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In my post the other day about The Low Anthem’s Oh My God Charlie Darwin, I rattled off a few of the albums that have given me the most pleasure over the last twelve months or so. I’ve talked about some of them before, but one I haven’t mentioned, and should have, is the fabulous Nothing Gold Can Stay, by Felice Brothers frontman Simone Felice’s side-act, The Duke and The King. If you haven’t heard it, I strongly recommend dropping by their Myspace page and listening to a couple of tracks, because it’s gem of an album: more laid-back and gentle than the Felice Brothers proper, but suffused with amazing warmth and feeling, and layering soul and gospel over the usual Felice blend of backwoods folk and blues. I’ve pulled a couple of tracks from the album below, the debut single, ‘If You Ever Get Famous’, and a gorgeous live version of one of my favourite tracks, ‘The Morning That I Get To Hell’, but if you can track down the album proper down, do. You won’t be sorry.

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Free music!

Day feel colourless and drab? Then just hop over to Vanguard Records and for a limited time you can download a free Christmas sampler featuring tracks by Josh Ritter, the Watson Twins and a bunch of other acts well worth making the acquaintance of.

You see? Good things do come to those who wait.

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"Grr, baby."

On Twitter the other day, Angela from Literary Minded pinged me for wrongly attributing her quip about this year’s male-dominated Miles Franklin shortlist being a sausagefest to Kerryn Goldsworthy.

Angela was joking, but I know where she’s coming from. Every writer’s got stories about having ideas pinched or misattributed. And though it happens less often than a lot of people think, it does happen. I keenly remember pitching a story to a TV show and being told it wasn’t for them, only to see the same story turn up a few eps later in the season, virtually unchanged.

For the most part though, I try not to get too hung up about these things. But a few years ago I had the very disconcerting experience of sitting down to read a new book of essays by a highly celebrated Australian writer, only to come across two pages that had been transcribed pretty much verbatim from a conversation I’d had with them at Adelaide Writers’ Week a year or 18 months previously.

It’s difficult to know what to do in this sort of situation, since squealing just makes you look over-sensitive, so I just copped it. But it meant that when my friend Delia Falconer called me a couple of weeks later to ask whether I wanted to be acknowledged as the source for a section in her novel, The Lost Thoughts of Soldiers, I told her I did. Definitely. No questions asked.

The catch was that the section in question was based on a story from my brother’s time working as a bouncer in an Adelaide pub. One night, at closing time, he went to check the toilets, and there on the cistern was a sleekly glistening brown dinosaur crafted from human shit. Disgusting, yes, but what was worse was the care its creator had lavished upon it, inserting little sticks for arms and match-heads for eyes. That and the fact that the tap in the toilet was broken, so whoever had made it had gone back out into the pub without washing their hands.

Of course in Delia’s hands the story gained a literary patina the original lacked, but all the same I was pleased when my copy of the novel arrived to see my name in black and white in the acknowledgements page. This time at least I’d kept control over my material.

Or so I thought. A couple of weeks later I went to the launch of the book, and quickly became aware people were looking at me strangely. At first I thought I was being paranoid, but then, during the speeches I realised what was going on. Having read the story and the acknowledgements people had put two and two together and decided it was me personally who’d made the dinosaur. Appalled at the notion I might have become known as some sort of demented coprophiliac, crafting little animals out of poo in between writing books, I told people they were wrong, it was a story my brother had told me, to which they smiled patronisingly, and said, ‘Oh right, whatever you say’.

But worse was to come. A few months later, when the book came out in the US, Delia did an interview about it which mentioned the story, and namechecked me as the source. which meant that for a long time afterwards if you googled my name and “poo dinosaur” you pulled up multiple hits (all gone now, I note with relief).

Oh yes, me and Auguste Rodin, artists of the living clay.

