A delightful new addition to the realm of reading is Literary Melbourne: A Celebration of Writing and Ideas, edited by Stephen Grimwade. A great read, and, if you're one of those strange people who is stuck for reading material, this volume will certainly provide you with enough books to form a lengthy reading list. As the title suggests, the book follows Melbourne's literary history from the art and stories of the area's first habitants to the novels and poetry of the present day. It is particularly fascinating to see, through two centuries of white Australian writing, the change from a dependence on England for ideas and values to a focus on writing about life in Victoria in the early twentieth century, writing that reflected local mores, and then to the plethora of mulitcultural writings that have come out of Melbourne, and also the many children's writers that have lived and written in Victoria, as well as poetry, crime fiction and plays.
The difference between modern fiction and the works produced during the colonial era is made clear by Grimwade when he introduces the segment on modern fiction. He writes, '"Truth", in both fiction and history, became contentious territory as writers sought to represent both themselves and the inner lives of characters. The artistic culture was maturing and our writers and artists could be more provocative. Literature wasn't seen to be the place for simplified "nation building", especially in an era when the nation state was becoming a blurred concept. Novelists were less self-conscious about their nationality and, as the literatures of the world's cultures mixed with our own, Australian authors began to be read more widely across the globe.'
The chapter on migrant writing, in particular, has excellent, moving extracts from novels that reflect the hopes, regrets and realisations of those who have come to Australia from other countries. From Arnold Zable's Cafe Scheherazade we read, 'So join us, dear reader. Don't be shy. Here, have a slice of Black Forest cake. On the house. And a glass of red. Savour it. Feel the glow spreading over your cheeks. Allow the taste to linger in your mouth. It is a pleasant feeling, no? Are you comfortable? Sit back. Settle into your chair; and listen to bobbe mayses, grandma tales.' These 'grandma tales' recount the horror that awaited the Polish returning from armies and labour camps to what had once been homes, but were now, 'piles of rubble, twisted girders, the razed hamlets, the wastelands of defeat. Nothing could have readied them for the scorched earth, the ruined cities, the desecrated temples and shattered homes. This is when their stories began to be suppressed ... by an urgent need to forget, to bury the past and to rebuild their aborted lives.'
