interested in the stories of the humans trapped in the crossfire. For example, in Book Six of the Iliad, Hector, a Trojan prince and Troy’s greatest warrior, farewells his wife, Andromache, and his infant son, Astyanax, as he prepares to return to the battlefield. Andromache, who senses her husband is soon to die, says:

    […] for me it would be far better to sink into the earth when I have lost you, for there is no other consolation for me after you have gone to your destiny – only grief […]

    The Trojan Women

    Andromache’s story and those of other women after the fall of Troy are of particular interest to Greek tragic playwrights of the fifth century BCE. The most powerful of the extant plays on this theme is Euripides’ The Trojan Women. The play consists of the voices of the four women who mourn the death of Hector at the hands of Achilles in the last book of the Iliad: Cassandra, the Trojan princess; Hecuba, the Queen of Troy; Andromache; and, finally, Helen herself.

    To emphasise the suffering in war, the Chorus (the traditional collective narrators in Greek plays) is comprised of captive Trojan women, representing the nameless and forgotten human collateral.

    This tragedy has been retold and re-imagined since its original production, including a heralded Australian adaptation by Barrie Kosky and Tom Wright in 2008.

    Euripides details the fate of Cassandra, the princess also taken as a sex slave by Agamemnon; Hecuba, the wife of Priam, the last king of Troy, who is enslaved to Odysseus, King of Ithaca, and Andromache, indentured to Neoptolomus, son of Achilles. As for Helen, she is vilified as having caused the Trojan War, although in this play she, too, is a victim of war as she must beg her husband for her life.

    The horror and inhumanity expressed in The Trojan Women culminates in the Greek execution of Astyanax, the baby son of Andromache and Hector. The tiny body is prepared for burial by his grandmother, Hecuba, while Andromache wails and Troy burns.

    The endless interpretations of the siege of Troy in both literature and art can show courage and the triumph of the human spirit in the face of the worst of adversities. Yet others show that heroism is debatable and mutable, victory comes with loss of humanity, and women and children are always the victims.

  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 15: Issue 13: 18th August, 2025:  Testimonies of Gaza and October 7th.

    The following essay was taken from a weekly digital newsletter titled ‘The Conversation: Books & Ideas’, and I share it in this Column, simply for the information of readers, as it appeared in that Newsletter at the beginning of July this year. A specific  ‘Friday Essay’ on a broad range of topics is included in ‘The Conversation’ each week, and I felt this was relevant to the times we currently live in.

    From The Conversation, 4th July 2025

    Friday essay: ‘whose agony is greater than mine?’ Testimonies of Gaza and October 7 ask us to recognise shared humanity, by Juliet Rogers, Associate Professor Criminology, The University of Melbourne.

    In 1962, poet and Auschwitz survivor Yehiel Dinur took the stand in Jerusalem in the trial of Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann. Dinur was a much-anticipated witness, bearing the audience’s hope this man, a poet, would be able to explain – to capture and to transmit – the experience of Auschwitz, and of the Holocaust; that he could speak the unspeakable. Prosecutor Gideon Hausner hoped such a witness might “do justice to the six million personal tragedies”.

    Dinur used the name Katzetnik 135633 in his writings, also translated as “Prisoner 135663”. On the stand, he said: “I believe wholeheartedly that I have to continue to bear this name until the world awakens.”

    Awakening, understanding, empathy and change are the sentiments many survivors hope for, or ask for, during and after periods of trauma. The 20th century saw many of those pleas. The 21st century has done no better at honouring the promise, captured in the title of the 1984 Argentinian commission report on forced disappearances, Nunca Mas: never again. No matter how many such pleas appear before the courts, before the aggressors, before those in solidarity, the horrors of war, torture, starvation and genocide seem to happen again – and again.

    Three recent books from the region where war was been raging since the Hamas attacks on Israel on October 7 2023, and the ensuing war on Gaza, are part of these pleas.


    Review: Eyes on Gaza – Plestia Alaqad (Macmillan), Letters from Gaza – edited by Mohammed Al-Zaqzooq & Mahmoud Alshaer (Penguin), Gates of Gaza – Amir Tibon (Scribe)


    Eyes on Gaza is an on-the-ground account of the death and destruction of the first 45 days of the war by now 23-year-old Palestinian journalist Plestia Alaqad, who moved to Melbourne with her family in November 2023Letters from Gaza is a collection of 50 stories, poems and fragments from Palestinian writers enduring the past 20 months. And Gates of Gaza is the story of Israeli journalist Amir Tibon, a resident of Nahal Oz, one of the border kibbutz attacked by Hamas on October 7.

    These are all first-person testimonies of experiences of being under attack, though those attacks differ. We might say they fit into the genre adopted in truth commissions, such as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa: a response to the nation’s years of living under the apartheid laws, discarded when Nelson Mandela took power in 1994.

    The commission was one effort to heal from this past. But, like the Eichmann trial, it needed stories to explain the histories of violence, and it needed the pain to be voiced to explain its impacts on communities, families and relationships.

    The use of people’s narratives to “bear witness” to the complex layers of legally sanctioned and militarily executed pain, loss and the traumas they can produce, is sometimes effective in helping audiences understand them. The Bringing Them Home Report in 1997 used this form to explain the incidence and impacts of the forced removal of Indigenous children by the Australian state. It was effective as one form of creating a shared reality for all in Australia, who then understood the term “stolen generations” and the pain, loss and genocidal intent to which this phrase refers.

    More recently, the Yoorrook Justice Commission in Victoria, Australia’s first formal truth-telling inquiry into historic and ongoing systemic injustices perpetrated against First Nations Peoples by colonisation, has also brought histories of loss, dispossession and abuse to light, using stories. Stories can make sense of the impact incurred through the intertwined web of policies, statistics, discrimination and quotidian violence at the hands of the state.

    The work of testimony

    The narratives in these books written since October 7 2023 are part of this genre of testimony or storytelling. But at least two of these books are not attempting to explain the past. They might be described better as pleas to stop what the International Court of Justice has called “a plausible genocide” happening in the present.

    They are, in one reading, wishes for the world to understand the experience of pain, rage, loss, fear, distress and defeat that accompanies destruction and unbearable loss. A wish for the world to hear, or perhaps feel, the words on the page – and make the pain stop.

    They wish the world would “awaken” to what is happening right now.

    The dynamic of awakening is the stock in trade of truth commissions. One party testifies or speaks to an experience, and the audience wakes up to what has been happening. As a result, they either change or facilitate change. The truth, captured as testimony, is supposed to set people free. Not just the speaker, but the community of speakers weighed down by history – or by the struggles of the past or the present.

    In legal forms the reason to speak is clear. The reason to speak in literature, biographies and works of nonfiction is less clear. What does the author want from us, the readers? But perhaps more importantly, what can we offer?

    Plestia wants her life back

    Plestia Alaqad is very clear about what she wants in her book, The Eyes of Gaza: A Diary Of Resilience.

    She wants the genocide to stop. She wants a free Palestine. She wants her home and her life back. The stories in this book show readers outside Gaza some of the life and death of those first six and a half weeks.

    Her last entry before she leaves Gaza for Egypt – and then Australia – is dated Day 45. During those 45 days, she puts on a press helmet and jacket, which both give her protection and weigh her down. And then she speaks: to cameras, to followers, to anyone who will listen. Her social media feeds documenting the war gained worldwide attention, her Instagram following rising from around 3,700 to 4.1 million today.

    There are too many deaths to be witnessed – by her and the reader. She describes genocide as an understatement for what is occurring in Gaza: “we lose more people than our hearts can handle”. She has seen so much death, heard so many screams. By day 30, all you can hear is a voice crying for help from under the rubble. You turn your back and walk away, because there’s nothing you can do to help.

    But Plestia’s project is more than documenting death. She is careful to show many aspects of life in Gaza. She shows how Palestinians retain relationships, family and pets. How a young boy just needs his “pot plant” from his destroyed house, under skies filled with drones and bombs. This is a plea for the genocide to stop, but it is also a celebration of being Palestinian. It is an homage to life in Gaza.

    It is also a plea to see Palestinians as more than numbers – and more than how they are depicted by Israel.

    “The world,” she says, “sometimes treats us like terrorists, trying to justify its complacency in allowing us to be massacred. And we know the perception, we read the propaganda just like everyone else. But the reality is that we’re the opposite.”

    She describes gentle moments of love and care between her fellow journalists and the people they interview. The children they bring sweets for, the “bird lady” who renames her tortoise “Plestia” after her. Both Plestia the tortoise and the “bird lady” are now living in a tent. She speaks of the doctors who work tirelessly.in the midst of brutal amputations and unimaginable burns, she recounts the care of a doctor giving cream for a skin rash that has tormented her, diagnosed as a product of her anxiety. Anxiety seems a gentle diagnosis for symptoms produced by witnessing and documenting such brutality.

    Anxiety over her helplessness, perhaps, over the lack of sleep, of nourishing food: dwindling even in those first 45 days. Anxiety seems like a Western preoccupation, from this writing distance. What Plestia experiences seems more like layers of embodied distress. Her empathy allows her to feel, perhaps too much. Empathy can be an enemy.

    Around page 100, she begins to deteriorate. “It’s funny how genocide changes a person,” she writes, describing herself as “Genocide Plestia”. She’s devastated, exhausted. She has lost hope. The journal entries are shorter, more repetitive. They recite her helplessness with what Jacqueline Rose, co-director of the Birkbeck Institute for the Humanities, has called the “repetitive thud of referentiality”.

    You feel Plestia’s effort to try to speak with some life in the pages, to use writing as a therapeutic tool. You wish it for her, but she has trouble summoning the energy, the life, any hope. As she poignantly quips: “Fake it till you make it doesn’t work during a Genocide”. What is there to say in such relentless days of loss?

    You want Plestia to get up, you want a happy ending, for a conclusion to the painful story, but the problem is time. The reader’s time, the reality of time since she wrote her book.

    Day 45, her last day in Gaza, is Monday November 20 2023. I read this book in June 2025, 646 days later – and it hasn’t stopped. When Plestia leaves Gaza and finally arrives here in Melbourne, the conditions she describes have been ongoing for more than 20 months. A recently released survey by the Palestinian Center for Policy and Survey Research estimates almost 84,000 people died in Gaza between October 2023 and early January 2025, as a result of the war. And that was six months ago.

    50 letters from Gaza

    The numbers are a way of reducing the experience of grief, devastation, loss (and the viewer’s guilt) to simple digits. Digits have no face and no sound. This is helpful to viewers, but it does not do justice to the 84,000, as Gideon Hausner knew well. No one awakens by hearing the numbers. But they matter.