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I’ve been thinking vaguely of knocking together a list of my favourite albums of the year, but that project’s rather fallen by the wayside (off the top of my head, M. Ward’s joyous Hold Time, Metric’s Fantasies, The Duke and the King’s Nothing Gold Can Stay, the Felice Brothers’ footstomping Yonder is the Clock, Richmond Fontaine’s We Used To Think The Freeway Sounded Like A River (perhaps not quite as strong track by track as Thirteen Cities, but pretty damn good all the same), the honey-voiced Justin Towne Earle’s grower, Midnight at the Movies, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ It’s Blitz, Girls’ Album and, on the classical side of the fence, David Lang’s Little Match Girl Passion and the insanely cheap box set of lesser-known Bach Masses and Cantatas featuring Phillipe Herreweghe, the Collegium Vocale and assorted soloists I picked up on Amazon a while back, and now, sadly, discontinued).

But one CD that would almost definitely be on the list would be The Low Anthem’s Oh My God Charlie Darwin. I’ll spare you me raving about its brilliance, and just give you this, the almost too cute animated video of the title track.

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Rachel Cusk

To celebrate the 50th anniversary edition of The Second Sex, this weekend’s Guardian has a fascinating piece by Rachel Cusk about what “women’s writing” might mean in 2009.

I’m a long-time admirer of Cusk, in particular her very brave and often painful memoir of motherhood, A Life’s Work, and I think her piece is well worth reading in full. But it also echoed a question I’ve been turning over in my mind for a while now, which is why so many of the best bloggers are women.

Before I go any further, I should make it clear I’m not saying there aren’t good male bloggers. There are, and lots of them. But as I cast my eye down my feeds, I’m aware that the male bloggers I read regularly are outnumbered many times over by the female bloggers I read regularly.

Obviously my feeds aren’t a representative sample of what’s out there in the blogoverse, but what’s interesting to me is the fact that the presence and influence of women online so outstrips their presence and influence in the literary world. Despite the confected outrage that inevitably accompanies events like the Orange Prize (“Why isn’t there a prize for MEN’S writing?”, “Women ask for equality and then demand special treatment!” etc etc (and no, given the viciousness of a lot of this stuff I don’t think it’s accidental The Guardian seems to have disabled comments on the Cusk piece)) it’s always seemed obvious to me not just that the perspectives and sensibilities of women writers are fundamentally different from those of male writers, but that our culture quite systematically privileges the writing of men over that of women. Anyone who thinks otherwise might want to run their eye down the list of writers in contention for the Nobel each year, and ask why the men so outnumber the women, or wonder how it is the Miles Franklin judges managed to “not notice” they’d shortlisted five books by men this year. Because men are better writers? Because men tend to address the big questions while women stick to the domestic? Or because we fail to value women writers, and persist in seeing importance in the subjects men choose to address precisely because men choose to address them? After all, what is it that distinguishes a novel like Christos Tsiolkas’ The Slap from a host of other large social novels by “middlebrow” female writers such as Joanna Trollope, Margaret Drabble or Julia Glass? How is it that a man like Tsiolkas or Sebastian Faulks writes a big social novel it’s a cultural event, but when a woman does it’s entertainment?

It’s curious therefore that the reverse seems to hold true in cyberspace. Women, and women’s voices, predominate, at least in those parts of the web I frequent. As I said before, I don’t think my feeds are a particularly representative sample, but I do think it’s fair to assume there’s a pretty serious overlap between the male-dominated literary world and the more female-dominated parts of the blogosphere in which I spend the most time.

Likewise, many of the best bloggers are women. Kerryn Goldsworthy, for instance, who blogs at Still Life with Cat, and who is not just one of the best bloggers working in Australia, but one of the best working anywhere in the world (though I could do without the LOLcats) is one who springs to mind, not least because she manages to use the form so incredibly effectively. I’m also consistently impressed by Meredith Woerner and Annalee Newitz at io9, both of whom bring a quite different and extremely intelligent eye to bear on SF-inflected pop culture. And then there’s Maud Newton, or even Spike’s newbie, Jessica Au. And these are just off the top of my head.

So why does the online space work for women? One answer (and this is going to sound like a putdown, but isn’t) might be that the more personal, digressive nature of the form suits women better than the more rigid forms that dominate the old media. Just as the personal essay, and its remarkable capacity to blend the personal and the political (and perhaps just as importantly, to hold two seemingly contradictory ideas in its head at once) is a form women seem to excel at, isn’t it possible that blogging, which can be smart, subversive, dangerous and daggy all at once the kind of thing which is uniquely suited to the sorts of interests often dismissed as “women’s writing”?

