Category: Giramondo Publishing

Author, Book review, Bruno Lloret, Chile, Fiction, Giramondo Publishing, literary fiction, Publisher, Setting, translated fiction

‘Nancy’ by Bruno Lloret (translated by Ellen Jones)

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The cover of X by Bruce Lloret

Fiction – paperback; Giramondo; 144 pages; 2020. Translated from the Spanish by Ellen Jones.

It’s widely acknowledged that the letter X holds a special place in Elon Musk’s heart (assuming he has one). There’s SpaceX, Tesla’s Model X and the social media channel X (formerly known as Twitter). He even has a child named X AE A-XII, known as “X” for short.

The letter X is also popular with Chilean author Bruno Lloret if his debut novel, Nancy, is anything to go by.

First published in Chile in 2015 and translated into English by Ellen Jones in 2020, this striking novella uses X as literary “decoration” and a form of punctuation designed to slow the reader down, to force us to find the words amongst the proliferation of crosses and to contemplate them in a more regarded way.

The blurb on the back of the book, suggests X can be read “as multiplication symbols, scars, locations on a map, or as signs of erasure and the approach of death”.

To show you how the author uses the letter, here’s a relatively extreme example (from page 6) — not all the pages are as heavily marked as this:

Initially, this might seem visually intrusive to the reading experience — it’s certainly unconventional — but if you’re prepared to give it a try, you’re in for a real treat: Nancy is a beautiful and bittersweet novella about a woman looking back on her troubled life, and can easily be read in one sitting.

Looking back

Nancy is a widow who is dying of cancer. As she confronts her mortality, she reflects on her life and relationships, including her marriage to a “gringo”, who died in a tragic industrial accident, and her childhood and difficult adolescence in northern Chile.

Her teenage years were marred by the breakdown of her parents’ marriage and the unexplained disappearance of her beloved older brother, Pato — whom she describes as a “superhero” — outside a nightclub when he was 19 years old.

Basically left to fend for herself, Nancy keeps house for her father and her alcoholic uncle Aarón who moves in with them. She goes to school in the morning and spends her afternoons secretly swimming with friends at Playa Roja under the watchful eyes of a group of creepy old gringos. This is despite her father’s decree that she never leave the house (except to go to school) for fear something might happen to her.

He told me that the bodies of women had been showing up on the beach. Some of them washed in by the waves, others just buried up to their necks in the sand, their heads blue in the open air X Five had shown up that week alone X It’s best if you stay home, Nancy. You’re pretty, and we’ve no idea who’s behind it X (page 34)

Cover image of the Two Lines Press edition
Two Lines Press edition

Courage and determination

Against this background of endemic violence and the threat of being “disappeared”, Nancy’s father discovers religion when two young Morman missionaries come knocking at the door. Eventually, Nancy, who is a non-believer and sexually active (she loses her virginity to a gipsy called Jesulé, whom she adores), is also baptised into the Church of Latter Day Saints — even though her heart is not in it.

When she unwittingly stumbles upon the two young male missionaries locked in an amorous embrace, she films them for potential blackmailing purposes. This is but one example of Nancy’s canny way of holding power in a world that largely denies her this control.

The most striking thing about the story, however, is Nancy’s sexual agency and streetwise view of the world, her unwavering commitment to her father (even though he doesn’t always treat her kindly) and her quiet determination to just get on with things. “Feeling sad won’t change anything,” she claims (page 30)

Nancy is a sensitively told tale of living life in the margins against a backdrop of death and violence. It explores themes of trauma, identity, religion and the search for meaning, yet despite the oppressive nature of the narrator’s life, it feels empowering and optimistic.

Lisa from ANZLitLovers has also reviewed it.

I read this book as part of Reading Independent Publishers Month 4 #ReadIndies, hosted by Lizzy and Kaggsy. This event, which runs throughout February, is designed to showcase the books published by independent publishers across the world.

Giramondo Publishing is fast becoming my favourite indie press. It’s an Australian university-based publisher, which was founded in 1995 “to publish innovative and adventurous literary work that might not otherwise find publication because of its subtle commercial appeal”. You can find out more about them here.

Australia, Book review, Fiction, Giramondo Publishing, literary fiction, Max Easton, Publisher, Setting

‘Paradise Estate’ by Max Easton

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Fiction – paperback; Giramondo; 288 pages; 2023.

Max Easton’s Paradise Estate practically pulses with modern-day life. It’s been a long time since I read a book that felt so “of the moment”.

