AustLit

'For some time, I’d been thinking of writing about Westgate Park, an inconspicuous piece of ground beneath the shadows of the Westgate Bridge at the mouth of the Birrarung (Yarra) River in Melbourne. The idea was to produce a walking/reflective/philosophical essay, an approach to writing that has become increasingly prolific in an era of loss—of vital places, ecologies and the political will we require to combat climate change. At times the genre can result in an exercise in navel-gazing, incorporating aspects of traditional ‘nature’ writing and the wellness industry. Regardless, I’ve always found that walking (and running) in places has been a key aid to both my thinking and writing, particularly if I get stuck in a creative/intellectual gridlock. And I was stuck, concerned about how best to proceed with my climate-justice research while experiencing a sense of despair about inaction on climate issues. I hoped to utilise a long walk as a means of reflecting on the parlous state of the protection of country. That was my plan, until a dramatic intervention shifted, if not what would become the focus of the essay, an awareness of where and how I would need to begin the process of finding meaning and clarity.' (Introduction)

'The former British hill station of Mussoorie, in the foothills of the Himalayas, affords the visitor two extraordinary views. Facing south, one takes in the seemingly endless Doon Valley, lit up at night by the city of Dehradun. That city is only 36 kilometres away as the crow flies, but it’s also several thousand metres below, should the crow in question plummet. Turn north and the mountains predominate. Indeed, from a certain vantage on Camel Back Road, snow-capped peaks can be glimpsed, several sources of the Ganges among them, through trace elements of cloud.' (Introduction)

'In the far north of New South Wales, as fans swung wildly in the heat and sweat beaded on our upper lips in the high summer, my year 11 English teacher sweepingly declared at the front of the classroom that a piece of art is only what we make of it. Our vision, how we see, determines the meaning of the work. Why is the sky grey? Well, that depends on who you ask. Postmodernism had infected the high school teaching syllabi of regional Australia. Subjectivity reigned. The author, was, of course, dead. The art was in what we saw. I was, as was often the case then, the only person of colour in the room. But I couldn’t imagine how this would frame the borders of my imagination, how significantly it could shape my vision.' (Introduction)

'Clem Christesen, my husband, founder of Meanjin, was the great love of my life, but there were other loves, secret and unrequited. My first love was Eugene when I was twelve. I loved his intensity, his aching heart, his mellifluous words that made my mind spin. He was a man of dreams and I was a yearning girl. My second love was Andrei, when I was sixteen, a handsome intellectual, a sardonic war hero of royal descent, who was already married. A man with bold gestures, he swept me off my feet. I spent many hours with him but he preferred someone else. I pined but remained steadfast and true.' (Introduction)

'Early into his new essay collection Intimate Antipathies, the follow-up to his NSW Premier’s Award–winning An Elegant Young Man, Luke Carman shares Gore Vidal’s theory on the two kinds of writer. The first is the true wordsmith; obsessed with mastering the art of language, their passion lies not in what they write about but how they write it. The second is the writer whose chosen vocation is a kind of belated therapy; theirs is a feverish but ultimately futile endeavour not to conquer the written word but to utilise it in the vain hope of overcoming some long-ago inflicted psychic damage.'(Introduction)

Lengthy review essay, which positions The Chinawoman within the history of 'yellow peril' narratives.