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What Dreams may Come: DAVID MALOUF'S DREAM STUFF.

TOWARDS DREAM STUFF. The title of David Malouf's first collection of short fiction, Antipodes (1985), specified a capacious geographic setting. This was European, specifically contemptuous British colonial shorthand for Australia, Malouf's native country. Yet, his title implied, opposite of what? Malouf showed himself more concerned with the particulars of a world disparaged sometimes as new than with critical contrasts between it and the parent cultures of Europe. For Malouf's prose fiction, from Johnno (2975) to the present, has revealed him to be, by intuition and craft, a maker of metaphors and seldom an ironist or a satirist.

Antipodes has received scant subsequent critical attention. In full-length studies of Malouf's work by Philip Neilsen (Imagined Lives, 1990) and Ivor Indyk (David Malouf, 1993) and in the volume Provisional Maps: Critical Essays on David Malouf (1994), edited by Amanda Nettelbeck, the short fiction is scarcely mentioned. Malouf's novellas (as it is formally most accurate to style them) -- Johnno, An Imaginary Life (1978), Child's Play (1982), and Fly Away Peter (1982) -- engage the critics' interest, together with the novels that succeeded them. There have been four of these as well: Harland's Half Acre (1984), The Great World (1990), Remembering Babylon (2993), and The Conversations at Curlow Creek (1996). In these books Malouf used a broader canvas, and displayed ostensibly larger ambitions to depict the peopling, the shaping of Australia (what Indyk called "The Temptation of Epic"). This was a personalized kind of historical fiction, its nature perhaps best expressed by Digger Keen, hero of The Great World:
 Even the least event had lines, all tangled, going back into the past, and
 beyond that into the unknown past, and others leading out, also tangled,
 into the future. Every moment was dense with causes, possibilities,
 consequences; too many, even in the simplest case, to grasp. (296)


This comment resonates through Malouf's writing, whose latest stage is a return to the short story.

Dream Stuff (2000) appears fifteen years after Antipodes. Its nine stories are emphatically, almost ostentatiously set in Australia (two of those in Antipodes took place in Europe). The title of "Lone Pine" -- a horrifying, if slightly formulaic tale of a violent intrusion into the lives of elderly travelers -- summons remembrance of an Australian battle site of the Great War, at Gallipoli, in 1915. "Blacksoil Country" speaks not only of the contrary earth itself, but of all that is buried within it. Several of the stories relate tensions and accommodations made principally, of course, by women on the home front, in wartime. "At Schindlers" is set in the period of the Second World War, and Malouf's Brisbane childhood. This is the territory traversed in the early parts of Johnno and in his poem "The Year of the Foxes": "Brisbane ladies, rather / the worse for war, drove up in taxis / wearing a GI on their arm / and rang at our front door." "Sally's Story" is that of a willing and remunerated Australian version of a comfort woman during the Vietnam War. Others -- "Dream Stuff" and "Jacko's Reach" -- treat of the erasure in fact, but not in intimate memory, of an old tropical city by a new, self-consciously modern one.

This time Malouf's title, notwithstanding the studied offhandedness of its second word on the one hand, its Shakespearean allusion on the other, directs us to mental rather than physical space. It prepares for an exploration of the perplexities of individual perception, consciousness, conscience, rather than of the other kinds of burdens of social, communal life. With an artful casualness, Malouf has gathered nine stories, in each of which dreams have important, if not usually central narrative functions. At the same time they have a not-able, almost discordant variety of subjects and moods. Dream Stuff hints at a testing stage of imaginative transition through which Malouf is presently working (has worked at here) and whose next, longer issue we wait to see.

"WHAT DREAMS MAY COME" / "Such STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON." Hamlet's fretful imagining of the life after death, that "bourn from which no traveller returns," makes him speculate about "what dreams may come" to trouble a hoped-for peace. At least one of Malouf's protagonists in this collection, young Jordan McGivern, might enlighten him. Prospero's magisterial declaration in The Tempest, "We are such stuff as dreams are made on. / Our little life is rounded by a sleep," is Malouf's enticement to his readers, besides providing the title and suggesting something of the range of the stories to follow.