This shouldn’t be a surprise given it’s set in 2022, but its unabashed widescreen examination of the issues facing Millennials — a generation grappling with a precarious job market, unaffordable housing and soaring student debt — gives it a meaning (and a complexity) sorely lacking in so many other contemporary novels I’ve read this year.

There’s so much to unpick in this multi-faceted story.

It explores everything from late capitalism to gentrification, poor working conditions to the housing crisis, and sets it against a wider backdrop of global political upheaval — the rise of the far right across Europe and the US, the war in Ukraine, the conflict in Gaza — climate-induced catastrophes and the COVID pandemic.

And it does so in such an effortless way by putting a very human face on it and showing how larger, systematic issues play out on a personal level and how Australians, isolated from the rest of the world, exist in a bubble of complacency so desperately in need of being burst!

Communal living

The story is set in Sydney’s inner west at the tail end of the pandemic.

There’s not much of a plot. Instead, Paradise Estate follows the lives of a group of disparate, mainly working-class 30-somethings living in a share house over the course of a year. These include:

  • Helen, newly separated from her female partner, rents the dilapidated four-bedroom house in Hurlstone Park and fills it with tenants.
  • Sunny, is a non-binary person (pronoun: they) who was once in a relationship with Helen’s late brother, Walt, and is a zine maker working on a punk music archive. She also performs in a punk band called HDPE.
  • Beth, who mainly works in bars and is addicted to vaping.
  • Nathan, a casual history tutor come political activist, who wants to turn the share house into a fully fledged commune.
  • Alice, Nathan’s partner, is a research scientist and keen gardener, keen to settle down but in a “proper” house of her own.
  • Dale, an alcoholic, is quickly booted out of the household for “unsavoury activities”.
  • Rocco, Dale’s replacement, a scaffolder who is a part-time rugby league player recently returned from Italy.

As ever with a share house, there are unspoken tensions, petty disputes and incidental privacy breaches between housemates, but there are budding romances and strong friendships too.

In the past, share houses were typically for students and younger people, but these tenants are all in their 30s. They’ve been priced out of the property market and the only way to make the soaring rent affordable is to split it with others.

This infantilising lifestyle is a recurring theme. In one scene, the landlord turns up to prune the lemon tree in the backyard.

“You’re good kids,” he said, bundling the branches.
“We’re in our thirties,” Helen replied.
“You live like kids,” he said, looking around at the state of the yard, and porch, and laundry. (p98)

Alice hates the situation, of having to fight to use the bathroom, of not having enough personal space, of tripping over wet towels on her own bedroom floor.

“I want this to be over!” Alice cried.
“What now?” he sighed.
“I want to live in a real house — I want things to be better!”
“This is a real house,” Nathan said tersely, “and it doesn’t just ‘get better’.”
“It’s supposed to! How long am I supposed to keep doing this?”
“We’ll get there,” he said, “but we need to build this thing first.”
“What are we building, Nathan?!”
He looked at her blankly. “We’re making this house a commune.” (p97)

A life on show

And then there’s the Rear Window vibe — the house, the only one left standing on the street, is surrounded by newly built apartment blocks, so there’s next to no privacy for anyone.

People cooked by brightly lit kitchen windows, the blues of TV screens flooded others, and there were the usual balcony sitters: in trackpants, or dressing gowns, Ugg boots or slippers, staring down at their yard and smoking or talking on the phone. Far below, Rocco, Beth and Helen shivered in their damp clothes, looking back up at them. (p136)

Yet for all the talk of communal living inside the share house, there’s little consideration for others outside their domain. They host noisy parties and Sunny’s band performs late-night shows in the garden.

It drew neighbours onto their balconies. As the simmering feedback began to coalesce into an extended intro, one man yelled down at them to “shut the fuck up”. HDPE [the band] responded by kicking into their first song. (p58)

Meanwhile, the house is falling apart and is beset by mould, which gets increasingly worse during the unseasonally wet winter of 2022.

Vivid characters

It’s the characters that make this novel so vivid and alive. They’re well drawn and distinctive (apart from Beth, who is the only vague one), and Easton tells their various stories in a seamless third-person narrative that switches focus from chapter to chapter.

These chapters are interspersed with small vignettes, usually no more than half a page, to give us a more intimate glimpse into what a certain character may be thinking or feeling.

It’s the conversations between characters that allow Easton to explore issues relating to class, the economy, politics and society, and to do it in a non-judgmental, this is how it is way.

Occasionally, the sections on underground music feel a bit clumsy (Easton has his own zine and podcast series exploring underground music’s ties to counterculture and subculture), but on the whole, this chronicle of communal living is an exhilarating read.

