AustLit

'Hyderabad in December is as hot and dry as Adelaide and requires the same kind of drenching. As I bumped around the city in the back of an autorickshaw, my cotton shirt forming a damp membrane between my skin and the cracked vinyl seat, the white wine on my shopping list became a priority. I came to a roadside bottle shop in Jubilee Hills, where the rich inhabit cool, shaded mansions and liquor is sold from shacks. I stood on a concrete step, peering through a metal grating at the wine selection on the shelves within; my purchase was dusted off, secreted in a black plastic bag and passed over. I moved under a nearby tree to stash my bottle and realised, glancing up, that the trunk belonged to a lonely, lofty gum tree stretching out wide boughs of twisting leaves. I reached up to pluck one, pinched it along the seam and cracked it open with the lizard-quick, agile movements of someone who's done it all her life. As I inhaled the scent of eucalyptus I recalled Proust's account of involuntary memory before I was engulfed. I tumbled back through the years, over kilometres of land and ocean, until I found myself in the west of Adelaide, walking to school past similar trees; smelling their oil under the scorch of a similar sun, with the southern light pulsing through the streets. That day, I carried a handful of gum leaves back to my flat, where I left them to turn ash-brown and brittle. My life in Hyderabad continued; I didn't think of Australia or eucalyptus again, though the scent of the oil lingered on my fingertips until evening.'  (Introduction)

'If ever a magazine was a victim of its success, it was the Australian Woman's Mirror. Having started out as the Bulletin's little sister, it was so popular by 1960 that Frank Packer bought it in order to kill it and clear the market for his Australian Women's Weekly. He acquired the struggling Bulletin as part of the package. When the Mirror appears as a footnote to the legend of its older brother, we get no sense of what the magazine achieved or how important it was to readers and contributors.' (Introduction)

'In 2016 David Brooks launched Derrida's Breakfast, a collection of essays on Derrida, philosophy, literature, poetry and always the animal. The launch took place on a chill May afternoon in the mountain township of Blackheath and these are a selection of David's responses to the questions asked that afternoon, but also via email conversations leading up to and continuing after that launch.' (Introduction)

'By the time mum pulls into the station, Levi is about ready to piss himself, has the empty water bottle in his hand, eyeing me across the back seat as if to say, I'll do it, I'll fucken do it. The car stops in the empty lot and Levi bolts for the toilets. Mum gets out, slips on her thongs and stretches her legs, holding the petrol pump for balance. I go into the shop to see what snacks are left. These days the chips are always salt and vinegar and the milks are either off or strawberry...' (Publication abstract)

'Living in London for tax purposes in 1972, I read that Spike Milligan would be signing copies of his new book, Adolf Hitler - My Part in His Downfall, at Hatchards in Piccadilly. I'd never been to a book signing before but Spike was a hero of mine and I arrived early. I lurked near where he was obviously going to sit and by the time he arrived, a long queue spilled out into the street. For over an hour Spike signed books and he was brilliant. A man asked him if he'd please sign a book for his wife.' (Introduction)