    In Letters from Gaza, psychologist Ahmed Mortaja fears becoming a news story, “a dull number … I don’t want my name and my family name to be reduced to mere numbers, whether odd or even”.

    This book, a fragmented collection of 50 poems, stories and accounts, is devoted to giving life to those numbers. To animating the loss, so readers can apply their own imaginations, so we can understand the incomprehensible. It is a collection of fragments of lives since October 7 2023, squeezed into expressive pages. There is no “letter” more than six pages long. They are backed up against each other, permeating one another.

    Each letter tells a different story and the same story. Each finds a detail that has no language: flowers in a girl’s hair, dreams of careers that will perhaps never be, the sounds of explosions. They are stories of the impossible search for bread, the longing for a bed and a pillow. And, as in Plestia’s account, they evoke the relentless buzz of the drones in the sky in Gaza: everywhere, all day, every day since October 7 2023. Like tinnitus, like torture.

    The book begins with an effort to give names to numbers. On the first page, in the publisher’s note, we read that two of the authors, Sara al-Assar and Basma al-Hor, cannot be contacted. Because of communication lines and constant displacements, the details “may not reflect their current location or circumstances”. Authors may have died or been further displaced. Communication towers are destroyed. Tents are moved as people are moved on. Tents are destroyed.

    In Plestia’s accounts, there are displacements to safe zones that then become unsafe, so they move again and again – until the only choice is tents, often without food or blankets. She describes seeing 33,000 people in a displacement shelter, this number increasing daily. Just as numbers are not people, tents are not homes. In Letters from Gaza, the displaced tents are character, metaphor and reality.

    The stories are different, as are the deaths and losses within them, but these painful accounts help explain each other. The personal stories help animate words like displacement, refugee camp, genocide, so they do not fall into the pile of legal terms disconnected from names.

    But after the United Nations declarations in the opening pages, we hear no more of law – and little of justice. As Palestinian human rights lawyer and founder of the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights, Raji Sourani said: Gaza is in danger of becoming “the graveyard of international law”. What is left are stories. The short stories, poems and brief accounts are packaged so they do not ask too much of the reader – just enough to provoke tears, and perhaps donations. Many readers will feel some of the helplessness in these pages.

    There are stories of hunger; the loss of grandmothers and children. I cried many times reading this book, but the next story would quickly arrive and sometimes bring relief. There is something sad, but ordinary, about details like a cat who finds a tent too hot. Unlike Plestia’s clear analysis and summation of the genocide in Gaza, the politics of this book are comparably quiet. Not absent, but quiet. The word genocide is mentioned four times, “Holocaust” only once. (I counted.)

    In Letters from Gaza, no one says Israel, only “the occupiers”. Husam Maarouf writes, “we no longer want anything from you […] Only to die in safety.” His entry is dated March 1 2024; he may well be dead. Batool Abu Akleen makes simple requests of the reader (or perhaps of God): “I want a grave, I don’t want my corpse to rot in the open road.” But the book seems to intentionally not accuse. We are told:

    this is not a book about war. It is a book about human souls that strive to avoid being hunted down by war. It is about how innocents are forced to learn how to survive when everything around them is about killing, destruction and death.

    But the accusation is there. How could it not be? Against Israel as occupier and aggressor – and the reader as bystander.

    Accusation sometimes comes embedded in questions. “Is one person’s pain greater than another’s?” asks Gaza poet and teacher Doha Kahlout. This question resonates with one inscribed on the Holocaust Memorial Tree in Hungary: “Whose agony is greater than mine?”

    When comparing agony, only one can live

    Jewish author, philosopher and psychoanalyst Jessica Benjamin, writing on Palestine and Israeli peace struggles, cautions against pitting stories from Israel and Palestine against each other, such that “only one can live”. Only one story, one narrative, one version of pain and loss.

    Holding multiple stories of suffering in mind is very difficult: for the survivor, for the listener and even for the psychoanalyst. Many survivors suffer symptoms of trauma that reduce the world to interpretation through their experience of its painful histories.

    In Eyes of Gaza, writing from Melbourne, Plestia shows a moment of this:

    On the train home, I see a lady with a suitcase, and the first thing that I think of is displacement, imagining how everyone in Gaza carries their whole life in their bag […] Then the announcement: Next Stop […] And I’m snapped back into reality.

    In this moment, the suitcase is only read through the lens of the past. It’s what is described colloquially as living in the past – a type of banal flashback, often a symptom of trauma. But when pain colonises bodies and narratives, recognising the pain of others is difficult to see. It may be impossible to see the experiences of the other’s world through any other lens than one’s own pain. Whose agony is greater than mine? is a competitive statement, not a question.

    In the war of greater pain, an Israeli child in fear may be read against a Palestinian child enduring the loss of their limbs and their whole family. Only one (story) can live.

    To hold two competing stories of pain, loss and agony in mind requires a feat of mental health endurance few are capable of: the Nelson Mandelas of this world. Working in the field of transitional justice, I have met a few.

    Most have experienced great loss and know there is no comparison at the level of agony. They resist “the repetitive thud of referentiality” because it drowns out conversation, annihilating curiosity and empathy alike. They know all stories must have their time.

    In October 2023, “liberal” London Jewish journalist and filmmaker Michael Segalov, once a “staunch defender of Israel”, tried to hold competing stories. He wrote about seeing Israel–Palestine through the lens of “fear and trauma – of the Shoah, of the Nakba, of generations now born into perpetual fear”.

    Early Jewish settlers were not “imperial soldiers”, but “a persecuted population failed by global governments pre and post Holocaust”, he points out. But by 1948, the year after the UN resolution that called for Palestine to be divided into Arab and Jewish states, “more than 750,000 Palestinians were made refugees, 15,000 killed”.

    “While these lands might well feel a Jewish ancestral home,” he wrote, “within living memory, it was shared with another people: the majority.” In 1922, in the first census carried out under the British Mandate, the population of Palestine was 763,550: 89% were Arabs and 11% Jewish.

    As Palestinian psychiatrist Eyad El Sarraj stressed while talking with Jessica Benjamin during peace negotiations, we must “stand simultaneously for the recognition of all injuries, while at the same time being clear that one side was coming from the position of Occupied and less powerful, the other Occupying and dominating”. Stories matter, politics matters.

    And some stories take more time than others – some stories are given more time than others. This is a matter of politics and practicality.

    Surviving the October 7 attacks

    Israeli journalist Amir Tibon and his family survived the October 7 attack on Kibbutz Nahal Oz, on the Gaza border; they are now internal refugees in northern Israel. He and his partner settled in Nahal Oz and raised a family. On the morning of October 7, they heard the sounds of the attack and raced to their safe room, spending the next five hours in there trying to keep their children – Galia, 3 years old and Carmel, aged 19 months – quiet.

    In discussing Tibon’s book, Gates of Gaza: a story of betrayal, survival and hope in Israel’s borderlands, I risk comparison and competition. Sometimes stories speak to each other, even when they speak to the silences. I resisted this one’s proximity to the above stories. But that is also to resist reality. It is to resist the importance of difference. All experience is valuable, but sometimes comparison reveals inequality.

    Plestia knows this well. The survivor guilt of which she writes is part of the hierarchy experienced by all survivors of mass violence. That she and her family survived, that she migrated, is to feel guilt for escaping the fate of those who have been starved, tortured, obliterated.

    Yehiel Dinur spoke from this position of guilt on the stand in 1962, saying he was speaking for those who died in Auschwitz. In the face of others’ death, all survivors struggle with justification. Competition is one form of this: Whose agony is greater than mine?

    Tibon was a resident of Nahal Oz, having moved there with his partner because of its beauty, nine years before October 7. He describes it as having “a strong, left-wing, liberal political leaning”, and says residents of the border areas are “some of the strongest advocates of Israeli–Palestinian peace”. He writes that the kibbutz movement has, “for decades”, been in favour of “a compromise that would allow Jews and Arabs to share this land, with agreed-upon borders – borders that, of course, would have to be protected”.

    In the 300-plus pages, Tibon describes the morning of October 7 in detail. The fear of his children and his partner as they stayed quiet in a safe room for some five hours. The sounds of shootings and desperation as he read pleas and accounts from other residents on the community’s WhatsApp group as the attacks unfolded.

    The narrative of that morning is interspersed with accounts from people who survived in his community: his parents, some of those who attended the Nova music festival, and Israeli Defense Force (IDF) soldiers. The narrative moves between that morning and a history of the kibbutz, framed in a history of Israel’s political lurching between right and left – and back again – over the 87 years since its recognition as a nation state by the UN.

    In one reading, this is a history book of 87 years – not just an account of five hours. It is a particular history.

    The narrative of those five hours is intense, peppered with stories of his parents racing from Tel Aviv to the kibbutz. Tibon’s father is a crucial figure in this narrative. A retired IDF general with “more than three decades” in the military, including combat experience, he seemingly has the capacity to assess situations and navigate a war zone with skill. It is his father who finally knocks on the “safe room” door in the afternoon (about halfway through the book). Tibon reports hearing “a strong bang and a familiar voice” from inside.

    The father, we could say, is the embodiment of Tibon’s feelings for – and belief in – a strong, kind Israel. An army general, protective husband and grandfather (in Hebrew, Saba), he is longed for by Tibon’s young children, who “loved their grandparents”, particularly his father, “who pampered and spoiled them at every opportunity”. This grandfather’s presence at the safe-room door allows the family to re-enter the safety of Israel.

    If the father is Israel, the sleeping children are its citizens. Carmel and Galia slept through much of the conflict, barely awakened by gunshots. They were rushed to the safe room the moment the shots were heard.

    Once you know the stories from Letters of Gaza, it is hard not to compare this to the waking of Mohammed Al Zaqzooq’s three boys – Baraa, Jawad and Basil – to the sound of “Huge missiles in large numbers making terrifying sounds” and the need to flee. Not least, because Amir’s children were barely awakened by shots outside. Their safe room kept the noise muffled and the danger at bay. This is not to say their fear won’t impact on their actions later. Transgenerational trauma has a way of influencing the future.

    Mohammed’s children moved quickly, within half an hour, to a refugee camp. At the time of writing, they remain there. His story is five pages long. Amir’s is 300-plus. Amir, an author and award-winning diplomatic correspondent for Haaretz, Israel’s liberal paper of record, has access to a computer, electricity and the security required to think, research and write.

    But why does he write this book? In the acknowledgements, he describes himself as needing to be encouraged, unsure of the worth of telling the story of his five hours in the safe room. But he describes much more than five hours.