Paradise Estate is a follow-up to Easton’s The Magpie Wing, which was longlisted for last year’s Miles Franklin Literary Award, but it works as a standalone. (I haven’t read The Magpie Wing but am keen to do so now.)

Author, Book review, Fiction, Giramondo Publishing, Japan, Jessica Au, literary fiction, Publisher, Setting

‘Cold Enough For Snow’ by Jessica Au

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Fiction – paperback; Giramondo; 108 pages; 2022.

Quiet books seem to be having a moment in my reading life. These books focus on introspective storytelling, nuanced character development and everyday life, rather than dramatic events or high-stakes plots.

Books I have read recently that are “quiet” include David Park’s Spies in Canaan, Charlotte Wood’s Stone Yard Devotional (yet to be reviewed), Patrick Modiano’s Missing Person and Giorgio Bassani’s The Garden of the Finzi-Continis. All are highly recommended.

Into that same category comes Australian writer Jessica Au’s much-lauded novella Cold Enough for Snow. This quiet, contemplative story about a woman who takes her mother on holiday with her to Japan won the 2023 Prime Minister’s Literary Award for fiction last week.

It’s won a slew of other awards and nominations, too (check out the Australian publisher’s page for a full listing), and even its humble beginnings came about because the manuscript won the inaugural 2020 Novel Prize, a joint venture between three international independent publishers who selected it from more than 1,500 entries.

Hypnotic prose

I had put off reading it because I had heard so much about it, but from the first page, I was lulled by the understated, hypnotic prose and the way it jumped about from one quiet reflection to another, stream of consciousness style, without ever losing its flow or rhythm.

I was so effortlessly drawn into the lives of these two characters, all told from the perspective of the daughter, that I almost felt I was there on holiday with them, crisscrossing Japan by train, eating out in small cafes and restaurants, visiting art galleries, buying hand-selected gifts to take home, and doing my best to ignore the rainy autumn weather.

The narrative is largely told in chronological order but does include some minor flashbacks that reveal the daughter’s past (she studied literature at college and used to work in a Chinese restaurant) and her relationship with her boyfriend, Laurie, with whom she’s considering having children. There’s a brief mention of a sister.

Seeking to connect

The story explores connections — whether between people, such as mother and daughter, and the deeply felt emotional connections we might experience with art and nature. Travel, of course, is the perfect prism to explore this idea, because when we travel, we temporarily lose our familiar social connections and routines, but often develop new connections — cultural, historical, environmental and personal — which make the experience so rewarding and memorable.

In Cold Enough for Snow, the daughter is desperate to reconnect with her mother in a way she can’t quite articulate. They both live in different cities, in an unnamed country (which is presumably Australia because that is where the writer is based), and speak different languages, so the trip to Japan is a chance to spend rare time together, renew their bond and enjoy each other’s company.

I wanted more of those moments, to feel fluency running through me, to know someone and to have them know me. I thought too of how my mother’s first language was Cantonese, and how mine was English, and how we only ever spoke together in one, and not the other.

But the daughter, who narrates the story, is angst-ridden, frustrated and often talks down to her mother in a patronising tone of voice.

There’s a feeling that they are dancing around something. Something vague and nebulous that is the very crux, or essence, of the story. (When you figure out what it is, it turns the whole narrative on its head.)

Quiet presence

Meanwhile, her mother’s presence is so unobtrusive as to be ghostlike. A reluctant traveller — “I had pushed, and eventually she had agreed, not in so many words, but by protesting slightly less, or hesitating over the phone when I asked her” — she is introverted and passive, rarely, if ever, expresses an opinion, and doesn’t much care for anything they do or see.

She’s easygoing, which makes her the ideal travel partner in my books, but the daughter wants more — she doesn’t want to have to carry the mental load of every decision about where to eat, what to see and do each day.

Visits to art galleries, temples and churches form the heart of their itinerary, but the mother remains frustratingly unresponsive to what she sees. In one instance, she doesn’t even want to go inside, choosing to wait for her daughter outdoors instead. And then she forgets to bring her walking boots, which means she must forgo a planned hike into the mountains, which was probably an unsuitable exercise for her anyway. The daughter, in a fit of pique, goes off alone.

This story leaves so many questions unanswered that it lingers in the mind for a long time afterwards. Cold Enough for Snow is the kind of book where not much happens, but everything does — if you read between the lines.

There are plenty of other reviews online, both good and bad, if you search for them.

I read this for Novellas in November (#NovNov23) hosted by Cathy of 746 Books and Rebecca of Bookish Beck. This annual celebration of novella reading runs all month. Click the links above to find out more.