For an adult, remembering his childhood, incidents that once had a tactile immediacy can come to seem a scarcely credible part of a past life. The youthful narrators of a number of the stories in Dream Stuff apprehend the small worlds around them with a baffled but serene intensity. Eleven- or twelve-year-old Jack in the first story, "At Schindlers," has come with his mother and father each Christmas and Easter to a seaside boarding house at Scarborough. This time, in the later years of the Second World War, she is accompanied there by an American Air Force navigator called Milt, from Hartford, Connecticut. Her husband, Stan, is "missing ... or, more hopefully, he was a prisoner of war." As such, he might return, but -- in the child's reckoning of the weight of a word -- "to be missing is to have stepped into a cloud" (2).

he relaxed, holiday world, wherein open tent flaps mean "people's whole lives were visible," contrasts with suburban Brisbane when those same lives "were out of sight behind lattice and Venetians" (8). The tent township is "a community as fixed in its way as any on a map" (8). It is Malouf's way of insisting on his characters' inextricable involvement with real and imagined topographies. Cherishing his holiday friendships, Jack also enjoys their intermittency. He "loved these broken continuities" (9), which seem to him like the dotted lines that map rivers which have gone underground. Such maps and mapping are Malouf's favorite metaphor for rendering our inescapable connections to one another, as by comparison nineteenth-century novelists resorted to metaphors of greed or epidemic disease.

Woken by a storm from a bad dream, in which he is stranded and in danger of being swept away by a king tide, Jack pads along the verandah and sees Milt and his mother having sex. It is a predictable revelation, but Malouf soon complicates the moment. Looking beyond the lovers, Jack sees his lost father "watching, in an exclusion that made him ghostlike, as if the world he belonged to was the otherworld of the dead" (22). What he has found is in fact his own reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Perhaps it is the ghost of his father, but also a portent of the man he himself may come to be. Jack goes back to bed, returns himself and this occasion to the realms of dream. Yet next morning he realizes not only that his father will not be coming home from the war, but that his mother has accepted this. In other ways, Jack's sense of his place in the world will never again be as uncomplicated as it had been: "There was a shadow on his heart that would be there for many years to come, a feeling of loss from which he would only slowly be released" (24). The "dream" will be troubling, and tenacious.

In the reckoning of this collection, dreams may be prophetic, sources of blessed release, ways of escape, expressions of desire. "Closer" is another of Malouf's signature stories of vanishing. Recall Ovid's disappearance into the landscape of his exile in An Imaginary Life or how Gemmy was reabsorbed into the bush in Remembering Babylon or the manner in which the loved Brisbane of Malouf's childhood has been obliterated, sunk under concrete and the fashion for modernity. In "Closer" the Morpeths are Pentecostals, literal believers in the Bible, living on a dairy farm in northern New South Wales. This is another story told through a child's eyes, and hopes. Nine-year-old Amy (who knows that dairy farming is a healthy life, but dreams of becoming an astronaut) tells of the banishment from her family of Uncle Charles, who "lives in Sydney, which Grandpa Morpeth says is Sodom" (26). Here he "has practised abominations," and in consequence "he is as water spilled on the ground that cannot be gathered up again" (26). Each Christmas and Easter season Charles comes as close as he is allowed, to the home paddock fence, far enough away so that the certain signs of his corruption will not be visible. One Easter he is not there. Amy dreams his arrival, out of a longing for healing, as if dreams could come true. She tells him what she tells herself: "Open your heart now. Let it happen. Come closer, closer. See? Now reach out your hand" (32). But this surprising conversion can never be.

The title story of Dream Stuff relates the return to Brisbane -- after an absence of nearly thirty years -- of the successful novelist Colin Lattimer. He comes back to the remembered but in fact transformed world that he has raised again in half a dozen fictions. He is another son, like Jack, whose father was lost in the war. Colin's father "disappeared in the waters off Crete in May 1942," for "he had tired and gone under" (38), vanished. Colin does return. This revenant makes as uncomfortable a homecoming as is usual in Australian literature. Revenants prompt disturbing questions. What is the critical, comparative knowledge of elsewhere which they bring with them? And to what purpose? Why is Colin in particular back in Australia again, and, as a corollary, expressed in a resentful question which he receives at a book reading, "Why had it taken him so long to come back?" (61).