Perhaps it’s also got something to do with the ways women communicate. It’s a cliche that women communicate more easily amongst themselves than men, but it’s a cliche because it’s true. And the new media is all about communication and conversation, so it stands to reason women would be better at it. Spend some time in comments strings and it’s difficult not to be struck by the need of men to win arguments, or by the fact that if there are wingnuts being insulting they’re usually men.

It’s also possible, even likely, that the nature of the online world allows women a freedom they don’t tend to enjoy in the wider world. Not just the power of relative (or actual) anonymity, but also the capacity to just set up and get publishing without running the gauntlet of the male-dominated critical structures of the old media. And just as female word of mouth drives sales of books, so too does female linking, and tweeting, allowing sites to find audiences without needing approval from above. In this context it’s difficult not to wonder whether the increasing presence of more conventional media companies in the online space will begin to change the nature of online writing, or to tip the balance back in favour of men.

As I said above, none of the above is intended to be conclusive. What I’m really interested in doing is floating the question and seeing what others think. Does the online environment favour women in a way the offline one doesn’t? Are women using the space more effectively than men? And as the space grows less wild and free, will the balance begin to tip back towards men?

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Sunday ephemera

"my nipples smell like sauerkraut"

After a very rewarding morning washing a tub of Vaseline out of my three year-old’s hair (in case you’re interested shampoo is useless but talcum powder and then shampoo seems to have helped) I thought I’d chuck up a few links to liven up your Sunday.

The first is a delicious new site called Autocomplete Me, which I found via Spike (who found it via The Millions), which uses the Google’s autocomplete function as a device to peer into the murky depths of the collective subconscious. Having confessed before to the voyeuristic pleasures of eavesdropping on other people’s search terms it’s the sort of site I can’t help but enjoy, but I challenge anybody not to be both fascinated and bemused by the fragmentary glimpses of people’s private worlds the site throws up. Some are cute (“What do you feed a Yeti anyway?”), a lot are weird (“Cheese is the devil’s plaything”) and  some are just plain worrying (“I’ve just had a conversation with my cat in the shower about pancakes. We both like them a lot”).

I also thought in the light of my post a few weeks back about the death of the letter it might be worth pointing to Stacy Schiff’s wonderful review of Thomas Mallon’s equally wonderful-sounding Yours Ever: People and their Letters, a book written in the shadow of the disappearance of the form to which it is devoted. Schiff reads Mallon’s book as an elegy for a dying art, suggesting in closing:

“It is next to impossible to read these pages without mourning the whole apparatus of distance, without experiencing a deep and plangent longing for the airmail envelope, the sweetest shade of blue this side of a Tiffany box. Is it possible to sound crusty or confessional electronically? It is as if text and e-mail messages are of this world, a letter an attempt, however illusory, to transcend it. All of which adds tension and resonance to Mallon’s pages, already crackling with hesitations and vulnerabilities, obsessions and aspirations, with reminders of the lost art of literary telepathy, of the aching, attenuated rhythm of a written correspondence.”

To which, my suggestion that blogs and Twitter might, in a very small way, be replacing the letter notwithstanding, I can only say, ‘Amen’.

And finally, a little Sunday song. I know this video’s done the rounds a lot of times already, I know it’s just marketing, but it’s a wonderful thing all the same. Enjoy.

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Just a quick note to say congratulations to Humphrey Bower for being chosen as one of US Audiofile Magazine’s Best Voices of 2009 for his work on the Audio Book of my first novel, Wrack, produced by Australia’s Bolinda Publishing. Perth-based Humphrey, who’s built quite a reputation in recent years for his work voicing novels by Sonya Hartnett, Gregory Roberts and Tim Winton, also works as an actor and director on stage and screen (anyone who was watching John Safran’s Race Relations over recent weeks may have caught him in episode 3 as Rabbi Packouz) and voiced the Audio Book of my third novel, The Resurrectionist, back in 2007 (if you’d like to know more about Humphrey there’s a bio at Audiofile).