Author, Book review, Fiction, Giramondo Publishing, literary fiction, Pip Adam, Publisher, science fiction

‘Audition’ by Pip Adam

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Fiction – paperback; Giramondo; 224 pages; 2023.

Pip Adams is an award-winning writer from New Zealand with three novels and a short story collection to her name.

Audition, her fourth novel, is described by her Australian publisher as being “uncategorisable”, “gender-bending” and “part science fiction, part social realism”. I think it’s fair to say that all those labels apply.

I borrowed it from the library after I read a review of it on Lisa’s ANZLitLovers blog but I have to admit that I’m not sure how I feel about the book.

Into space

The plot goes something like this: three prisoners — Alba, Stanley and Drew — are squeezed onboard a spacecraft that is travelling across the galaxy to an unknown destination.

They are all giants and are getting larger to the point they will soon either crush each other or die. The only way to stop growing is to talk. And so that is what they do.

Via their ongoing, quick-fire dialogue, they open up about their lives before they grew too big for their boots. What they reveal are stories of criminality, imprisonment, harassment and social exile.

And then they crash land on another planet, meet the locals and strive to adjust to a whole new way of being, unshackled from previous experience.

Pros and cons

Audition is an audacious and ambitious book about incarceration, isolation and imagination. It’s experimental, urgent and quietly subversive.

There was a lot I liked about it, such as:

  • the inventiveness
  • the unpredictability of the storyline (I had no idea where the narrative was going)
  • the structure, which is broken up into sections that could be described as now (in the spaceship), then (in prison) and afterwards (on the new planet)
  • the immersive feel of the storytelling (I particularly liked the section set in the prison)
  • the dialogue
  • the powerful social commentary.

But I was less sure about:

  • the nuance (I think a lot went over my head)
  • the repetitive nature of the dialogue (although I understand the point of it)
  • the cleverness of section 4, which riffs on romantic comedies (purely because it wasn’t until I read the Notes at the end of the book that I realised this is what the author was doing — see my first bullet point above)
  • the concept of The Classroom, which teaches the giants before they are shipped out to space (but I’m not quite sure what they were learning).
The UK edition

Justice tale

In her “Acknowledgements”, the author claims the story is “about the abolition of prisons and our present punishment-based justice system”.

The story clearly shows that violence begets violence, criminality begets criminality, and it’s not until the perpetrators are removed from their usual environment (or the system that incarcerates them) that there is potential for change.

In this case, when the trio is thrust into new circumstances each giant is unsettled enough to moderate their behaviour; reacting as normal no longer works and they’re forced to contemplate the “new world order”, as it were, and their role in it.

When they are hurtling through space, Drew questions whether it’s worth living when you are incarcerated, either in prison or in a spaceship. But Stanley, who is transgender, is more forward-thinking:

“We can’t look back anymore. We can’t sit here remembering and stewing over all the perceived slights and the old resentments. Eventually, we have to be here — like, totally here.”

There’s a lot more I could say about this book, but I’ll leave it here. I reckon it would make a great one for book groups because there’s so much to discuss.

Note that UK-based readers will be able to get their hands on a copy when Peninsula Press publishes it on 9 November.

2020 Readings Prize for New Australian Fiction, Australia, Australian Women Writers Challenge, Author, AWW2020, Book review, Fiction, Giramondo Publishing, Literary prizes, Publisher, Setting, short stories, Yumna Kassab

‘The House of Youssef’ by Yumna Kassab

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Fiction – paperback; Giramondo; 2019; 275 pages.

What an unexpected treat Yumna Kassab’s The House of Youssef turned out to be.

Shortlisted for this year’s Readings Prize for New Australian Fiction, this short story collection revolves around Lebanese immigrants living in the western suburbs of Sydney.

It is divided into four parts: the first, Motherland, offers little glimpses into the lives of families making their way in life, some of which are only a page or two long; the second, The House of Youssef, is a series of stories focused on the downfall of one Lebanese family told from multiple points of view; the third, Homing, is a longer 30-page soliloquy of an old man looking back on his 37 years in Australia knowing that he will never return to his homeland; while the final, Darkness, Speak, takes the form of a letter from a Lebanese mother to her Australian-born daughter, sharing her insights into what it is like to bring up a family on the other side of the world.

Recurring themes

There are many recurring themes — mainly the joy and heartaches associated with births, deaths and marriages — throughout the collection, but the overriding focus is on what it is to be an immigrant raising children born in a new country and the challenge of passing on traditions, language, values, religion and culture to the next generation who may never step foot in your homeland.

