On a roll, reading for Australia Day—January 26th, I decided to reread another old favourite (having had so much fun rereading Ruth Park’s novel below). But this one is 400 pages long and my before-bed read (which is to say that I fall asleep long before I’m bored). So, weeks have passed: how did that happen?

Rather than rush to finish this one, I’ll share thoughts on the rest; later this year, I’ll have more to say on the topic anyway—about Alexis Wright, one of the six women writers with whom I’m spending some time in 2026 (AW this month and next, March and April, having read her first novel, also below).

Marjorie Barnard

In some ways, The Persimmon Tree (1945) doesn’t feel particularly Australian: her focus is on the inner landscape, and small details like ruining a hat in the rain or going to the beauty parlour are more important than the view. There are harbours and shorelines and sun-worn soilscapes, but few street names or specific locations. But that’s not entirely true: “The Party” and “Dryspell” have lovely, detailed descriptions of Sydney and environs. (Side note: I love the name “Emu Plains”.) There are an extraordinary number of hats, and this situates Barnard (1897-1987) in her time, but there’s nothing dated about her social observations, and I was reminded of reading Dorothy Edwards and Molly Panter-Downes, Sylvia Townsend Warner and Elizabeth Taylor. Because she often wrote in partnership, there aren’t many of her single-authored stories to read, but fortunately these would hold up well to rereading. (And fortunately for me, I have Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, one of the works written with Flora Eldershaw, on hand.)

The restaurant began to fill in earnest at twelve o’clock. The groundswell of noise that takes possession of any large restaurant at the peak hours had begun to gather—footsteps, the scraping of chairs on parquet floors, many conversations running together into one long murmur, the fainter clearer converse of china, glass, and silver. On it like flotsam floated the occasional cough or laugh, or, more rarely, a child’s crying.
“Canaries Sometimes Advertise”

Ruth Park

Swords and Crowns and Rings (1977) is one of those books that seems to have been on my shelves forever; I read it in my Thorn Birds stage, before Colleen McCullough turned to ancient Rome. Then, it fell into line with other family sagas by writers like Diane Pearson (whose Bride of Tancred from 1967 and Csardas from 1975 are somewhere in the back of the same bookcase that holds Park’s novel) and Maeve Binchy (whose first book was published in 1970 and first story collection in 1978, though it was 1982’s Light a Penny Candle that I adored). But rereading S&C&R, I was constantly reminded of John Irving’s The Prayer of Owen Meany. Both Owen and Jackie are prejudged as boys for being different and, as they grow and move through the world, they both learn how and whom to trust. But in Park’s novel, Jackie not only has a loving mother and step-father, but the neighbour girl Cushie. She and Jackie play together when they are children, and plan to marry when they grow up, but Cushie’s family has other plans that don’t include the grocer’s son for the banker’s daughter. There is much sorrow and some cruelty in the story, but Jackie doesn’t despair and neither should we. (I don’t want to spoil the ending, but I’ll say that much, because more than once the story brought me to tears.)

“The street lights shone sub-aqueously through the ginger-beer bottles in the window. Shadow-shows went on outside the window, people meeting, kissing, quarreling; and she watched them enviously.”

Alan Wearne

The Nightmarkets (1985) considers the Metcalfe brothers, Ian (a writer) and Robert (a politician), Sue Dobson (also a journalist, also Ian’s ex), Terri (who doesn’t use her last name in her night work at the club), and the McTaggarts, John and Elise (spoilery to explain their connections). It opens in 1980 Melbourne, but there’s a backwards glance vibe to the story, rooted in characters’ historical relationships. Maybe that all sounds ordinary, but it’s in verse. An opening bit in Ian’s voice situates us in time and space, and each character’s verses reflect a unique tone and style. Ian’s and Sue’s were the easiest to read (for me), but the combination is what really makes the work sing, just as it’s their interactions and interconnections that constitute the story. No exaggeration that you could open this volume anywhere and, at a glance, identify the speaker. So even though I don’t think of myself as a poetry-reader, voice-driven stories are my jam, so this really worked for me.

“I showed her Sue’s Melbourne:
late afternoon on Beaconsfield Parade still sunny but
after a cool change, container ships queuing on the bay,
children scooting around the sand-sprayed foot path;
then crossing to the Bleak House for a counter-tea,
its saloon bar packed with red salty-looking folk
sitting around beer jugs in there apt if incongruous
shorts and pull overs.”

Note: You can hear Wearne reading his work on YouTube, including “A Portrait of Three Young High School Teachers” from his Prepare the Cabin for Landing (2012); it’s only two-pages long, but it reveals the focus on characterization and language that hum throughout the longer works.

Alexis Wright

The first of Wright’s novels I read was Carpentaria; I had to read most of it aloud to keep my focus and not simply sink straight to the bottom of her beautiful prose. And, although I recognised the craft therein, it left me suspended in a state where I felt like something had happened to me rather than that I had read a book. Plains of Promise (1997) would have served as an excellent introduction, because although there are sections of the narrative that feel Carpentaria-ish, there is also a solid throughline revolving around a young woman who is compelled to bring her young daughter to St. Dominic’s mission, whereupon the child is taken by the staff and alienated from her people. Because most of the book is rooted in Ivy’s perspective, readers understand the personal and devastating impact of being culturally and psychologically and physically isolated from your kin, from girlhood through adulthood. We feel it keenly and, towards the end, Wright plays just enough with perspective to create a sense of yearning that moves off the page and into readers’ hearts.

“The night might have been enjoyed once. He thought of the days when the spirits and the black people would have spoken to each other. But the blackman’s enforced absence from his traditional land had inspired fear of it. They had to alter old, ongoing relationship with the spirits that had created man and once connected him to the earth.”

Note: This would have made a fab addition to the Indies Press event, with the reissue from UQPress, their First Nations Classics series.

There are three other Australian books in my stack right now, including Eleanor Dark’s The Timeless Land (1941), which is probably the current title-holder for the Olympic Bookmark-Crawl. It doesn’t have chapters, only short sections, and I’ve been stopping between each one—a habit I should change, or I’ll still be reading it when the next Olympics comes ‘round. Along with Alexis Wright’s Tracker, a reread of her Praiseworthy (if all goes to plan), and a couple of others.

Any of these in your log, in your stacks, or on your TBR?

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