I suspect the world of Audio Books isn’t one that intrudes into many people’s lives, but it’s an incredibly important industry. My grandmother began to lose her sight in her 70s, and was basically blind for most of the last decade of her life. I’m not sure she was a great reader before she lost her sight, but once it was gone she found great solace in Audio Books, even though, as the years went on, her hearing became worse and worse.

Looking back, I wish one of my books had been recorded in time for her to listen to it. I’m not sure she would have enjoyed it particularly, but I think it would have meant a lot to her, and it would certainly have meant a lot to me. So while I’m congratulating Humphrey, and Bolinda, I’d like to extend a larger thank you to the Audio Book industry in general for all their efforts. I don’t know much about the economics of it but I’m pretty certain publishing Audio Books in Australia faces all the same challenges the Australian publishing industry in general faces, only more so, which makes their work all the more praiseworthy.

If you’re interested you can listen to a sample of Humphrey’s recording of Wrack here, and of The Resurrectionist here (for what it’s worth I particularly like his work on Wrack).

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Books of the Year

What were your favourite books of the year? I ask because a few weeks ago I spent half an hour pulling together a list of my books of the year for the December issue of Australian Book Review, which hit the shops this week. Writing these sorts of lists is always a slightly odd process, not least because it’s often difficult by November or December to remember what you read in January (though I’ve been using Facebook’s Virtual Bookshelf app to track my reading lately, which has helped a bit with that part of the process). But it also throws up other problems. Does a book count if it was published last year but you didn’t read it until this year? What happens if you had a dud year, and nothing much lit your fire? And, much as I hate to admit it, there’s always the need to look like I’m a slightly more serious person than I actually am.

Unfortunately ABR’s lists aren’t online, but if you all promise to run out and buy a copy I don’t think they’ll mind if I reveal my picks, which were (in no particular order) Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, A.S. Byatt’s The Children’s Book, J.M. Coetzee’s Summertime and Marilynne Robinson’s Home.

Looking at the list I’m painfully aware of how conservative it looks. But I’m also reminded that about two minutes after I sent it off, I realised I’d left off the two books which should, by rights, have headed the list, Roberto Bolano’s 2666 and Jonathan Littell’s opus, The Kindly Ones.

What interests me about both is that they’re both immense, and immensely flawed, yet simultaneously both are works that test the limits of what the novel can do. The Littell – ostensibly the more conventional of the two, and not dissimilar in its way from William Vollman’s similarly immense and semi-factional Europe Central – is, in a formal sense, a failure, unable to resolve the tension between the stories of the Oresteia which are invoked by its title, and the historical material in which it is grounded. Yet despite that it is a powerful and deeply disturbing work, not just because of its many graphic and oddly numbed scenes of violence and degradation, but because the textures of its narrator, Aue’s, consciousness are so repulsive, and, more importantly, because it demands, both by virtue of its extraordinary synthesis of historical and documentary sources, and its curiously uninflected observation of the monstrosities it depicts, that the reader look at the Holocaust anew.

At a formal level, 2666 is even more problematic than The Kindly Ones. Unfinished at the time of Bolano’s death in 1999, it has been translated with great fluidity and care by Natasha Wimmer. As Musil’s Man Without Qualities demonstrates, a novel does not need to be complete to be great, but 2666 is incomplete in a deeply indeterminate way. Pieced together from several manuscripts after Bolano’s death, its current incarnation was supposed, at least at the time of publication, to be a good approximation of Bolano’s intentions. But in the year or so since it was published more sections have appeared, suggesting that judgement might be premature.

Exactly where these new sections fit isn’t clear. Certainly the book as it stands seems complete, and it’s difficult to imagine how new sections could be incorporated into the whole. Yet like Bolano’s similarly dazzling The Savage Detectives, the novel celebrates a particular form of uncertainty and fascination with the outer limits of meaning by incorporating them into its fabric, qualities that suggest its form is mutable in a way the form of most novels most definitely is not.