    His book is a story of Israel – and particularly, of its informal settlements. In the early 1950s, he writes, 20 young soldiers – ten men and ten women – were taken by bus to this site to settle it. Nahal Oz is so close to Gaza, it has “agricultural lands which literally touch the border fence”. The kibbutzim functioned as a kind of human border, with increased populations: the 20 broke into couples, then families. Within a few years, they had a small farming community, with a person devoted to security.

    Empty land?

    This is not a story of military invasion and colonisation, however. It is a story of settlement on land represented as empty. We know this story well in Australia. In this context, it can be a plea for a recognition of innocence.

    As Amir tells it, there were no Palestinians in the place before: no one was removed or relocated. Only in passing does he mention the Bedouin who passed through the area before.

    In Australia, Irene Watson and Aileen Moreton-Robinson have, in different ways, explained lands do not need to be sites of permanent agriculture to be crucial to the survival of some groups or nations. Borders and settlements can disturb land, law and life regardless of whether houses are demolished or not.

    The beauty of Nahal Oz, Amir writes, was due to its access to water and its site on fertile land, where trees provided shelter and probably food. Its loss was likely no small thing to people who required sustenance and shelter as they moved through. After the settlement, they no longer could.

    After Israel set up its border there, only Israelis could pass through without being subject to the checkpoints that are well documented sites of humiliation and arbitrary punishment for Palestinians.

    By 1997, the walls went up near Nahal Oz. But the walls to shield Nahal Oz from Gaza – and particularly from its people – were not enough. Amir describes the elaborate and extensive tunnels used by Palestinian soldiers to enter Israel (he calls them “terrorists” and “suicide bombers”).

    The tunnels became the problem of Palestinian attacks on Israeli settlers. To deal with this problem, the concrete walls were built, reaching 160 metres underground, preventing any permeation. Then, on October 7, the walls could not provide security. Then, there was only the safe room.

    The safe room is an obvious metaphor in this book. It is Israel under attack. One of these rooms has been built into every house in the kibbutz, so families can be safe from the mortar attacks from Gaza – a regular occurrence since the 1987 Intifada.

    Plestia tells us that the materials for a safe room are not allowed to be brought into Gaza. There are no safe rooms there. Tibon doesn’t mention this; maybe he doesn’t even know this fact, which is its own symptom of the political and social environment in Israel.

    He does describe “the unimaginable destruction that Israel has unleashed on Gaza in the aftermath” of the October 7 attacks. He is critical of this “destruction”, though he does not use the term genocide. (There are those who wait for the International Court of Justice to decide if it was more than “plausible” – and there are those who cannot wait.)

    Tibon is critical of Israel’s right wing, which cultivates war. He wants peace. But peace here is its own violence.

    Like the rhetoric of reconciliation in South Africa, calls for peace can do violence to historical experiences of injustice. There, reconciliation discourse has been criticised, along with its apolitical leanings. Reconciliation in South Africa has largely meant people subject to historical injustices must reconcile themselves to their losses and their reality.

    A story attributed to Father Mxolisi Mapanbani, of Tom and Bernard and the bicycle, has been used many times to critique “reconciliation” rhetoric in South Africa. It is helpful here.

    Tom and Bernard are friends and live opposite each other. One day, Tom stole Bernard’s bicycle. Every day, Bernard saw Tom cycling to school on it. After some time, Tom went up to Bernard and said, “Let us reconcile and put the past behind us.” Bernard said, “Okay, let’s reconcile – what about the bicycle?” “Oh no,” said Tom, “I’m not talking about the bicycle, I’m talking about reconciliation.”

    In the Australian context, after Kevin Rudd’s apology to the stolen generations in 2008, human rights and social justice campaigner Tom Calma described this form of reconciliation as the “unfinished business of justice”.

    The apology might have offered some form of acknowledgement, and gone some way toward creating a shared reality on the injustices of the past, but while justice remains unfinished, many are not at peace.

    Amir wants peace. He doesn’t want to live in a safe house – but he wants his house and his family to live securely in Nahal Oz. He wants Palestinians to be at peace with this reality.

    The word “peace”, like “reconciliation”, does a lot of work to present Tibon on the side of “the good”. Just like, in Letters From Gaza, the relative lack of the word “genocide” keeps the accusation at bay and politics in the background – and it keeps its calls for recognition of suffering at the fore. In this book about “human souls”, the editors call for a recognition of shared humanity.

    Tibon is careful not to group “terrorists” under that name – though he uses a Hebrew word that means exactly that. (Mehablim, he calls the people who attacked Nahal Oz.) Why? Though he writes in English and undoubtably spoke Hebrew throughout the siege, why does he speak of the Palestinian attackers as Mehablim?

    The answer might be found in the fact no Palestinian name, beyond former Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat, appears in these pages. He has interviewed many people, but none of them are Palestinian. Their narrative remains outside his text.

    We must find the humanity of the Palestinians in other stories.

    If the safe room is a metaphor for Israel, the tent – as described in so many of the stories in Letters from Gaza, and in Plestia’s account of those 45 days – is a metaphor for the lives of Palestinians in Israel, and perhaps the world’s eyes.

    A tent is permeable, fragile, disposable. Bodies within it are subject to displacement, starvation, genocide. Every house in Tibon’s kibbutz has a safe room. There have been at least seven bombings of tent camps in Gaza. How can you not do the maths?

    Stories, awakening and halting the bombs

    Stories demand people are not reduced to mathematics. They place the reader in the scene and plead for identification and understanding. Writing on the Eichmann trial, Holocaust historian and legal scholar Lawrence Douglas describes “the words of the survivors that built a bridge from the accused to the world of ashes”.

    Afrikaaner journalist and poet Antje Krog writes, on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa, “In all the stories a landscape is created.”

    But this landscape, if it is to have any effect, must be mapped across previous perceptions. For that, it must do damage to the secure world – the pre-existing imaginative landscape – of the reader or of the listener.

    Moral philosopher Rai Gaita describes remorse as “a dying to the world”: a little death is required of the listener or reader who is implicated as a bystander, encountering the suffering of others. A death of complacency. A small disintegration that may mean our own peaceful worlds are no longer tenable.

    This is why stories, particularly, are mobilised in truth commissions. They animate the impossible numbers – the dry policies and repetitive loss – with scenes of humanity. Testimony – personal stories – link the words (genocide, massacre, terror) to an imagination of a scene, a person, a child or a parent. To people we can identify or empathise with.

    Like the two worlds connected in Ahmed Mortaja’s poem, Hubb and Harb, In Letters from Gaza:

    tonight I will fall asleep telling myself that the noise outside is fireworks, a celebration and nothing more.
    That the frightened screams of children are the gleeful terror of suspense before something long-awaited, like Eid.
    Tonight, I will fall asleep scrolling through the photos on my phone, telling myself that my evening with friends wasn’t that great – really, I was bored – so now I’m skimming through memories to pass the time.

    If empathy were all it took to halt the counting of the 646 days in Gaza, then Letters from Gaza and Eyes on Gaza would achieve their aim. But empathy rarely produces political change.

    Stories – the 50 voices in Letters from Gaza, accounts like Plestia’s – make us cry, perhaps make us donate, but they do not halt the bombs. This, and more, might be what Yehiel Dinur meant when he asked for the world to “awaken”, that it change, that it stop what Tibon calls “the unimaginable destruction”.

    Until then, Dinur pledged to remain Katzetnik 135633. Until then, we will likely only know “Genocide Plestia”: “it’s funny how genocide changes a person”.

  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 15: Issue 12: 18th August, 2025:  a selection of recent readings

    This contribution looks at a variety of reading genres over recent weeks about which I have made a few personal comments together with the views of an occasional more professional writer.  Books covered in this article are as follows:

    • The Eye of the Storm by Patrick White [1973];
    • The Shortest History of Scandinavia by Mart Kuldkepp [2025];
    • Outback Reunion by Rachel Johns [2024];
    • Under the Greenwood Tree’ by Thomas Hardy [1972]; and,
    • The Shortest History of France’ by Colin Jones [2025]

    28th July

    ‘The Eye of the Storm’ by Patrick White, published in 1973 [of 608 pages].

    This was the 3rd of White’s novels I’ve managed to read – and in truth, all have proved a difficult choice of reading, at times somewhat tedious, and with occasions of long-drawn-out periods of prose. Yet at the same time, in this book as with the others, White’s intuition of life’s realities and human nature, as certainly relevant in his era, kept this reader interested. One frustration to my mind was the ‘annoying’ inclusion of various sections of prose [generally relating to the interpretation of dreams experienced by some the characters] where ‘no punctuation’ at all is used, at one stage near the end of the book, covering nearly two and half pages!!

    I also admit that I inherited this book from my late Mother, after giving it to her as a Christmas gift in December 1973. I wonder if she ever actually got around to reading it?

    Patrick White [1912-1990] was awarded numerous prizes throughout his career as an author and playwright, the most notable of which was the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1973 after the publication of ‘The Eye of the Storm’, although he pleaded illness as the reason for not attending to accept the award. The Nobel citation praised him “for an epic and psychological narrative art, which has introduced a new continent into literature”. He was also awarded the Australian of the Year in 1973. In his acceptance speech, he said that Australia Day should be “a day of self-searching rather than trumpet blowing” and that historian Manning Clark, comedian Barry Humphries and communist trade union leader Jack Mundey were more worthy of the award.

    White was also among the first group of the Companions of the Order of Australia in 1975 but he resigned in June 1976 in protest against the dismissal of the Whitlam government in November 1975 by the Governor-General Sir John Kerr and the subsequent reintroduction of knighthoods as part of the order.

    I would imagine that this is not a book that the average modern ‘novel’ reader would take much interest or delight in. ‘The Eye of the Storm’ was apparently written about the meaning of the author’s own mother’s death.

    Wikipedia describes White as an Australian novelist and playwright who explored themes of religious experience, personal identity and the conflict between visionary individuals and a materialistic, conformist society…. developing a complex literary style and a body of work which challenged the dominant realist prose tradition of his home country, and was satirical of Australian society, and sharply divided local critics. That kind of description in 2025 is probably a complete turn-off to the modern novel reader!!

    In short, the novel tells the story of Elizabeth Hunter, the powerful matriarch of her family, who still maintains a destructive iron grip on those who come to say farewell to her in her final moments upon her deathbed.