"Dream Stuff" begins with Colin's troubling early childhood memory of crawling underneath the house in misery at the death of Maxie, the pet doberman. It ends with a dream of the same event, so that the gap between the two mental states is elided. The dream also disconcertingly blends the episode from long ago with an urban myth of the present in Brisbane with which Colin has been regaled. This concerns the seizing and blindfolding of homeless teenagers at night so that they can be taken by truck to pick marijuana on secret plantations. In the waking action of the story, Colin has suffered a different sort of urban nightmare, assailed at random, enmeshed in a seamy domestic passion altogether "too extravagant for the web of quiet incident and subtle shifts of power that were the usual stuff of his fiction" (49). Australia, perhaps, is material too recalcitrant for Colin. This expatriate turns gladly to his English home, as in the end of his dream he refused to respond to solicitous voices, "or reach out and put his own into the outstretched hand" (63).

The main point of the slighter but deftly shaped "Night Training" seems to be the dream with which it concludes, and the desire ventilated there to undo humiliations from the past. It is 1951. There is a war in Korea. Two young men are performing their national service: Greg Newsome from the University Air Squadron and Colin Brierly from the bush. They are persecuted by the sexually tormented Chief Education Officer, Dave Kitchener, who irregularly wakes them in the middle of the night to strip and perform naked drill, "the dreamlike ritual of ordering and presenting arms" (70). This, he says with obscure menace, is trying to "wake you up to things" (71). In the revisionary dream that Greg has years later, he refuses to wake Cam, says "No." This dream is a wish fulfillment of resistance, satisfying until it affords its own disillusionment: "The one who had been there in his dream was not there to hear it" (73).

In "Jacko's Reach" an anonymous narrator speaks for a covert community who privately grieve that "our last pocket of scrub has been won for progress" (93). Imbued with legend -- of how one bullocky killed another and then hanged himself; of a girl who went missing, titillating all with the thought of murder until she turned up in Sydney to have a baby; of nocturnal trysts and unruly imaginings -- Jacko's Reach has a deep pull on those who know of it. They share an older fellowship than Rotary or Lions: "In a ghostly, dreamy area of ourselves, some of us are still willing to acknowledge it" (98). Jacko's Reach stands for the dream life that prudently denies itself the daylight, for "darker loyalties, deeper affinities, submerged now under the more acceptable ones" (98-99). Doomed to vanish -- under neon lights, supermarkets, skateboards, and concrete ramps -- to go "under," Jacko's "will enter at last ... the dimension of the symbolic," will become a place "where its darkness will never quite be dispelled" (99).

"Lone Pine" depicts the terrible outcome of an innocent Australian suburban dream, of escaping from the daily, regimented routine of a paper round to tour the country free from care. This will be "the first real trip they had ever taken, the trip of their lives" (102). Contentedly, an aging couple sit down in their caravan after dinner. Taking up Martin Chuzzlewit, the man "vanished into himself" (106). What happens is, in its own dire and peculiar form, a version of a story of predation, of homicidal wanderers such as the multiple murderer of young hitchhikers, Ivan Milat, and of the legends that have built around him and unnamed others supposedly like him. Another aspect of this tale involves what may come out of the dark to invade an apparently secure, well-lighted place. We might recall the terror the settlers feel of "all that belonged to the Absolute Dark" (4) of the bush in Remembering Babylon, and of the description of Jacko's Reach, which "lies like a shadow over even the most settled land, a pocket of the dark unmanageable, that troubles the sleep of citizens by offering a point of re-entry to memories they have no more use for -- to unruly and unsettling dreams" (94). The Australia not overlaid by ephemeral human constructions is -- in Malouf's understanding -- dark, disturbing, mystified both as maker and made of dreams. It is also thronged with ghosts.

"Blacksoil Country" is another child's and also a revenant's tale: in the strict sense of the term, it is related by the ghost of Jordan McGivern, a twelve-year-old settler's son. He has returned to look over the land where briefly he had lived: "How black the soil.... How the heat lies over it like a throbbing cloud all summer, and how the blacks are hidden away in it, ghosts that in those days were still visible and could stop you in your tracks" (117). Jordan's father is an irascible, unaccommodated man who "lacked whatever it is that makes people respond" (120). For his mother, the place was "a kind of horror, although she would never have admitted it" (121). For the son, this is the site of his death, in revenge for a senseless act of his father's against the local Aborigines. That remembered time is presented with deliberation to us by the boy, as if it is a dream from which he can never escape, yet one which affords an unexpected consolation. Now he lies quiet "in the heart of the country, slowly sinking into the ancientness of it, making it mine, grain by grain, blending my white grains with its many black ones" (130). The tone is hard to judge. Is this the posthumous wisdom, or delusion, that European settlers belatedly acquire? And how does it fit -- save in the same sentence -- with the child's kindly dream of reconciliation between black and white Australians?