What’s remarkable about both is that they question the very idea of the novel, in the case of The Kindly Ones by eliding the boundary between the novel and history, in the case of 2666 by creating a book which through its textual game-playing and multiplicity deliberately (or presumably deliberately) denies the reader the satisfactions of resolution and closure we normally associate with fiction.

I’m not sure how I managed to forget two books which so infuriated and delighted me when I was doing my list for ABR, but I think the fact I did should be a reminder of how provisional any list of the best books is. Because when I think about it, there are easily half a dozen more I could have included. Richard Holmes’ joyous The Age of Wonder, for instance, or Esther Woolfson’s wonderful Corvus. Or Robert Charles Wilson’s Spin. Or David Malouf’s Ransom. Or James Lasdun’s It’s Beginning to Hurt. The list goes on and one.

Which brings me back to the question I asked at the outset. What are the best things you’ve read this year? Are there books I should have read I haven’t? Any remarkable and unexpected discoveries? Can you confine yourself to just three, or five, or do you need to list more? Either way, I’d love to know.

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The day after

Honey I Blew Up The Party?

I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s finding this morning a bit of a letdown after the madness of the last few days. Lunchtime already and no challenges for the Liberal leadership? No open treachery or attacks upon colleagues? Even the ABC’s no longer broadcasting live from Canberra. It’s a bit like the day after Christmas.

Anyway, if you’re after something to brighten up the emptiness of your post #spill day, you might want to hustle down to the shop and pick up the December issue of the Australian Literary Review, which is available free in today’s Australian. As usual some of the highlights are available online, not least Inga Clendinnen’s on Noel Pearson’s manifesto to rebuild indigenous communities, Peter Pierce on Thomas Keneally and Rowan Callick on criminal justice in China, as well as a long piece by yours truly about the Australian lit mag scene (obviously the real highlight of the issue) but a lot isn’t, so if you can lay your hands on a copy of the print edition, do.

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Thought Tony Abbott as Opposition Leader was the nuttiest piece of right-wing nonsense you’d see this week? Think again . . .

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Like everybody else in Australia I’ve spent the last couple of weeks mesmerised by the spectacle of the Liberal Party coming unravelled over the question of their position on the Rudd Government’s Carbon Pollution Reduction Scheme and climate change more generally. Watching open warfare break out between what the media politely describe as the conservatives (I suspect reactionaries is probably closer to the truth, but perhaps a little inflammatory for the broadsheets to use on a daily basis) and the moderates I’m reminded of an interview I heard with The Sydney Morning Herald’s Political Editor, Peter Hartcher at the time of Turnbull’s elevation to the leadership, in which he was asked whether he thought Turnbull was ready to lead the Liberal Party. To his credit Hartcher just laughed. ‘I think the real question is whether the Liberal Party is ready for Malcolm Turnbull’.

Aside from the fact somebody’s usually done something totally insane by lunchtime (and yes, Tony Abbott, I’m looking at you) one of the really fascinating things about the whole schemozzle is the way it’s highlighted just how entrenched climate change denialism is in the ranks of the Liberal Party.

Now I’d be the last to claim the views of our elected representatives are particularly representative of the views of the community at large. On a range of issues, from religion to abortion and euthanasia, they are, for the most part, markedly more conservative than most Australians. And if the polling is to be believed, they’re similarly out of step on climate change, as polls such as this one in today’s Sydney Morning Herald showing two thirds of Australians support the ETS, demonstrate.

But on the question of climate change I suspect they’re providing a useful reminder that despite the increasing acceptance in the community at large that climate change is happening, and fast, there is a small and entrenched minority who reject the science.

What’s interesting to me is the distribution of these beliefs across the community. A few weeks ago Roy Morgan released some polling data about the question, which Crikey’s Possum has offered some useful commentary on. Several things stand out in the Morgan data. First, belief in climate change and the need for action divides pretty cleanly across party, gender and demographic lines. Labor and Green voters are much more concerned than Liberal voters, women are more concerned than men, and people in the capital cities are more concerned than those in regional and rural areas. Second, and more worryingly, these positions are hardening and polarising: there has been a small increase in the number of people who disapprove of the CPRS in the last few months, and these new initiates into the ranks of the climate change denialists are mostly Liberal-voting men from outside the capital cities (I appreciate disapproval of the CPRS and climate change denialism are not precisely the same thing, but I think we can assume the two are closely connected in this context).