Many of the stories clearly demonstrate the tensions that arise between the generations when parental expectations — about marriage, education, friendship, work and so on — are not met. There are a lot of stories about both men and women being expected to marry early and produce children, of not bringing shame upon the family, of working hard and earning money to better themselves rather than wasting it on ephemeral things. Everything, it seems, is about saving face.

There’s an emphasis on difference and “Othering”, too, as showcased by a wonderful one-page story, Covered. This is about 16-year-old Amina donning a headscarf for the first time, and the very many varied reactions this evokes — from her relations, her school friends, her teachers, her neighbours — which reveals that such an “issue” is not black and white, cut and dried.

Her uncle said about time. You should have put it on three years back.
Her mother said you will grow up to be a good Muslim woman.
Her schoolteacher thought couldn’t this have waited till she left school? Why do they oppress their women in this way?
Her swim coach said her competitive career was over.
Her neighbour thought her father is a brute of a man. They’re always crying next door.
The mosque girls said the robes don’t make the monk and she’s a total slut anyway.

There’s the issue of terrorism and how this prejudice impacts young Lebanese men in a story entitled 9/11: Before and After. In this short tale, a teenage boy discovers that he is no longer seen as an Australian but a potential terrorist by way of his religion and his dark looks — and this curtails the way he lives his life.

Before 9/11: he had been a bearded young man going to university. He had prospects, he had a future. He prayed five times a day, he fasted, he gave from his small income to the poor, he did not drink or smoke.
Post 9/11: he was a man of Middle Eastern appearance. He wasn’t very religious, he no longer prayed, he no longer fasted, he no longer gave to the poor. It was easier this way, safer. He worked, paid his taxes, he ventured no opinion, online or in person. He kept to his family and his friends. He went to places he would not stand out. His imprint on the world was minimal.

Some of the stories are startling in their emotional impact, the anger, the sadness, the melancholy they evoke. One story, Births, Deaths, Marriages, has a stunner of an opening line:

The day he killed his wife, Mohamed goes to visit his cousin.

Other stories have remarkable passages about displacement and what it means to belong.

What is a home? Is it a house? Is it a place? Is it where you are born? Is it where you will be buried? I have spent more of my life here than there but this land is not known to me. It is strange. It does not enter my dreams. Its people are different to me. My children understand them but I do not. They tell me it is my country too but it is not enough to be told you belong somewhere.

Sparse prose

As you might be able to tell from all the passages I have quoted here, the stories in The House of Youssef are written in distinctive, economical prose, with nary an adjective to be seen, but the rhythm and cadence of the sentences and the carefully chosen words give Kassab’s work a strangely beguiling power. I felt myself in thrall to the beauty of her writing and the emotional intensity of the stories.

This is a remarkable first book. I’d love to see her pen a novel next. I would be the first in the queue to buy it!

This is my 2nd book for #2020ReadingsPrize for New Australian Fiction and my 14th for #AWW2020.

20 books of summer, 20 books of summer (2020), Author, Book review, Fiction, Giramondo Publishing, Huo Yan, literary fiction, New Zealand, Publisher, Reading Projects, Setting, TBR2020, translated fiction, women in translation

‘Dry Milk’ by Huo Yan

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Fiction – paperback; Giramondo; 92 pages; 2019. Translated by Duncan M. Campbell.

A book set in New Zealand, written by a Chinese woman, translated by a scholar from New Zealand, and published by a small independent press in Australia, Huo Yan’s Dry Milk has all the trademarks of an unusual book.

Thwarted ambition

Easily read in one sitting, it’s a tautly written tale of a Chinese immigrant whose three decades in Auckland has not lived up to the ambitions that drove him to begin a new life in a foreign country.

John Lee, once a librarian in Beijing, has spent the past decade running an antiques shop in his adopted city of Auckland. It’s the kind of rundown, overstocked business that people only visit to escape the rain.

He is married to a woman who is seriously disabled and remains nameless throughout the story. He only married her as a means to escape China in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution when it was discovered she had distant relatives in New Zealand. He treats her with cruelty and disdain, using her as a prop in his shop to prey on the kindness of customers.

He placed a glass jar on the counter beside her and made up a sign that read: ‘HELP THE MENTALLY DISABLED: PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY’. Taking out two crumpled ten-dollar notes from his pocket, he placed these in the jar, along with some coins. At the end of every day he would count the money in the jar, sometimes finding that as much as twenty dollars had been donated. At such times he would give the woman a peck on the cheek, as if to reward her, his dry lips brushing her withered skin.

Life holds little excitement for him beyond the occasional gossip session with others in the ex-pat Chinese community and his penchant for cooking elaborate Western meals, albeit on a tightly controlled budget.