The last and longest story in Dream Stuff, "Great Day," is connected implicitly to the one before it, by one of those delicate touches of Malouf's that are not hints, are barely intimations, but to which we must attend. The occasion is the seventy-second birthday of former Public Service mandarin Audley Tyler. It is also the two-hundredth anniversary of the Australian nation. Of Aborigines there are none to be seen. No bonfires of theirs will ring the long continental coast in celebration. We are asked to reflect on where and how far Australia has traveled since the McGiverns, and many others like them, came to the blacksoil country and other regions of Australia that they pioneered. The Tylers might answer confidently. They boast an old colonial lineage, a long acquaintance with power that is shown off with a complacent, ponderous ease. "In our family everything could be traced back" (135), Audley declares.

As so often in Malouf's fiction, we find ourselves in a liminal space, where land and sea merge, shiftingly. Angie, who has married into the Tyler "clan," enjoys that fleeting time of "an expanding stillness in which clocks, voices and every form of consciousness had still to come into existence and the day as yet, like the sea, had no mark upon it" (131). The cadences of the prose are graceful, slow-paced, sonorous, yet muted, impelling us to listen -- as Angie does -- to what sounds will shape themselves and end the silence. Anticipated here is the vision of Audley's damaged son, Clem, which is offered exultantly at the conclusion of this day, of making connections, of being able to hear the sounds of other life coming toward us, benignly.

As the family gathers, and readers gradually sort out their names, we learn of how Clem crashed his car while avoiding a child who was playing chicken: "The whole continent ... came bursting through the windscreen into his skull" (142). In a coma for fourteen months, he was "floating out there in the absolute dark" (163). Now partly recovered, he solicits others to help him to recover his memory, to fill in the lost details of his childhood as though it is a new story whose elements he must laboriously but delightedly learn. Once again, Malouf resorts to a topographical image for Clem's condition. His was "a relationship to the world that was to be obscure and difficult and a life that was not to shoot forward in a straight line but would move by missteps and indirections" (146).

In the anticlimax of "Great Day," the Waruna Folk and History Museum, cluttered with items from gene:rations of the family life of the Tylers, is burned down. Arson ensures that the town, the Tylers, have a "bonfire after all" (76). For Audley, who fears that any bedtime, the next sleep, will be his last, the destruction of the museum is cathartic. He guesses who was responsible, but thinks sententiously and in plural terms of the criminal that "when we punish them it is to hide our secret guilt" (177). In truth, he welcomes this destruction of the stuff of his past. It amounts to a drastic cleansing of the sort that one's own mind and actions can seldom manage. All that had seemed a certified part of family, community, national history, the mutable paradoxically fixed in objects, behind glass, on display, has proved helpless to resist its last change. That which seemed fixed was always fluid.

THE FIXED AND THE FLUID. At the beginning of "Dream Stuff," Colin Lattimer recalls his earliest memory: the dead dog. Then he considers its afterlife within his family: "The story as they told it simply trailed off, or led, in that anthology of anecdote and legend that is family history, to another story altogether" (34). The implicit metaphor is, once more, of mapping. Compare the first with his second confided memory. The latter is prompted by Colin's return to Brisbane after a three-decade absence that he must at times have thought indefinite. Colin regrets that what he recalled of the material world of his youth is not inviolable: "The big country town of his childhood, with its wharves and bond-stores and two-storey verandahed pubs, had been leveled" (35). The child's first recollection is given fixed form, but provisionally, occasionally, in the speech of others. And it soon dissolves, becomes only the introduction "to another story altogether." The fixed bearings of family lore ("that anthology of anecdote and legend") prove unreliable, unanchored, opportunistically deployed. All that seems solid melts into desultory remembrance, at second, at third hand, at many removes. By contrast, the memory of a lost city, its shapes erased by the greed that masquerades as progress, its presence merely the stuff of nostalgia, thus acquires a paradoxical solidity. Somewhere in this shifting relation of the fixed and fluid (we will think, as before, of the contiguity of the sea and the land in his work) is a core element of Malouf's address to the world that his fiction transforms.