These are, of course, precisely the same people who were the backbone of One Nation a decade ago. Older white men from outside the capital cities.

One of the things I remember most keenly about the rise of Pauline Hanson was the way it blindsided conventional public opinion. For middle-class elites it seemed to come out of nowhere, a furious, incoherent cry of unreason which deliberately rejected the foundations of their world view in favour of views which seemed to inhabit a netherworld somewhere between the laughable and the poisonous.

I suspect the rising tide of climate change denialism is catching middle-class elites off-guard in exactly the same way. That Andrew Bolt’s blog is a haven for denialist maddies is no secret, but I’d suggest anyone who thinks there’s broad-based support for action on climate change spend some time trawling the comment strings on The Daily Telegraph or The Punch, or maybe tune into 2GB for an hour or two.

Of course I’m well aware that an awful lot of what passes for commentary on news sites is the work of formal and semi-formal political operatives. But the sheer ferocity of the comments about Turnbull and Rudd, and the persistent suggestion that the science of climate change is a lunatic conspiracy, and the CPRS some kind of plot to destroy (white) Australia is pretty striking. More broadly, climate change denialism exhibits many of the same characteristics that made Hansonism so potent: the rejection of evidence-based policy, suspicion of expert opinion, dislike of what was seen as the preaching of the self-appointed guardians of public morality. And, judging by the polls on different news sites, it’s catching elite opinion off-guard in exactly the same way Hansonism did: earlier today I compared two polls about the Liberal leadership: The Sydney Morning Herald was registering close to 70% support for Malcolm Turnbull, while support for Turnbull over at The Daily Telegraph was running at about 31%.

All of which suggests there is something fundamental happening out on the fringes of public debate. It may not have a name yet, or a figurehead, but it’s not too much of a stretch to see the beginnings of a larger political movement, grounded in climate change denialism and resonating with older anxieties about immigration, refugees and Aborigines (for what it’s worth I don’t think it’s a coincidence we’ve seen an uptick in anti-immigration sentiment in recent months, or that portions of the Liberal Party are running so hard on refugees again).

There are some important differences between Hansonism and the new movement, not least the fact that whatever else it was, Hansonism was, in a very real sense, a grass roots movement, while climate change denialism has been assiduously fostered by powerful interests with a lot at stake (if you’re interested in tracing the role of big business in stalling action on climate change and discrediting the science I thoroughly recommend you check out the relevant chapter in George Monbiot’s Heat). And unlike Hansonism, the ranks of the climate change denialists are swollen by a solid cohort of wealthy older men. But I suspect that in some deep sense climate change denialism is drawing on the same discontent that Hansonism drew upon, and that despite the now-overwhelming scientific evidence, in the months and years to come it may well begin to gain ground in much the way Hansonism did a decade ago.

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I’m baaaack . . .

My apologies if things have been a bit quiet around here. As I said a couple of weeks ago, I’ve had a few things on (moving house, new baby etc etc) so my posting’s been a bit curtailed by more immediate demands. But since we’re now in the new house and the baby’s born I’m going to tempt fate by declaring the worst of the interruptions are over and I’m ready to resume normal transmission. I’m also prepared to tempt fate by saying I’m planning to post a bit more regularly than I was in the lead-up to the recent hiatus, but time will tell whether that’s an idle boast or not. Either way, it’s nice to be back online, and I’ll have my first posts up soon.

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A while back I linked to an amazing series of images of sailfish rounding up baitfish by National Geographic photographer Paul Nicklen. To commemorate the publication of Nicklen’s new book, Polar Obsession, National Geographic have now released an amazing video montage of his encounter with a leopard seal, an encounter that begins with the seal taking the camera and Nicklen’s hand in its mouth. It’s an amazing sequence, and the images are just breathtaking. If you’d like to see more of Nicklen’s work you can check out his website, which has a beautiful array of images (though it must be said the fact that they’re all watermarked to within an inch of their life does detract a bit from the viewing experience) or you can check out a selection of images from Polar Obsession on The Huffington Post (and vote for your favourite).