When an opportunity arises to make a little money renting out the spare room in his house to an attractive young Chinese student, Jiang Xiaoyu, he takes it. But from the outset it’s clear his motives are nefarious, for he tells Jiang that his wife is his sister, then spends an inordinate amount of time spying on her, listening to her through the walls and cooking her meals in a bid to win her trust.

When yet another opportunity presents itself to make even more money, this time through an export business selling powdered milk to the Chinese (hence the title of the book), John Lee grabs this too — though it does take him some time to decide whether he can afford to do so. But the scheme, along with the student who lives in his house, is not everything that it appears to be…

The human cost of greed

Dry Milk is a dark tale about identity, community and greed. As a portrait of Auckland, it fails to portray the city in a friendly, accepting light. John Lee regards it as a “slow city” offering little opportunity, and even though he has connections with the proactive Chinese Community Hope Association (and is later nominated for an executive officer role), he struggles to fit in.

The narrative is underpinned by a creepy air of dislocation, alienation, voyeurism and misogyny. There are no likeable characters here, but their flaws, foibles and weaknesses are all-too-human. When John Lee finally gets his (violent and disturbing) comeuppance, it’s hard to know whether to cheer or feel pity for him.

There’s no doubt that Dry Milk is an exceptionally well-crafted story by a skilful writer. Powerful and thought-provoking, it looks at the human cost of treating others as commercial opportunities and leaves a rather sour taste in the mouth. I won’t forget it in a hurry

Lisa Hill has also reviewed this novella at ANZLitLovers and so has Tony at Tony’s Reading List.

This is my 5th book for #20BooksofSummer / #20BooksOfSouthernHemisphereWinter and my 19th for #TBR2020 in which I plan to read 20 books from my TBR between 1 January and 30 June. I bought my copy from my local independent book store last August for $22.95.

20 books of summer, 20 books of summer (2018), 2018 Miles Franklin Literary Award, Australia, Australian Women Writers Challenge, Author, AWW2018, Book review, Felicity Castagna, Fiction, Giramondo Publishing, literary fiction, Literary prizes, Publisher, Setting

‘No More Boats’ by Felicity Castagna

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No More Boats by Felicity Castagna

Fiction – Kindle edition; Giramondo; 264 pages; 2017.

Immigration, including how we deal with refugees, asylum seekers and economic migrants, is arguably the issue of our times. Felicity Castagna explores this often controversial subject in her novel No More Boats, which has been shortlisted for this year’s Miles Franklin Literary Award.

In Australia, the slogan “no more boats” is shorthand for anti-refugee sentiment, which has latterly become (shameful) Government policy designed to stop asylum seekers arriving illegally by sea. Most of these refugees come via Indonesia on flimsy, overcrowded boats, risking everything for a chance at a new life. (This article on the BBC News website explains why this policy is so controversial; and this memoir, by Dr Munjed Al Muderis, provides a shocking first-hand account of what it is like to be one of those refugees.)

Castagna’s novel looks at the thorny issue of what happens when a postwar Italian migrant rails against 21st century newcomers arriving in the country.

Making a statement

Antonio Martone has made a successful career in the construction industry but a workplace accident, which killed his friend, has left him badly injured and now, with too much time on his hands, his life — and his mental state — is slowly beginning to unravel.

The story, which is set in Sydney’s ethnically diverse Parramatta, takes a while to get going. Castagna takes her time introducing us to a wide cast of characters, including Antonio’s downtrodden wife, Rose, and the couple’s two adult children, Clare and Francis, and weaves their individual stories into a wider narrative that also takes in the 2001 Tampa crisis, in which a Norwegian ship carrying 433 rescued refugees was forbidden from entering Australian waters. (You can read about this incident on the National Museum of Australia website.)

The pivotal moment occurs when Antonio, inspired by the ghost of his dead friend, paints a political slogan in his front garden of the family’s suburban home. Here’s how Francis, coming upon it for the first time, describes it:

Now he was turning the corner. Now he was looking towards his home from across the street. Now he was noticing that a large piece of the white picket fence had fallen down and was lying on the pavement. Now he was slapped in the face by that giant image in blue paint that took up every inch of the concrete lawn in front of his house. No More Boats. It was written in shaky letters in the middle of a circle with a slash through it. On further inspection Francis saw that a little sail boat was drawn in there too underneath the lettering, in case someone didn’t get the message.

Of course, this attracts all kinds of unwanted attention — from the neighbours, stickybeaks, the media and political campaigners on both sides of the argument — and puts Antonio’s family in a difficult, and precarious, situation.