    From the Patrick White Catalogue

    Plot: In her large Sydney home, Elizabeth Hunter is dying, attended by her longtime German Jewish housekeeper, a succession of hired nurses, and a solicitor with a long memory. Elizabeth is a dominating force who heavily influenced her two children, both of whom have lived in Europe for many years and return to be with their mother. Sir Basil, a famous, womanising actor based in London, is down on his luck financially. His sister Dorothy, the Princess de Lascabanes, has long left her colonial past behind to develop a new identity, and a return to Australia is especially confronting for her. Both siblings hope to reconcile with their past – and perhaps gain something from their mother’s death.

    Elizabeth is plunged into the past, especially memories of her deceased husband Bill, and a revelatory moment on Brumby Island when she came face to face with the eye of a storm, and an incredible sense of calm and meaning like never before. But the past looms large and has space for everyone: Basil, Dorothy, the housekeeper Lotte who survived the Holocaust, the passionately loyal solicitor Arnold Wyburd, and the three nurses who give in to its demands despite their own personal doubts. Each of these figures must reassess their lives in the wake of this startling woman…. Yet her true complexity will never be understood by those closest to her, especially not her children, who have yet to experience anything as transcendent as has she.

    Described as a profound exploration of family dynamics and societal norms, centred around the dying matriarch Elizabeth Hunter and her complex relationships with her children, White dramatizes the universal themes of love, loneliness, old age and death. He reveals the flux of power and dependency, the ultimate nuances of love and hatred that fester beneath the surface of family relationships.

    Writing in literopedia.com in 2024, we read the following.

    “The Eye of the Storm” is a novel written by the Australian author Patrick White, who was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1973. Published in the same year, the novel is considered one of White’s most significant works and a notable contribution to Australian literature. The narrative is set in post-colonial Australia and revolves around the Vass family, particularly the aging and wealthy matriarch, Elizabeth Hunter.

    The story commences with the death of Elizabeth’s husband, Sir Athol Hunter, bringing the family together for the funeral. As the plot unfolds, it exposes the intricate dynamics within the Vass family, revealing strained relationships, power struggles, and hidden secrets. The title, “The Eye of the Storm,” metaphorically reflects the deceptive calm at the centre of tumultuous family and societal dynamics.

    Key themes explored in the novel include family relationships, social class distinctions, individual identity, and the impact of the past on the present. White’s narrative technique involves shifting perspectives, providing readers with insights into the thoughts and emotions of various characters.

    The plot introduces significant characters such as Basil and Dorothy, Elizabeth’s estranged children, as well as nurses Flora and Nurse Davidson, whose arrival disrupts the family’s established order. The novel masterfully navigates issues of power, control, and the facade of societal respectability.

    White’s exploration of complex characters, coupled with his keen observations on societal norms and human psychology, contributes to the novel’s critical acclaim. “The Eye of the Storm” received the prestigious Miles Franklin Award in 1973 and has since remained an important part of the Australian literary canon.

    The novel has been praised for its intricate narrative structure, rich character development, and exploration of themes that transcend cultural and geographical boundaries. White’s storytelling prowess and his ability to capture the essence of human relationships make “The Eye of the Storm” a timeless work that continues to be studied and appreciated by readers and scholars alike’.

    Whether that ‘description’ would apply to te modern scholar in 2025, I have my doubts.

    2nd August

    A touch of history now  –   ‘The Shortest History of Scandinavia’ by Mart Kuldkepp, published in 2025 by Black Inc [of 258 pages]\  –  an abbreviated history, one of a set of three that I purchased a few weeks ago from Swartz Media.

    This was an interesting read, although at times, I found the various scenarios between the ‘separate’ Scandinavian nations to be a little confusing and difficult to keep track of, and found myself wishing I had an individual history separately of Sweden, Norway, Denmark Finland [even Iceland].. However, as one reviewer noted, the book was ‘the perfect starting point for anyone interested in Scandinavian history’. The fault most likely remained with myself, in that so often [especially of late], while finding the material I’m reading of essential historical interest, my ability to retain much of that information would probably restrict my passing an examination of the facts just read!!  I had previously read [and reviewed in the Coachbuilder’s Column] the book ‘Saga Land’ by Richard Fidler & Kari Gislason’ published in 2017 which dealt with the stories of Iceland from the time of the Vikings

    So, what does this short history cover?  Basically, ‘from the Stone Age to ‘Scandimania’ – a brisk, illuminating journey through 14,000 years of Nordic history’ referencing the five nations mentioned plus Greenland, and the more substantial islands off the Scandinavian coastline.

    As noted in one of the reviews, outsiders have long viewed Scandinavia as special, starting with the ancient Greeks and their myths of ultima Thule, a place ‘where the Sun goes to rest’. Today, we admire Scandinavia for its universal welfare, equality, peacefulness and untouched nature – not to mention its interior design, crime literature and love of all things hygge. Yet Nordic history has had its hardships and dark periods too: pandemics, war, the expansionism of the Viking Age and the eighteenth century, alliances with Nazi Germany in World War II and a eugenics movement in the twentieth century.

    In The Shortest History of Scandinavia, historian Mart Kuldkepp masterfully sketches the outlines of Scandinavia’s rich history – from the first known peoples of the region, who followed the ice sheet north as it retreated at the end of the last Ice Age, to the Scandinavians living in nations that are among the happiest in the world today. The author, Mart Kuldkdepp, is a professor and researcher of Estonian and Nordic history at University College London, where he specialises in the political history of the Baltic and Nordic regions.

    In this short but deeply insightful volume, Kuldkepp illuminates the concept of ‘Nordicness’ – a hard-to-define quality that has nonetheless steered the region to respond to major challenges, actively shaping their history and exerting a considerable influence on European and global history in the process. Throughout their history, there are numerous changes in the relationships and alliances between these nations, and I have to admit that it was the complexity of those alliances which I found hard to kept abreast of at times. Apart from the very early history, and in particular the sections dealing with the Viking and other related invasions of early Britain and continental Europe, I did find the examination of the author’s coverage of the political and economic changes that occurred in the C20th and early C21st centuries of special interest. I’d not also realised the extent of the ‘hold’ or dominance that Russia held over Finland for such a long period in that time, while the supposed ‘neutrality’ of Sweden during WWII and the difficulties faced in trying to ‘satisfy the needs of both sides of the conflict without appearing to favour one over the other, made for interesting reading.

    Throughout the book there are various ‘text boxes’ which often provide a more detailed if not brief analysis of a particular aspect of Scandinavian history, lifestyle, culture and artistic successes referred to only sparsely in the main text.

    Writing in the August 2025 edition of The Australian Book Review, Margaret Clunies Ross notes ‘That important Scandinavian artists, writers and thinkers are largely confined to the text boxes, while associated cultural movements are mentioned briefly, sometimes obscurely, in the main narrative.  One of the important intellectual movements of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Romantic nationalism, is described briefly in Chapter Eleven, but how this movement was enriched by philosophers like Soren Kierkegaard, poets such as Adam Oehlenschlager, and the multifaceted endeavours of  the influential Danish writer N.F.S. Grundtvig is not clearly explained. Hans Christian Anderson, on the other hand, gets both a picture of his statue in Copenhagen and a whole text box to himself”. That criticism may well simply reflect the personal prejudices of the reviewer [who apparently is a Knight of the Icelandic Order of the Falcon] and her desire for specific features to be covered in a book which the author himself admits in his Preface that  ‘It goes without saying that any short history of a whole region must be selective, in terms of what it covers and how it is structured’ and this limitation should be recognised by any reader.  

    I’ll just copy one small section from the closing pages of the book which provides one summary aspect of Scandinavia’s history.

    From pages 234-235.

    ‘It was the Viking Age, with its raids, trade and settler colonialism, that rudely pushed Scandinavia into the centre of European awareness. The pacification of these militant pagans of the north took centuries, and, in the end, the problem did not have a military solution. Instead, gradual and voluntary Christianisation, along with the wealth amassed in the Viking Age, helped to kickstart the successful development of European-style kingdoms in Scandinavia. Going forward, these remained mostly concerned with succession struggles and conflicts with each other, and no longer presented an acute threat to the rich countries of Western Europe.  At the same time, Scandinavia managed to avoid the fate that befell some other parts of the Baltic Sea region, which were targeted by medieval crusades and Christianisation by force, leading to foreign dominance and serfdom of the native population”.

    One aspect revealed in the book which I found disturbing – Sweden during the post-war period, as part of that country’s ambitious social-welfare plans, indulged in a philosophy which led Scandinavia down a darker path   involving forced sterilisations of people seen as not ‘productive enough’, a moral failure largely concealed by the overall success story of the Nordic welfare state’ [p.238].

    4th August

    For something very different – ‘Outback Reunion’ by Rachel Johns, published in 2024 [of 334 pages]. An easily read, relatively light-hearted ‘Australian rural romance’ novel, read over about 24 hours. Another Aussie female author who writes fictional novels about rural life in her country – I think from memory, this is the first of her books I’ve read, simply chosen at random, as after some fairly heavy recent reading, I felt the need for a quick easily digested story, and this took me exactly to that ‘place’!’  Apparently this story is one of series of novels set in the fictional town of Bunyip Bay in Western Australia.

    In basic outline: –

    A moving story of lost love, second chances, and the healing power of truth under the big top in a small town.    They spent one magical night together, but when he woke up she was gone …

    Eight years later, Gabriela Jimenez is hoping a couple of weeks in Bunyip Bay with the Grand Jimenez Family Circus will give her and Luna, her daughter, the chance to reconnect after the tragic death of Luna’s father. The last thing Gabi expects is to run into the man she once knew. Mark Morgan is still as sweet and sexy as she remembers, but Gabi is harbouring guilt and dealing with the grief of her in-laws. She can’t afford to let him get under her skin again.

    After his successful career in AFL was cut short due to a crushing injury, Mark is struggling to readjust to small-town life and working the family farm. As if this isn’t bad enough, his wife’s betrayal means he may never be able to risk his heart to love again. Mark couldn’t be less interested in the circus that has arrived in town … until he discovers that the woman who vanished from his bed all those years ago without saying goodbye is part of it.

    Will a chance meeting lead to something more?

    As described by the publishers and others – The unforgettable, hotly anticipated return to Bunyip Bay from bestselling Australian romance author Rachael Johns.

    So, if it’s the Romance genre your looking for, this is the book for you. I enjoyed the storyline, but generally only turn to this type of fictional story for a bit of occasional light-reading.

    AN EXCERPT: [near the beginning]

    ‘For one crazy moment, she contemplated staying right where she was, never going back to the circus. Maybe there could be something between she and Mark? Could she give up everything she’d ever known and risk a new life?
    But then she glanced around Mark’s bedroom, taking in his footy posters and barbell weights in the corner, remembering what he’d said about not really having time for dating, and she knew staying was an even worse idea than what she’d already done.
    So, for the second time that night, she snuck out on someone sleeping.
    Only this time she wasn’t running away from her life, but back to it’.