And while we’re on the subject of nature photography, the wonderful Wayne Levin (who I’ve also mentioned before) has just added a lot of new work to his website as part of the lead up to the release of not just one, but two new books next year. Most of the images are black and white underwater shots of the subjects he’s long been fascinated with (bodysurfers, marine animals) but a number were taken on a recent trip to the remote Papahanaumokuakea Marine National Monument as part of a scientific expedition by staff of the US National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, and represent a bit of a departure for Levin, not least because some of them aren’t only above water, they’re actually in colour.

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Running Silent

Mars

The trails of dust devils on the Martian surface

Just a quick note to say sorry things have been a bit quiet around here, and to apologise in advance for the fact it’s likely to stay that way for another couple of weeks. If it’s any excuse I’m in the midst of something of a perfect storm of work and personal commitments (we moved house last Monday, and my partner is about to give birth to our second child in the next couple of days. And I’m still working at the Uni and have a book to finish, as well as all my normal freelance work, so it really is all a bit silly at present). But with a bit of luck I’ll get a few things up in the next little bit and then get back to posting properly in December.

In the meantime I’ll offer you three little tidbits from the last week. The first is the fact that while I was listening to a lecture about Flannery O’Connor the other day I realized that since she was only 39 when she died in 1964, she’d only be 84 if she were still alive today, which is not that much older than Philip Roth (76), Cormac McCarthy (76), Shirley Hazzard (78) or David Malouf (75) all of whom are not just alive but at the peak of their powers. So if O’Connor hadn’t died young there’s a good chance she’d still be writing, and even if she wasn’t she would have been until very recently. Which is strange, at least to me, since in my mind she’s very much a writer of the mid-20th century, and not the 21st.

The second is this broadcast about intelligent bacteria from the ABC’s All in the Mind program, which is very definitely worth a listen. I’ve long been aware of evidence that colonies of bacteria seem to possess organizational abilities beyond what we’d expect of individual bacteria, but I had never run across the suggestion that they themselves might be intelligent, either collectively or individually, so the talk of nanobrains in the program was exciting stuff. Want a refocussing of your perspective on the place of humans in the universe? I reckon this might be a place to start.

And finally there’s this rather magnificent gallery of images of the Martian surface. You can see black basalt sanddunes, organically curling dust devil tracks and the tracks of the Rovers, and while I’m a bit of a Mars tragic, it’s wonderful, almost painfully beautiful stuff. If you want to see more you might want to check out The University of Arizona at Tucson’s High Resolution Imaging Science Experiment.

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A birdless world

Labrador Duck

Labrador Duck, Museum of Zoology, University of Michigan, © Phil Myers

A couple of weeks ago I reviewed Glen Chilton’s new book about his quest to see every known specimen of the extinct Labrador Duck, The Curse of the Labrador Duck, for The Sydney Morning Herald. It’s an pleasingly oddball little book, and while I don’t think Chilton is interested enough in exploring the larger issues his story raises, there’s something incredibly sad about the spectacle of Chilton making his way from museum to museum to inspect the often misidentified skins and eggs that are all that remain of the species.

But the detail from the book that’s stayed with me is an aside in the middle about the fact that even when kept in perfect conditions in museums stuffed birds last about 500 years. Put them out on display, expose them to daylight and changes in temperature and they perish even more quickly. All of which means that once a species is gone, it’s not just the living bird that’s gone, but, in reasonably short order, all physical trace of them.

Obviously there’s an anthropocentrism at work here, an assumption that somehow our knowledge of a species has larger meaning, but in this context I don’t think it’s wholly misplaced. After all, most of the species that have vanished in the last few centuries, and certainly almost all of the thousands more that are likely to vanish in the near future have been wiped out by humans. But speaking as someone who’s been woken at 4:30am every morning for the last week by the primal whoops and screams of Koels, Black Cockatoos and Channel-Billed Cuckoos, it also seems difficult to reconcile the silence of vanished birds with their raucous, vital presence, or to avoid the feeling a world without them would be a much smaller, and less joyous place.

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