Contemporary Australian life

No More Boats is an illuminating, fast-paced read, very much focused on contemporary life in Australia and its uneasy relationship with its migrant past.

It feels like a “light” read but it has a surprising resonance and plangency.

The urban setting, together with its exploration of the complicated relationships between generations and the cultural baggage carried by the children of immigrants, brings to mind the best of Christos Tsiolkas’ work.

I found it a compelling yet thoughtful look at our sense of home, belonging, what it means to assimilate and how the deeds and words of politicians can have a dramatic, long-lasting impact on the views of the populace. But having raced through it back in early July, I found writing this review — some six weeks later — a bit of a struggle because not very much of the storyline stuck.

For another take on this novel, please see Lisa’s review at ANZ LitLovers.

This is my 15th book for #AWW2018, my 12th  for #20booksofsummer and my 4th for the Miles Franklin Literary Award 2018. I bought it after it made the Miles Franklin longlist in late May because it sounded like something I’d be interested in and I was delighted when it made the shortlist, if only because I planned to read everything on it this year.

2016 Stella Prize, Australia, Author, AWW2016, Book review, essays, Fiona Wright, Giramondo Publishing, Non-fiction, Publisher, Reading Australia 2016, Setting

‘Small Acts of Disappearance’ by Fiona Wright

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Small Acts of Disappearance: Essays on Hunger by Fiona Wright

Non-fiction – Kindle edition; Giramondo Publishing; 188 pages; 2015.

It seemed slightly uncanny that in the week I finished reading Fiona Wright’s Small Acts of Disappearance: Essays on Hunger that anorexia was suddenly splashed all over the media here in the UK. That’s because Dame Joan Bakewell, a respected veteran broadcaster and this year’s judge of the Wellcome Book Prize, was reported as saying that eating disorders are due to narcissism.

She was rightly called out about this and then she issued an apology. It was clear that her views were outdated and I wanted to hand her a copy of this book to bring her up to speed. Wright’s collection of 10 essays, about her own struggle with an eating disorder, explodes a lot of the myths surrounding the disease. But this isn’t a dry text-book examination of anorexia; it’s an enlightening, easy-to-read memoir, filled with beautiful language and turns of phrase (as well as being a journalist, Wright is a celebrated poet), which puts the disease into a social, cultural, historical and medical context.

I admit to being rather reluctant to pick this one up when it was shortlisted for the 2016 Stella Prize. I expected a maudlin, introspective, self-indulgent set of essays. What I got was something entirely different. It’s totally free of self-pity. It’s informative, without being academic, and it’s unflinching in its honesty. There’s a raw power at its heart, which belies the eloquence and beauty of the prose. Indeed, I was so enamoured of the text that my Kindle indicates I highlighted more than 2,100 words of it.

Frank and brutally honest account

Perhaps the greatest strength of Small Acts of Disappearance: Essays on Hunger is Wright’s ability to talk about the disease in frank, brutally honest terms. That’s because, for so many years, she did not feel she was the same as other anorexic patients, for her condition developed not from a set of psychological issues but physical ones. Like Dame Joan Bakewell, this initially made her look down on other people with eating disorders — she thought it only happened to “women who are vain and selfish, shallow and somehow stupid”. But over time (the essays span a decade of Wright’s battle with the disease) she comes to realise she is no different:

I was nineteen years old, and suddenly I was vomiting without any volition after most of my meals. It took almost eighteen months for my specialists to find a diagnosis, the weight dropping off a body that rapidly came to alarm me. I was advised to cut out of my diet the foods that I thought triggered the vomiting, and I did, by ever-increasing increments, until the ground shifted somewhere, and hunger became my safest state. Because my illness started with a physical condition, because I recognised, and didn’t want and didn’t like my too-thin body, because I didn’t purge by conscious choice, because I was still eating, however limitedly, I thought that I was different. I realise now that this was partly because of my own misconceptions about the nature of anorexia, and the people who fall victim to it, but this is also the way the illness operates, by deception, by a long series of constraints that tighten so slowly that they’re barely noticeable at all. I thought, for so long, that I didn’t have anything in common with these women, and I sometimes think that’s the biggest tragedy of all. Because if I’d only recognised this earlier, before eight entire years of illness had gone by, I may have found the help I needed sooner. I may have been able to stave off my hunger before it managed to establish itself so fully and firmly in my life. I might, by now, be well.

As well as examining the physical impact of the disease on her body — and the psychological pursuit of “perfection” in which “anorexia is driven, at least in part, by a desire for control or predictability”— Wright also examines how hunger is politicised when it is abnormal, unusual and strange, and how it marked her out as “wasteful” and “distasteful”.

