AustLit

'If you know Bruce Pascoe’s name it’s probably because of Dark Emu, his bestseller that exploded the myth that Australian civilisation began with the British. But Uncle Bruce was writing and publishing for decades before he turned our idea of Australian agriculture sideways. His new book, Salt, brings together the finest of his lifetime’s work. It contains 10 new short stories along with some previously published gems, and some of the best essays on Australia I ever hope to read.'  (Introduction)

'So I'm at Brisbane airport the other morning ay, no other blackfellas in sight. And there's this wanker in front of me in the queue, giving everyone in earshot the shits. The queue was slow as, after the night I'd had with Tracy mob staying. Musta had four hours sleep, tops. And this dugai's standing there with his neck bright red underneath the world's shortest haircut and he's on the phone talking about the weekend at Bribie Island. Well, talking - more like broadcasting.'  (Publication abstract)

'We talk about sovereignty a lot. We demandit be recognised and we have it on our T-shirts and so forth. But what is it really?'  (Introduction)

'Too much lip, her old problem from way back. And the older she got, the harder it seemed to get to swallow her opinions. The avalanche of bullshit in the world would drown her if she let it; the least she could do was raise her voice in anger.

'Wise-cracking Kerry Salter has spent a lifetime avoiding two things – her hometown and prison. But now her Pop is dying and she’s an inch away from the lockup, so she heads south on a stolen Harley.

'Kerry plans to spend twenty-four hours, tops, over the border. She quickly discovers, though, that Bundjalung country has a funny way of grabbing on to people. Old family wounds open as the Salters fight to stop the development of their beloved river. And the unexpected arrival on the scene of a good-looking dugai fella intent on loving her up only adds more trouble – but then trouble is Kerry’s middle name.

'Gritty and darkly hilarious, Too Much Lip offers redemption and forgiveness where none seems possible.' (Publication summary)

'A stranger rode into town only it wasn’t a stranger, it was Kerry, come to say goodbye to Pop before he fell off that perch he’d been clinging to real stubborn for so long. Cancer, Ken reckoned, never mind cancer, ya couldn’t kill the old bastard with an axe. But ah, no good. The call come last night. Get yerself home, chop chop.' (Introduction)

'A royal 'visit' sounds innocuous. But Roach's song is about how, like innumerable Aboriginal clans before and since, his family were reminded the hard way that their traditional law, custom and land tenure meant nothing should the Queen 'visit'. 'Moving it on again' is Koori shorthand for becoming a refugee in your own country. The song goes on to tell of the Roach family's displacement onto the Framlingham mission, and of Uncle Archie's subsequent forced removal from his family and Aboriginal society. This child removal, an act that Roach sings 'hurts me to this very day', saw the singer slide into homelessness and alcoholism. Queen Elizabeth's 1954 visit, in short, precipitated events that badly damaged Roach's family and very nearly destroyed his life.' (Publication abstract)

'Many years ago I read a now forgotten novel by a now forgotten author, which had a truly wonderful preface. It read, simply, this bloody book nearly killed me. I therefore dedicate it, dear Reader, to myself. There is a delicate irony at play, I think, in my long remembering this dedication while the book itself is erased completely from my memory. I’ll touch on the interplay of knowledge and memory in due course. What I want to start by saying, though, is that in my case, as in the case of that forgotten preface’s author, while writing can be a horrifically stressful business - and while writing this paper did indeed feel like it was going to kill me - the Author is emphatically Not Dead.' (Introduction)

`Gimme an axe.'

'The woman blurted this order across the formica counter. When the shopkeeper turned and saw her brimming eyes he took a hasty step backwards. His rancid half-smile, insincere to begin with, vanished into the gloomy corners of the store. It was still very early. Outside, tucked beneath a ragged hibiscus bush, a hen cawed a single, doubtful note. Inside was nothing but this black girl and her highly irregular demand.' (Introduction)