    13th August

    A bit of a Hardy classic,  ‘Under the Greenwood Tree’ by Thomas Hardy [first published in 1972, this a 1982 Penguin edition], of 248 pages.   Presumably passed to my mother from her sister, Jean in the 1980s, and subsequently inherited by myself!  One of the small paperbacks I’ve retained from time to time in the car glovebox reading a few pages at a time while waiting for appointments, etc. I decided to remove it from that location, and complete a reading. An interesting little novel, and in some ways, fairly simple in its construction and storyline once the reader manoeuvres their way through C19th English cadences and accents of some of the characters depicted.

    Described as the best-loved, and certainly the happiest of all Hardy’s novels, his second published novel, and a story which led to the writing of a series of ‘Wessex’ novels by Hardy.

    The story is best described as a pastoral romantic novel by Thomas Hardy, that explores themes of love, tradition, and change in a rural English village. An interesting little novel, in some ways, fairly simple in its construction and storyline once the reader manoeuvres their way through C19th English cadences and accents of some of the characters depicted, with their mode of talk, described as being full of observation and humour. It was apparently based upon a vivid and authentic recreation of the author’s own childhood environment, and modelled the villagers in the novel, on people he had known intimately. 

    In basic summary  –  The novel is set in the fictional village of Mellstock and follows the romantic entanglements of Dick Dewy, a church musician, and Fancy Day, a new schoolmistress. The story begins with the Mellstock parish choir, which includes Dick and his family, as they perform during Christmas festivities. Dick falls in love with Fancy at first sight during a schoolhouse performance. However, Fancy has other suitors, including the wealthy farmer Frederic Shiner and the new vicar, Mr. Maybold, who wishes to replace the choir’s traditional music with a mechanical organ.  As the story unfolds, Dick and Fancy become secretly engaged, but complications arise when Fancy’s father initially opposes their union. Eventually, after a series of events, including a proposal from Maybold, Fancy faces a dilemma between love and social status, leading to a poignant conclusion. 

    The novel explores several themes, including:

    Thomas Hardy [1840-1928] was himself actually a struggling provincial architect in the mid-1800s, and he began to write novels [and poetry] in order to make money. This novel set him on the way to making a living. During his ‘literary’ life, he wrote up to 18 novels, numerous short stories, poetry [which was his first love], And in his senior years, some drama productions.

    17th August

    ‘The Shortest History of France’ by Colin Jones, published in 2025, of 260 pages.

    Another relatively easily read book, although, as with the Scandinavia short history, there were many aspects of this reading that I would have liked to explore in more detail and depth, eg, France’s 1789 revolution, or the despised role of the Vichy in France and its collaboration with the NAZIS especially in respect of the Jewish situation, during WWII, or the country’s racism and brutality arising from its colonisation of Algeria,  and participation later in the slave trade in various parts of the globe..

    This short history covers more than two millennia of France’s history from so-called ‘glorious defeat’ in 52BCE to Julius Caesar to what was described as a somewhat unexpected triumph of the 2024 Paris Olympics shortly after a national election.  A ‘melting pot’ of influences from internal conflicts, European neighbours and international circumstances.

    Black Inc, publishers of this book and others in the Shortest History series describe this publication ss follows.

    From Roman conquest to Emmanuel Macron, the Gauls to de Gaulle, trade to war, religion to migration, colonialism to slavery, Joan of Arc to Asterix …

    France is the most popular tourist destination in the world, thanks to its unsurpassed cultural and historical riches. Gothic architecture, Louis XIV opulence, revolutionary spirit, café society, haute cuisine and couture – what could be more quintessentially French?

    Rarely, however, do we think of France as a melting pot, but historian Colin Jones asserts it’s no less a mélange of foreign ingredients than the United States, and by some measures more. As nationalism and anti-immigration rhetoric surge in France (and elsewhere), The Shortest History of France presents a portrait of a nation whose politics and society have always been shaped by global forces.

    Clear-eyed and avoiding traps of national exceptionalism, Jones unfolds France’s first millennium of invasions and subjugation by its neighbours and iterations of the Roman Empire, to the Enlightenment, The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and The Paris Agreement. Meanwhile, its darker moments have included overseas colonisation, the Vichy regime and the Algerian War, along with persistent racism, police brutality, and civil unrest.  The Shortest History of France is a dynamic, global story enhanced with touches of cultural radiance – truly a retelling for our times.

    After reading this book, I must admit that my idyllic view of France as a cultural and in some ways ‘peace-loving’ European nation has somewhat been thwarted by many of the events described and covered in this short history, even up to more recent times.

    Barnes & Noble describe the book as – The Shortest History of France reveals a nation whose politics and society have always been shaped by global forces. With up-to-date scholarship that avoids the traps of national exceptionalism, Jones reminds us that it was only after the first millennium of French history—after constant subjugation to the Roman Empire and Germanic tribal forces—that a nation-state began to emerge, while absorbing influences from its European neighbours. Later, the Crusades and subsequent overseas colonization paved the way for cultural exchange with Africa, the Caribbean, East Asia, and elsewhere.  France has been home to the Enlightenment, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and the Paris Agreement . . . but also to the Vichy regime, the Algerian War, and persistent racism and civil unrest. By turns serious and spirited, The Shortest History of France is a dynamic, global story for our times.

    Jones himself, as the author, argues that (though his terms aren’t quite so blatant) the French aren’t really French at all. “Scratch a French icon,” he writes about Asterix, “and traces of the wider world are never far beneath the surface.” We are reminded that the cartoon character meant to embody the spirit of the Gaulois resistance was, in fact, created by a Polish Jew.  He also writes at length of the conflicting influences that have shaped France’s hexagonal frontiers and the nation within it. “French borders have always been porous,” Jones writes, suggesting the history of France is truly the history of who most influenced France at any given time. Certainly, this aspect is revealed time and again throughout the book.

    Writing for The Standard.co.uk in March, 2025, William Hosier suggests that ‘Jones’ book should appeal to both philistines and experts: it reads as A History of France for Dummies as well as an encyclopedia of erudition. The tone is journalistic and fancy-free, its author darting nimbly from the Aristotelian influence on medieval universities to the differences between Romanesque and Capetian architectural styles. The style is learned, yet unsnobby: it doesn’t matter how much or little you know about the figures mentioned, since all are described in simple monikers (“leading politician Léon Gambetta”, “statesman Jules Ferry”). A bit repetitive, perhaps: but immeasurably more helpful than the opposite’.

    As for the author, Colin Jones, CBE, FBA, is Emeritus Professor of History at Queen Mary University of London. He is the author and editor of many works on French history, including The Cambridge Illustrated History of France, The Great Nation: France from Louis XV to Napoleon, The Fall of Robespierre: 24 Hours in Revolutionary Paris and a host of others.

    An interesting read, with perhaps the reservations on brevity mentioned above, where more detail and expansion of the subject matter to be searched out through other avenues.

  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 15: Issue 11: 15th July, 2025:  about the author Graham Greene, letters and novels.

    I’ve just read  ‘Graham Greene: A Life in Letters’ edited by Richard Greene [no relation], published in 2007 [446 pages]………….I’d never read any of Greene’s novels though knew I had one somewhere, eventually tracked it down, a Penguin paperback of The Honorary Consul’, first published in 1973, which I refer to later, as I decided I had to read at least one of his novels.

    As revealed through his letters, his novels were generally based upon people he’d met, or places and international conflicts that he found himself involved in. And as revealed through the letters, a vivid portrait of a fascinating writer, a mercurial man of courage, wit and passion. 

    As Amazon describes it – “One of the undisputed masters of twentieth-century English prose, Graham Greene (1904-1991) wrote tens of thousands of personal letters. This exemplary volume presents a new and engrossing account of his life constructed out of his own words. Impeccably edited by scholar Richard Greene, the letters–including many unavailable even to his official biographer–give a new perspective on a life that combined literary achievement, political action, espionage, travel, and romantic entanglement. The letters describe his travels in such places as Mexico, Vietnam, and Cuba, where he observed the struggles of mankind with a compassionate and truthful eye. Letters to friends such as Evelyn Waugh and Muriel Spark offer a glimpse into the literary culture in which he wrote, while others reveal the agonies of his heart. The sheer range of experience contained in Greene’s correspondence defies comparison”.

    These letters, as published by his namesake, were written over 70 years, from September, 1921 to the 21 March, 1991 [14 days before he died]. As a prolific writer of diaries, personal notes and reflections myself, I guess that was the reason I was attracted to the book. He was not just an author – but a journalist, reporter, investigator, confidante of the famous in both literary and political circles, constantly travelling around the world, usually to political hotspots and war or revolutionary zones in Asia, Central and South America, Africa, Russia and other Communist controlled countries during both the years of World War II, and the subsequent Cold War period, with his life and personal safety often at risk. His letters generally pulled no punches, many of a highly personal and romantic nature.  His correspondence relationship with so many great authors [many of whom I was not familiar with] including in particular that great novelist and diary writer, Evelyn Waugh [whom I always believed was a woman for some reason] provided for me, a fascinating insight into the world of writers, publishing and books in general.

    [Incidentally, I don’t have any of Waugh’s novels, but do have a massive volume of his life’s Diaries, which admittedly, I’ve not yet tried to tackle!!].

    In addition to the actual letters, there are footnotes on most pages. Providing either a brief biography of the person to whom he is writing, or where it was known why he was writing in particular instances. These notes of course do slow down the reading process, but are an invaluable aid to understanding [usually] the purpose of the letter and Greene’s connection with the recipient.

    Grahame Greene himself notes that – There have been a number of Graham Greene biographies, but none has captured his voice, his loves, hates, family and friends–intimate and writerly–or his deep understanding of the world, like this astonishing collection of letters…………………………………………………………………..
    Graham Greene is one of the few modern novelists who can be called great. In the course of his long and eventful life (1904—1991), he wrote tens of thousands of letters to family, friends, writers, publishers and others involved in his various interests and causes. A Life in Letters presents a fresh and engrossing account of his life, career and mind in his own words.