My hunger, singular and self-circling, was a crisis in my hometown. It marked me out. […] A car with wound-down windows once shot past me on the street, someone shouting from the backseat: ‘Eat a hamburger, you bitch!’

In Colombo, where she lived for a short stint as a fledgling newspaper reporter, her hunger was “obscene”.

It was not predicated on need, on poverty or parentlessness or war, corruption or greed. It was something feeding on and off itself, something always leading back into itself – the starving brain turned inwards to survive. My hunger was not, and could not, be equated with the hunger that I saw around me. Amongst so much need, my own denial was something as incomprehensible to my local friends as the hunger they lived alongside was to me. Something irreconcilable here made my world grow bigger and more disparate, and all the while, I shrank. And I shrank away as well.

Studies in starvation

Perhaps my favourite essay in the collection is In Berlin, in which Wright writes about her love affair with Germany (she was an exchange student there and speaks the language). But, interestingly, the country has an indirect connection with what we know medically about hunger. That’s because “the two most notorious – and most thorough – studies of hunger came about because of the Second World War”.

The first was the study of the starving population living in the Warsaw Ghetto during the Nazi occupation of Poland:

In the two years that the studies ran, before the final liquidation of the Ghetto, almost thirty malnourished Jewish doctors living within its limits studied growth rate, weight, organ size, dermatology, immunology, circulation, fluid retention, bone density, body temperature, vitamin retention, the functioning of the senses, of hormones, of digestion. In two years, they conducted 3658 autopsies. Only seven of the doctors survived the war. One, a pathologist, Theodosia Goliborska, emigrated to Australia in 1946, and continued to practise at least until the 1980s, in this country that has never had to understand such desperate, widespread hunger.

The second was the Minnesota Experiment, in which healthy volunteers were deliberately starved so that scientists could determine the best way to rehabilitate them, the idea being that they could use what was learned to help civilians who had endured famine-like conditions during the war (this was before the Nazi concentration camps were known about). As it turns out:

The Minnesota Experiment was less successful around the question of rehabilitation – it wasn’t until the sweeping crises across Africa in the 1980s and 90s that scientists finally got a handle on the delicate processes of refeeding the starving body without causing it to shut down completely in shock.

The language of anorexia

Another couple of essays I particularly liked was In Books I and In Books II, both of which look at the language of anorexia and the way the disease is depicted in certain novels. Wright once studied Australian literature, so her insights are based on Australian novels. The first essay largely looks at Christina Stead’s For Love Alone in which the heroine, Teresa, starves herself to save money so that she can travel abroad; the second analyses Tim Winton’s Cloudstreet, in which 16-yer-old Rose Pickles starts vomiting after meals, and Carmel Bird’s The Bluebird Cafe, which features a character who is a recovered anorexic.

In reading about these literary characters, Wright comes to realise that hunger can have many faces: it can be wielded like a weapon; it can perversely provide comfort and succour; it can only thrive in secret; and that it is possible to recover.

It also shows her that writing about hunger can be healing in itself:

I know that writing has always been the only thing, besides my hunger, that helps me make sense of the world, to find patterns and connections and with them, some kind of solidity or definition; it is also a kind of striving, a reaching for something more. Writing has always been the thing that allows me to voice what is too difficult to speak. But even so, I resisted, for a very long time, ever writing about my illness – although my doctors had been encouraging me to do so, even from the outset of my treatment. I didn’t want to write about myself, least of all about my vulnerabilities, I didn’t want to be exposed or to expose the thing I thought was ugliest within me, I didn’t want to show it to myself. Even the poems I wrote while I was ill are sometimes strangely disembodied – my writing group often pointed out that there was no self within them, but I didn’t know how to do things otherwise, didn’t want to show too much. What there was, instead, was detail, and other peoples’ voices, a focus on the world around me, but never my place within it.

Profound and intriguing read

Small Acts of Disappearance: Essays on Hunger is not a collection of essays simply thrown together: there’s a subtle story being played out as the reader works through them in chronological order. And that makes it such a profound and intriguing read. In treading a fine balance between the analysis of an illness and its emotional impact on its victim, Wright has crafted a vital, gently nuanced read on the nature of a disease so often dismissed as narcissistic or psychosomatic.

For another take on this book, please see Sue’s review at Whispering Gums.

Please note that in the UK, US and Canada, Small Acts of Disappearance is only available to download in Kindle format.

This is my 20th book for #ReadingAustralia2016 and my 16th for #AWW2016.