The vanishing acts that punctuate Malouf's writing -- as people seem to step off the edges of their worlds, inscrutably, or into legend -- are ways of registering exactly this nexus of the fixed and the fluid. Such vanishings are liminal moments too, as when a person passes from consciousness to sleep, then into the dreamstate that Malouf explores so obliquely and intricately; or when they drown, disappear, go missing, simply -- like the novelist Colin -- flee. To vanish is principally to leave the social world and its obligations, the web of connections to which Malouf is so alert. The dream world is essentially an antisocial or an asocial realm. Whatever its inevitable nightmares, this is its reward, or compensation, for all that has to be endured in company.

The subtle dynamics of the relationship of the fixed and the fluid in Malouf's fiction is also a way of reckoning with another of his favored dualisms, this time of location/dislocation. Malouf has always spent a significant amount of his energy on the vivid evocation of the tactile presences of place (think of the reexploration of the old family home in his autobiography, 12 Edmondstone Street, 1986). In Dream Stuff we experience the exuberant, provisional settlements of holiday time (in "At Schindlers"); translations from the city to the bush as temporary homecomings, such as Sally's to her mother's in "Sally's Story"; Colin's return to Brisbane and the hurried retracing of his path in "Dream Stuff"; the Sodom of Sydney, the infernal, imagined, never directly known place that has swallowed up Uncle Charles in "Closer"; the itinerant life of rural laborers such as the McGiverns in "Blacksoil Country."

A pattern of dislocation here contends with the desire to be settled. Remembered places, out of reach in space and time, appear more substantial and permanent than those in which homes are made and families endure. The estrangements within so many of those families as depicted in Dream Stuff are, in some measure, Malouf's intuition of the essential improbability and instability of the social realm, compared to the inner, the dream life. That intuition is crystallized in a passage from Remembering Babylon when Jock McIvor struggles to understand nothing less than a change in his perception:
 It was as if he had seen the world till now, not through his own eyes,
 out of some singular self, but through the eyes of a fellow who was always
 in company, even when he was alone; a sociable sell wrapped always in a
 communal warmth that protected it from dark matters. (108)


The price of such perception is that confrontation with the "dark" can no longer be dissembled, or avoided. That which seemed fixed, for McIvor, and for his successors in Malouf's fiction, will never be so again.

KINGSWOOD COUNTRY? In Brisbane, in "Dream Stuff," Colin is given dinner by his cousin Coralie, the closest companion of his childhood, and her husband, Eric Pedersen. In Pedersen's name ominously sounds that of Queensland, Johannes Bjelke-Petersen. Certainly Eric is more civilized, but he is as unreconstructed a materialist. He talks about the future -- "big things are happening here" (47) -- and about "futures," being baffled and gratified when Colin needs that term explained to him. Escaping into the night, Colin takes a cab. The driver is "young, bearded, in boxer shorts and sneakers ... one of the sociable ones, an Armenian or Yugoslav with the broad vowels of the local accent drawlingly prolonged and the consonants of another tongue altogether" (49). The sociability soon grates. Colin shows no interest in gambling clubs, massage parlors, or "other darker, more dangerous amenities" (49). He gets out, still five minutes' walking time from his hotel.

It is long enough for him to be followed by a man in "a battered Kingswood" (50) who pins him against a wall, abuses him, and threatens Colin with punishment for a sexual indiscretion of which he has neither knowledge nor comprehension: "You din' think I'd face up to yer, didja? Well, you made a bad mistake, feller. I'm fed up t' th' gizzard. I'd rather fucken finish off the both of us" (51). Pulling a knife, the red-haired man slashes himself. Colin is cut slightly in the struggle. When the police arrive, he is detained in the cells for the night. His proclamations of innocence and of his career as a writer in Britain are of no avail with Queensland's finest. In the morning, he is released with apologies. The assault was random, shocking, as if in a nightmare. Yet what else is going on, both inside and outside this short story?