    In summary a comment from Google.books provides another encouraging description of the book  –  ‘In several letters, the individuals, events or places described provide the inspiration for characters, episodes or locations found in his later fiction. The correspondence describes his travels in Mexico, Africa, Malaya, Vietnam, Haiti, Cuba, Sierra Leone, Liberia and other trouble spots, where he observed the struggles of victims and victors with a compassionate and truthful eye. The volume includes a vast number of unpublished letters to authors Evelyn Waugh, Auberon Waugh, Anthony Powell, Edith Sitwell, R.K. Narayan and Muriel Spark, and to other more notorious individuals such as the double-agent Kim Philby. Some of these letters dispute previous assessments of his character, such as his alleged anti-Semitism or obscenity, and he emerges as a man of deep integrity, decency and courage. Others reveal the agonies of his romantic life, especially his relations with his wife, Vivien Greene, and with one of his mistresses, Catherine Walston. The letters can be poignant, despairing, amorous, furious or amusing, but the sheer range of experience contained in them will astound everyone who reads this book.’

    While from the book cover – “When he loved, he loved fervently, but he also struggled  to manage the  unpredictable mood swings, the highs and lows of bipolar disorder that drove him from exalted happiness to despair. Letters to friends like Evelyn Waugh, Muriel Spak, Anthony Powell and R.K. Narayan offer a glimpse 

    into the literary culture in which he wrote. Other letters reveal the agonies of his heart, how his manic depression wreaked havoc on his marriage to Vivien Greene and injured his relations with his mistress Catherine Walston.”

    A book that gives new perspective to a life that combined literary achievement, political action, espionage, travel and romantic entanglement….following him through joy and turmoil, from the gnarled and fissured forests of Indo-China to war-torn Sierra Leone, from the mountains of Switzerland to hotels in Havana and a connection of sorts with leaders like Fidel Castro, and various revolutionary characters from South America.

    The letters also reveal much about his support at times, and other times, conflict with the Catholic Church, and his inter-action with a couple of the Popes of his era, and other religious intermediaries.

    A brief comment on The Honorary Consul by Grahame Greene [published in 1973, of 268 pages [my Penguin edition].  After having read Greene’s letters, I expected his novels to be essentially based on parts of the world he had travelled to, often with the purpose of exploring those areas and lifestyles for incorporation into a planned novel. I wasn’t sure what to expect, not having read him previously.  This story, I found somewhat enjoyable, if at times, realistically unpleasant in terms of the subject matter.

    A gripping tragicomedy of a bungled kidnapping in a provincial Argentinean town, considered to be one of Greene’s finest novels. The story is set in the provincial city of Corrientes, part of the Argentine Littoral, on the shore of the Paraná River. Eduardo Plarr is an unmarried medical doctor of English descent who, as a boy, fled to Buenos Aires with his Paraguayan mother to escape the political turmoil of Paraguay. His English father remained in Paraguay as a political rebel and, aside from a single hand-delivered letter, they never hear from him again. Throughout the novel, there is much reflection by various characters on the absence of ‘father figures’ for numerous reasons. I believe the story is also set on the eve of Argentine’s ‘dirty War’ in the early 1970’s.

    In this provincial Argentinian community, Charley Fortnum – a British consul with dubious authority and a notorious fondness for drink – is kidnapped by rebels in a case of mistaken identity. Fortnum, 61 years old is married to Clara, a young ex-whore from Senora Sanchez’s brothel. The young but world-weary Doctor Eduardo Plarr, is left to pick up the pieces and secure Fortnum’s release, wading through a sea of incompetence and unearthing corruption among authorities and revolutionaries in the process.

    First published in 1973, The Honorary Consul is a British thriller novel, and  was one of Greene’s own favourites of his works and is regarded amongst his finest novels, with Plarr perhaps the most moving and convincing figure in his fiction.  The story is set in an unnamed city in northern Argentina, near the border with Paraguay which can be assumed to be the city of Corrientes.

    In what is described as a ‘perfectly executed narrative’, Greene explores the repercussions of the bungled kidnap, and gives special attention to Dr Plarr whose deficient emotions form the heart of the story.

    While I won’t go into the article itself, a piece written on a site named literarysum/com and titled ‘Unveiling the Layers: A Comprehensive Literary Analysis of The Honorary Consul by Graham Greene’, introduced the subject as follows – ‘The Honorary Consul by Graham Greene is a complex novel that delves into the themes of love, betrayal, and political intrigue. This article provides a comprehensive literary analysis of the novel, exploring its various layers and uncovering the hidden meanings behind its characters and plot. Through a close examination of the novel’s themes, symbolism, and narrative structure, this article aims to provide readers with a deeper understanding of Greene’s masterpiece’ which all indicates we have more than just a ‘British thriller novel’, another indication of Greene’s literary talents.

    As described at the time of publication, by the Daily Mail: ‘The prose is monkishly spare and taut.  The minor characters are brilliantly and sardonically drawn, that ever he has given us’. It sounds as though I made the right choice, in being introduced to Greene’s writings [apart from his letters].

    The book was made into the 1983 film The Honorary Consul (also released as Beyond the Limit), directed by John Mackenzie, with Richard Gere as Plarr and Michael Caine as Fortnum.[3][4] The soundtrack theme was composed by Paul McCartney and performed by John Williams.

  • The Coachbuilder’s Column: Volume 15: Issue 10: 24th June, 2025: some selected reading over recent months

    This contribution looks at a number of books and other publications which I have read and examined over the past two or three months, as listed briefly below.

    • Australian Foreign Affairs, Issue 23 ‘Planet Australia’;Escaping America’s Orbit’.   
    • Quarterly Essay No. 97: ‘Losing It. Can we stop violence against women and children’ [by Jess Hill];
    • Memorial Days’ by Geraldine Brooks [2025]; 
    • The Fallen Woman by Fiona McIntosh [2024];
    • Lyrebird by Jane Caro [2025];
    • The Historian: To you perceptive reader, I bequeath my history,  by Elizabeth Kostova [2005];
    • The Astonishing History of Ballarat, Volume 3: The Story of the Quartz Miners of Ballarat: 1851-1878  by Doug Bradby [2020];
    • Quarterly Essay No. 98 headed ‘Hard New World: Our Post-American Future’ by Hugh White.

    What is Australia’s place in the new global landscape?

    • ‘Until August’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ [2024]; and,
    • ‘Melaleuca’ by Angie Faye Martin [2025].

    14th March

    Australian Foreign Affairs’ publication, Issue 23 titled ‘Planet Australia: Escaping America’s Orbit’.   

    This 23rd issue of Australian Foreign Affairs  [a publication issued three times a year] explored Australia’s changing fortunes as Donald Trump returns to the White House and threatens to dismantle the diplomatic, economic and defence foundations on which Canberra has long built its security and prosperity. It examines the consequences for Australia as some of its most important friends and partners – including India, Indonesia and the United States – shift towards authoritarianism and illiberalism. Featuring special contributions from our three most recent ambassadors to the United States, Planet Australia looks at how Australian leaders and diplomats should deal with Trump and prepare for looming challenges to the alliance, open trade, and a secure and stable Asia.

    Essays included:

    • James Curran explores Australia’s relationship with the US in the age of Trump. He points to the fact that the America Australia has become accustomed to, is changing.
    • Emma Shortis argues that Canberra should be bold as the global order shifts. Among other things, suggests that Trump does not care about Australia, so why should be cosy up to him, it won’t make Australia any safer.
    • Susan Stone analyses Trump’s economic plan and how Australia might benefit, in a fairly detailed analytical approach to that aspect of the economic relationship.
    • Kim Beazley, Joe Hockey and Arthur Sinodinos discuss the diplomatic challenges facing Australia in Washington DC. An interesting set of views from three former ambassadors. From Beazley – “Trump will be more disruptive and les predictable, but Australia is well placed to protect and advance its own interests’.  Hockey: “No matter what, the United States has [historically] had ‘disruptors in chief’ before. It’s institutions and constitution are robust enough to cope with the strain’.  From Sinodinos: “Swlf-reliance is not a code for appeasing China, we have stood up to China in recent years and weathered the trde and economic coercion  that followed – self-reliance also means putting our own house in order [and] in Trump world, the fate of regional groupings hangs in the balance”.

    Other items included a discussion of Kevin Rudd’s recent book ‘On Xi Jinping: How  Xi’s Marxist Nationalism Is Shaping China and the World’  –   worth a read I feel, although as Rudd himself warns, it is ‘a heavy read’ and parts of it have a deep textual analysis which might defeat the ordinary readers [where I might place myself]. The other interesting book review is of ‘Gret Game On: The Contest for Central Asia and Global Supremacy’ by Geoff Raby.  The reviewer suggests that Raby doesn’t cover in much detail the real states of central Asia – Kazakhstan, Kyrgyz Republic, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan –  those areas or of interest to myself, I’d like to find a book specifically about their history and people, other than through this publication.

    28th March

    Quarterly Essay No. 97:  ‘Losing It. Can we stop violence against women and children

    What will it take to stop gendered violence?  This was a quite disturbing, and worrying essay, extremely well researched by Jess Hill, author of ‘See What You Made Me Do’

    What went wrong? Australian governments promised to end violence against women and children in a single generation. Instead, it is escalating: men have been murdering women at an increased rate, coercive control and sexual violence is becoming more complex and severe, and we see a marked rise in youth-on-youth sexual assault. Why?

    In Losing It, Jess Hill investigates Australia’s National Plan to End Violence Against Women and Children to find out what’s working and what’s not – and what we can do to turn things around. This compassionate, ground-breaking essay lifts the lid on a national crisis.

    “Over several years I often heard the same misgivings from academics, bureaucrats and frontline workers: many believed the [prevention] strategy … was too abstract and disconnected from the front line; that it did not reach the boys and men it needed to, and at worst was actually promoting backlash. Many were – and still are – afraid to say so openly.” – Jess Hill, Losing It.

    20th April

    Tonight, I finished reading ‘Memorial Days’ by Geraldine Brooks, published in 2025, just 207 pages,  a short easily read personal story full of pathos, unbelievable grief, and a reckoning with the inevitability of loss.

    In 2022. The award winning book ‘Horse’ by Geraldine was published, and I made comment on that book in the Coachbuilder’s Column that year.

    She was partway through the writing of that book, when, on Memorial Day in the USA, May 27, 2019, she received a ‘cold’ phone call from the local hospital, to tell her that her much loved husband, Tony Horwitz, had collapsed and died on the street, far from home, in the middle of his own strenuous book tour. The complex tasks required in the face of such a sudden death left her no time to properly grieve for him. Three years later, still feeling broken and bereft, she booked a flight to Flinders Island off the coast of Tasmania [where she and Tony had spent some together]. There, she pondered the ways other cultures deal with mourning and finally seized the time and space she needed for her own grief. Alone on a rugged stretch of coast, she revisited a 35-year marriage filled with risk, adventure, humour and love.

