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Australian Literature - Our Finest

I’ve never been too involved with Australian literature, which is unforunate because while I’ve been reading my way around the globe, our authors have produced some gems.

Take for example, He Died With a Felafel In His Hand by John Birmingham: the great book which turned into a great movie and is now what I hear, a great play, down at the ole’ Brisbane Arts Theatre. No, after my obligatory Paul Jennings/Morris Gleitzman phase (more Jennings than Glietzman), I slowly abandoned my countrymen and women’s fine literary works.

Until last night, where the oft-scatterbrained, easily distracted girl that I am rediscovered Picnic at Hanging Rock, by Joan Lindsay. I read this when I was twelve and finished half of it last night while trying to get to sleep.

Picnic At Hanging Rock

It didn’t really help.

The sexual undertones, repressed Victorian schoolgirls living in the hot Australian bushlands, all of is taking a new meaning now. And having learned since my first reading that there is far more fiction than fact in the story, it’s still as haunting as ever.

So once again my newly bought books get pushed to the side while I pick up an old treasure. I’ll get to them soon. Right after another reread which I’ve bumped up on the list (you’ll have to wait to see what it is).

So I will go back to reading my favourite Australian book of all time. What’s yours?

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March 31st, 2009General Literary musingsRead More >6 Comments