Both The Great World and Remembering Babylon were, in part, celebrations of ordinariness, of the lives of humble people, whom the author treated without condescension. Yet in Dream Stuff there is a certain impatience and even waspishness discernible toward vulgarian, lumpen Australia. In the passage just quoted, it issues in an uncertain control of working-class idiom. The key word of the enervated modem dialect that should go by this name -- "fucken" -- resounds, but (for all that the story is set in the mid-1980s) "feller" and "gizzard" are discordant. They belong to an era of more restrained abuse. Caricature creeps in too: the Southern European taxi driver, the stalker's Kingswood. That vehicle (which gave its name to the television series "Kingswood Country") is a metonym for Australian vulgarity on wheels, at large, advertising itself. Proletarian speech (here, and in "Lone Pine," indeed in some of the stories in Antipodes) is not rendered altogether persuasively by Malouf. The middle-class register of Audley and his guests is much more naturally managed.

In "Sally's Story" there is a passage which suggests that Malouf has been tempted unto the satiric reaches of his compatriot, Barry Humphries. Back in her hometown, in the country, away from Sydney, seeking relief from the "phantom marriages" in which she had "discovered things that made her older than the oldest married woman alive" (81), Sally asks after her school friend Jodie. What she discovers from Mrs. Preston is that her daughter is married and living in Parkes; husband Colin works on the railways, and Jodie "is getting on with her cake decoration" (83). This comically dire fate seems to invite more of our contempt than pity. Not that Sally takes such a view. This may resemble the future that she will have, rather than the acting career of which she dreams. It is, however, as if Malouf's hitherto inclusive sympathy for all the characters whom he imagines has been hedged, if not wholly withdrawn, that he is, for whatever reasons, being tempted by satire and parody. And their targets are not middle-class philistines but fringe dwellers: the rural poor, the uneducated, the violent drifters, the underclass, culturally, economically, and linguistically impoverished. If this is hardly the major burden of Dream Stuff, it indicates nonetheless a shift of demeanor by Malouf. His dreaming of Australia has, perhaps temporarily, taken on a sourer tone. He has challenged us to guess, once more, where next?

Stories of haunting, of vanishing, of desperate attempts to put down roots and unavailing efforts to escape them; stories of the impact of war and of the conflicts within families -- these are some of the distinctive elements of Dream Stuff. The variegated stuff of dreams -- longed for and summoned up, or come unbidden; bringing peace, or disquiet -- is a unifying metaphorical thread in this collection. Yet perhaps it challenges us most of all to confront a perception that now seems central to Malouf's work, a kind of gentle yet implacable skepticism about the reality of the social world. And that leads, more intensely than ever before in his work, to an apprehension of our solitariness, so that our lives in the waking world become analogies for the terrible privacies of our dreaming.

James Cook University

WORKS CONSULTED

Indyk, Ivor. David Malouf. Melbourne. Oxford University Press. 1993.

Malouf, David. Johnno. St. Lucia, Qld. University of Queensland Press. 1975.

--. An Imaginary Life. London. Chatto & Windus. 1978.

--. Selected Poems. Sydney. Angus & Robertson. 1981.

--. Child's Play. London. Chatto & Windus. 1982.

--. Fly Away Peter. London. Chatto & Windus. 1982.

--. Harland's Half Acre. London. Chatto & Windus. 1984.

--. Antipodes. London. Chatto & Windus. 1985.

--. The Great World. London. Chatto & Windus. 1990.

--. Remembering Babylon. London. Chatto & Windus. 1993.

--. The Conversations at Curlow Creek. London. Chatto & Windus. 1996.

--. Dream Stuff: London. Chatto & Windus. 2000.

Neilsen, Philip. Imagined Lives: A Study of David Malouf. St. Lucia, Qld. University of Queensland Press. 1990.

Nettelbeck, Amanda, ed. Provisional Maps: Critical Essays on David Malouf. Nedlands, W.A. University of Western Australia/ The Centre for Studies in Australian Literature. 1994.

PETER PIERCE is Professor of Australian Literature and Head of the School of Humanities at James Cook University in Queensland. His most recent books include The Country of Lost Children: An Australian Anxiety (1999), Australian Melodramas: The Fiction of Thomas Keneally (1995), and From Go to Whoa: A Compendium of the Australian Turf (1994). He was also general editor of The Oxford Literary Guide to Australia (1987, 1993) and publishes widely in newspapers, magazines, and scholarly journals in Australia and overseas. His next book is Australia's Vietnam (2001), with Jeffrey Grey and Jeff Doyle.
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Publication:World Literature Today
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Date:Sep 22, 2000
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