    ‘Memorial Days’ is Geraldine’s story of the loss of her husband and the immediate months that followed, the eventual publication of ‘Horse’, and her healing period of isolation on Flinders Island. A short book, short chapters, alternating between the immediate weeks following Tony’s death, and her time on Flinders Island.

    If readers feel this story might help with their owe loss of whatever nature, I recommend a read, In the meantime, four short quotations from ‘Memorial Days’.

    • [On Flinders Island] – Two of my friends approach, their faces grave. How an earth did they get here? One gently reaches out and touches my shoulder. ‘You said you wished there had been someone there with you, the last time, so we’ve come here to tell you….An immense dread. I wake up, heart pounding. The nightmare expresses my life’s sudden precarity. I absolutely cannot afford to lose anyone else [p.167-168];
    • Night is an even better time to be out here. If the island’s rocks put me in my place, it’s stars do, too. Nature is a remorseless reminder of human insignificance. Daytime, nighttime – there’s no escape from the realization of how little we matter [p. 191];
    •  I have written this because I needed to do it. Part of the treatment for ‘complicated grief’ is to relive the trauma of the death, returning to the moments again and again, striving each time to recall more detail. That’s what I have tried to do. [p.202];
    •  The time on Flinders Island  allowed me to set down one of the bundles in the baggage of my grief.  It’s the grief I’d been carrying for the life I would have had, the life U=I had counted on having.  It was the life with sunset-facing rocking chairs, growing old with Tony beside me, laughing, arguing over the news, revisiting shared memories, and taking pride as our sons moved confidently into manhood. That life is gone, nothing will get it back. I have accepted that.  I have embarked on making the life I have as vivid and consequential as I can. Do your work, said Bader Ginsburg. So, that is what I do [p. 204];

    23rd April

    The Fallen Woman’ by Fiona McIntosh [published in 2024] of 431 pages  –  an English historical fiction novel set in the English countryside, in a forgotten orchard and beneath the ancient spire of Salisbury Cathedral, basically a heart-wrenching story of family betrayal, loss and tragedy, the love of an unwanted  child, and the potential, almost lost through misunderstanding,  of a new previously undreamed of life, about a woman who finds that in her darkest hour, she can harness her greatest strength. The author, an internationally acclaimed best-selling Australian who roams the world for her writing research, and lives between Adelaide [SA] and Wiltshire, England.  An enjoyable read, away from the more serious deep-thinking non-fiction reads of recent times.

    In basic summary – Botanical artist Jane Saville is devastated when her manipulative mother banishes her to the countryside to protect someone else’s honour. Isolated far from home, she is forced to live an impoverished, secretive life to save the family from public shame.

    Guy Attwood is heir to a fortune, but prefers his quiet passion for rare-apple hunting on behalf of Royal Kew Gardens to building the family’s business empire. He sets out to find a critically endangered apple species that he dreams of gifting and re-naming for his friend, the soon-to-be coronated George V.

    When the paths of these people from two very different worlds collide, Jane begins to hope for a different future, but their new friendship is shattered by jealousy, misunderstanding, duty and treachery. A young boy will inspire Jane to defy the powers working against her and prove she is no woman to be outcast.

    Released into the congested Christmas market for 2025, The Fallen Woman went straight into the National Top 10.  Since then, it has consistently been praised as a favourite – if not THE favourite – of McIntosh’s recent historical novels.  It is Fiona’s 44th title.

    23rd April

    Another light read – ‘Lyrebird’ by Jane Caro [published in 2025], of 360 pages.   A modern crime thriller set within the Maitland – Newcastle – Barrington Tops area of NSW, when an ornithology student comes across a lyrebird in the remote Barrington area which she videos as it projects a variety of mimics, one of which is that of a woman screaming in terror, and realising that the lyrebird does not create its own  sounds but mimics those it hears, takes her video to the police, who after a cursory and ‘scornful’ investigation, drop any subsequent searches etc. Despite support from the newly minted detective, Megan Blaxland, with no missing person reported and no body, her evidence is ridiculed and dismissed. 

    Twenty years later, the remains of a woman are found in the area where the student had claimed the screams had been recorded. As well as an original mystery murder thriller, this novel also considers issues of injustice and prejudice, the slavery of the Asian sex-trade, and the vivid description of a major Australian bush fire in which many of story’s participants get caught up in.

    15th May

    I’ve just completed reading ‘The Historian: To you perceptive reader, I bequeath my history’ written by Elizabeth Kostova [published in 2005], of 642 pages. When I began this book, I wondered if I’d get through it, not quite in the mode of novel I generally prefer – the historical aspect of the novel was quite fascinating, but in my eyes, the unreality of what was been depicted went a bit far! However, the further I read, the more I was drawn in and keen to see the novel’s outcome.

    Bram Stoker wrote the novel ‘Dracula’ in 1897, and this was produced in 1992 as an American Gothic horror film. In 1462, Vlad Dracula returns from a victory in his campaign against the Ottoman Empire to find his beloved wife Elisabeta has committed suicide after his enemies falsely reported his death. A priest of the Romanian Orthodox Church tells him that his wife’s soul is damned to Hell for committing suicide. Enraged, Vlad desecrates the chapel and renounces God, declaring he will rise from the grave to avenge Elisabeta with all the powers of darkness. He then drives his sword into the chapel’s stone cross and drinks the blood that pours from it, becoming a vampire.

    Elizabeth Kostova’s novel is based on that story of Dracula, and the repercussions of his curse on a number of scientists and historians some 500 years later and set principally during the post -WWII period in the Communist controlled countries of eastern Europe at that time. It is a novel that blends fact and fiction to create a compelling story. The novel follows an unnamed narrator who accompanies her father, Paul, on a journey across Europe in the early 1970.

    The San Franciso Chronicle described her novel as – ‘The record-breaking phenomenon from Elizabeth Kostova is a celebrated masterpiece that “refashioned the vampire myth into a compelling contemporary novel, and a late-night page turner’. [Though perhaps not a book to read late at night with just oneself as company ☹].

    The novel is best summed up as follows from Kostova’s website

    Late one night, exploring her father’s library, a young woman finds an ancient book and a cache of yellowing letters. The letters are all addressed to “My dear and unfortunate successor,” and they plunge her into a world she never dreamed of, a labyrinth where the secrets of her father’s past and her mother’s mysterious fate connect to an inconceivable evil hidden in the depths of history.

    The letters provide links to one of the darkest powers that humanity has ever known and to a centuries-long quest to find the source of that darkness and wipe it out. It is a quest for the truth about Vlad the Impaler, the medieval ruler whose barbarous reign formed the basis of the legend of Dracula. Generations of historians have risked their reputations, their sanity, and even their lives to learn the truth about Vlad the Impaler and Dracula. Now one young woman must decide whether to take up this quest herself–to follow her father in a hunt that nearly brought him to ruin years ago, when he was a vibrant young scholar and her mother was still alive.

    What does the legend of Vlad the Impaler have to do with the modern world? Is it possible that the Dracula of myth truly existed and that he has lived on, century after century, pursuing his own unknowable ends? The answers to these questions cross time and borders, as first the father and then the daughter search for clues, from dusty Ivy League libraries to Istanbul, Budapest, and the depths of Eastern Europe. In city after city, in monasteries and archives, in letters and in secret conversations, the horrible truth emerges about Vlad the Impaler’s dark reign and about a time-defying pact that may have kept his awful work alive down through the ages.

    Parsing obscure signs and hidden texts, reading codes worked into the fabric of medieval monastic traditions-and evading the unknown adversaries who will go to any lengths to conceal and protect Vlad’s ancient powers-one woman comes ever closer to the secret of her own past and a confrontation with the very definition of evil. Elizabeth Kostova’s debut novel is an adventure of monumental proportions, a relentless tale that blends fact and fantasy, history and the present, with an assurance that is almost unbearably suspenseful-and utterly unforgettable.

    Looking for reviews of the book, we had both sides of extreme reactions – I’ve chosen one which is basically in tune with how I felt about the story but does also highlight some of the reasons why people did not like the story or writing style. One Book Club member wrote:

    “This is actually the second time I’ve read this book. For a first novel, it is outstanding. I was completely engrossed in the story. I really love history and the whole Dracula lore. I thought it was a great mix of both. It added a lot of suspense that made me read it with the lights on. I think I read it in about four days, I just couldn’t put it down. I will say this though, if you are not really into history or researching, I would skip it. If you are wanting to read it just because it has to do with Dracula, I would pick a much smaller book. However, I just love history and research (duh, I work in a library) so it was right up my alley. Actually, I’m doing a little research on it myself. I did read some of the comments on Amazon.com and wasn’t exactly surprised by the comments. It was either a “love it” or “hate it” book. That is why I throw my caution out there. Basically, people who didn’t enjoy it were out for a Dracula story and thought the history was “a drag”. I’m really into history so I thought it was pretty damn good. I will say I did discover a few historical inaccuracies, but I think I’ll let them fly for now. 😉All in all, a good read, especially for a rainy day.”:

    In sharp contrast, amongst many criticisms, but especially with regard to the ‘letters’ which form the basis of the novel, someone wrote – — “Unbelievably detailed letters! Now I have read a number of great books that use the format of letter writing to convey the plot. But this? Ridiculous. Not only are these letters insanely long, but they are insanely detailed as well, creating yet another reason why the book and the characters are completely unbelievable. If that’s how the author wanted to write this, why did she do the letter thing at all? “

    [I have to admit, that at times, it wasn’t always initially clear who was writing which particular letter, although that was eventually recognisable]

    19th May

    Another fascinating little  touch of Ballarat gold-mining history –  the book was titled ‘The Astonishing History of Ballarat’, Volume 3: The Story of the Quartz Miners of Ballarat: 1851-1878  by local author Doug Bradby, published in 2020, of 266 pages, personally signed by the author.  I have read, quite quickly at the time, many of Doug’s historical little books about Ballarat  –  this one I found to be much more technical, with lots of tables, and statistics, with his usual predominance of quotations of newspaper articles, etc –   which is probably why reading was deferred so any times over recent years [since being given to me at the end of 2021] and diverted to other reading material, finally returning to the book recently

    In 1856, at the height of the alluvial goldrush, Ballarat produced 823,334 ounces of gold. By 1878 the figure was a mere 12,984 ounces. Ballarat was ‘on its last legs’. However, in the Black Hill [near my former Ballarat home], Llanberris [where my Saturdays were spent at the subsequent athletics track in the 1960s], Temperance and Imperial mines, miners had developed efficient ways to find and extract gold from quartz.  Ballarat now had a fighting chance  of surviving.  Thank heavens they persevered, comments Doug Bradby. 

    This Astonishing History of Ballarat, Volume Three tells the story of those undervalued, marginalised miners, who from 1851 to 1878, laid the foundations for Ballarat’s transition from alluvial to quartz mining

    Speaking about his book for the Ballarat Times newspaper in July 2020, Bradby, in an article written by Edwina Williams, said “this period was one of great difficulty for miners trying to make a living in Ballarat, with the press describing the local industry as being “on its last legs.” This is when they know the alluvial gold in the buried rivers will run out and they’ll have to make a painful transition to an industrial, complex quartz mining system,” Bradby said. “They know at some point, they’ll have to go back to finding where the quartz came from, smashing it, and getting the gold out.

    “Ballarat in the 1870s was in diabolical trouble, in a depression. They struggle, and struggle and struggle, and by 1878, they haven’t succeeded, although there’s persistence and resilience from four mines that get better and better.”

    He said the three decades were packed full of conflict.

    There’s a big riot in Lydiard Street South, with thousands of men involved, laws are broken and shafts filled in. Another interesting story is a tar and feathering at the Temperance Mine in Little Bendigo.”

    All volumes of The Astonishing History of Ballarat have been timelessly and whimsically illustrated by Carson Ellis, a former history student of Bradby’s at North Tech.

    “He does a fantastic job. The cartoons bring out the seriousness of the situations, instantaneously and affectively summarising what’s going on,” Bradby said.

    7 June

    Quarterly Essay No. 98 headed ‘Hard New World: Our Post-American Future’ by Hugh White.

    What is Australia’s place in the new global landscape?

    Are we ready for our post-American future? In an era of rising danger for all, and dramatic choices for Australia, Hugh White explores how the world is changing and Australia should respond. We confront the world’s deepest and most dangerous international crisis in generations. The old global order faces direct challenge in three crucial regions, including our own. War has already engulfed Eastern Europe and the Middle East, and the risk in East Asia grows. White explores Australia’s responses to these crisis and lays out, in stark terms, the hard choices ahead and explains how we can make our way in a very different world I must day, those ‘stark terms’  were somewhat unsettling, especially with respect to his warnings about the potential use of nuclear weapons as a ‘last’ or ‘accidental’ resort!

    Under Donald Trump, America’s retreat from global leadership has been swift and erratic. China, Russia and India are on the move. White explains the big strategic trends driving the war in Ukraine, and why America has “lost” Asia. He discusses Albanese Labor’s record and its post-election choices, and why complacency about the American alliance – including AUKUS – is no longer an option. This essential essay urges us to make our way in a hard new world with realism and confidence.

    Hugh White breaks his essay up into a number of scenarios including:

    • American revolution;
    • What happens when America steps back from the role which has defined the global order for over three decades?
    • Putin’s gambit;
    • Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has brought nuclear weapons and the threat of nuclear war back to the central position in international politics that they occupied throughout the cold war;
    • Ukraine’s predicament and the future of Europe;
    • The balance of power in Asia;
    • The end of the world as we know it, yet Australia is not acknowledging that fact:  Australia today faces the biggest shift in our international circumstances since Europeans first settled here in 1788.

    A few quotations from the essay highlighting just a  snippet of  points from White’s ‘warnings’ and possible world scenarios, some of which may seem to some readers to be ‘over the top’ and almost scare-mongering, while writing how he sees it!!!

    [1] “The Canberra establishment is shocked by any suggestion that we should walk away from the ANZUS commitments. They think we can and must depend on America more than ever in today’s hard new world. But that misses the vital point. It is America that is walking away from the commitments it made in very different circumstances seventy-five years ago. That was plain enough under Joe Biden. It is crystal clear today under Trump.”—Hugh White, Hard New World

    [2] “But perhaps the most important reason why America and its allies have for so long downplayed the significance of nuclear weapons is that they raise a very awkward question. Is Washington willing to fight a nuclear war to defend the post-Cold War order, as it had been willing to do to contain the Soviets in the Cold War?  This is a question that no one in Washington wanted to consider too carefully, because they suspected the answer would be ‘no’. Now Putin has forced them to confront it, and Joe Biden gave the answer they all feared. Even before the invasion, he promised that, whatever happened, America would not go to war to defend Ukraine because, as he repeatedly said, ‘We will not fight the third world war in Ukraine’. His meaning was very clear, especially to people like him of the Cold War generation to whom the ‘third world war’ means only one thing – a full-scale nuclear conflict…Was he right to fear this?  Was the risk of nuclear war serios enough to deter Washington and its allies from giving Ukraine the only kind of help that would help it to win……………….US intelligence analysts assessed there was a 50 per cent chance that Putin would authorise the use of tactical nuclear weapons to prevent further losses. Putin certainly spoke as if that was so……But the Biden administration took his threats seriously….They were right to do so. A decision to use nuclear weapons would have been unprecedented, but so were the circumstances…[and from Putin’s viewpoint regarding any hint by to Biden to break his promise]….. would Putin have taken Washington’s threats seriously? Would he really have believed that Biden would risk [losing] New York and Washington  to save Ukraine? Or would he have called Biden’s bluff?”

    [3] and briefly on the Middle East tragedies: “It should not have been hard for the Biden administration to work out a response to the tragedy in Gaza that matched its professed commitment to avowed values and international law. The argument is not, after all, so very complex. Israel has a right to exist within secure and internationally recognised borders. The Palestinians have a right to a state in the West Bank and Gaza. Israel has refused to countenance the establishment of such a state. That does not justify Hama’s crimes on and since 7 October 2023. Equally, those crimes do not justify Israel’s assault on Gaza since then. Both sides are deeply in the wrong………..Upon that basis the Biden administration could have constructed a policy that accorded with its claims to global leadership.  Instead, seemingly from sheer moral and political weakness, it went along with the Netanyahu government’s crimes, tacitly adopting the view so neatly described by Tom Stevenson. ‘Any violence committed by Palestinians justifies all violence by Israel, and no violence committed by Israel justifies any by Palestinians.’ That is the opposite of leadership. Trump’s policies on Gaza are, of course, even worse, but they are less hypocritical. He doesn’t pretend to defend universal values, international law and the old vision of US global leadership.  In this respect the most prodigious liar in the history of US politics is more honest than his opponents”.

    20th June

    Tonight, I did indeed finish reading ‘Until August’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ [published in 2024], just 129 pages   – basically, to my mind, a short romance, described by his son in the Preface as ‘not as polished as his greatest books’, none of which to this point in time, I’d sadly not given myself the opportunity to read.

    The reason for that description – little book published 10 years after the author’s death [in 2014] – in the words of his son again  –  “The memory loss our Father suffered in his final years….the way that loss diminished his ability to write with his customary rigor was a source of desperate frustration for him ….’Until August’ was the fruit of one last effort to carry on against all odds. The process was a race between his artistic perfectionism and his vanishing mental faculties” 

    Not long before his death Gabo’s final judgement ‘This book doesn’t work. It must be destroyed’. The family didn’t destroy it but set it aside, and as his family said “In an act of betrayal, we decided to put his readers’ pleasure ahead of all other considerations…it’s possible Gabo might forgive us’.

    Amongst other plaudits the ‘Guardian’ wrote ‘Few writers can be said to have written books that have changed the whole course of literature. Gabriel Garcia Marquez did just that’.

    So, having read Marquez for the first time, through this little book, I would think that description of his literary skills highly over-inflated.  Quite obviously I need to search out some of his original novels, of which there are at least seventeen which I’m assuming the basis of the ‘Guardians’ assessment related to.

    Until August by the Colombian author and  Nobel Prize Winner   –  romantic, sensual, a profound meditation on freedom, regret and the mysteries of love – you can read it at one sit  –  Goodreads, in describing the book as ‘an unexpected gift from one of the greatest writers the world has ever known’ – summarises the story briefly as “Sitting alone beside the languorous blue waters of the lagoon, Ana Magdalena Bach contemplates the men at the hotel bar. She has been happily married for twenty-seven years and has no reason to escape the life she has made with her husband and children. And yet, every August, she travels by ferry here to the island where her mother is buried, and for one night takes a new lover.  Across sultry Caribbean evenings full of salsa and boleros, lotharios and conmen, Ana journeys further each year into the hinterland of her desire and the fear hidden in her heart”.

    Meanwhile, I believe I have some enthralling explorations of Gabo’s literature ahead of me!

    23rd June.

    ‘Melaleuca’ by Angie Faye Martin, published in 2025, of 419 pages.  I think I saw a review of this book in the Ballarat Courier, made a note if it, and later searched it out.

    Easily read, a basic murder mystery set in in a small rural Australian ‘fictional’ township about 200 kms west of Brisbane on the Sturt Highway, which even came with a sketch map of the town which all of it’s major features as referred to in the book. Perhaps Queensland was an apt selection for this book with it’s strong references to Australia’s Indigenous history at the hands of colonisation, and the injustice and racism typical of Australia in those times, and particularly the early squatters and settlers of Queensland, though the setting is in later generations.  Described by one author as ‘A blistering outback noir that doesn’t flinch away from Australia’s Indigenous history at the hands of colonisation’. Meanwhile, the author herself, as someone who grew up in regional Queensland, the places and people of Angie Faye Martin’s Melaleuca are viscerally recognisable. 

    In summary – A country town, a brutal murder, a shameful past, a reckoning to come… The injustices of the past and dangers of the present envelop Aboriginal policewoman Renee Taylor, when her unwilling return to the small outback town of her childhood plunges her into the investigation of a brutal murder.

    Renee Taylor is planning to stay the minimum amount of time in her remote hometown – only as long as her mum needs her, then she is fleeing back to her real life in Brisbane.

    Seconded to the town’s sleepy police station, Renee is pretty sure work will hold nothing more exciting than delivering speeding tickets. Then a murdered woman is found down by the creek on the outskirts of town.

    Leading the investigation, Renee uncovers a perplexing connection to the disappearance of two young women thirty years earlier. As she delves deeper and the mystery unfurls, intergenerational cruelties, endemic racism, and deep corruption show themselves, even as dark and bitter truths about the town and its inhabitants’ past rise up and threaten to overwhelm the present.  Or as described by another author: ‘Powerful First Nations crime noir that interrogates law enforcement and how it intersects with Indigenous victims’.

    While in reading, one can develop one’s own ideas about who the ‘guilty parties’ are, the eventual unexpected revelations may still come as a surprise, which I guess should be the aim behind an authentic crime novel.  If readers like an easily read mystery with a strong connection to historical injustice and not so past social issues, this is the book for you.