On 17 August 1942 Ulrich Boschwitz, a twenty-seven-year-old German-Jewish writer, departed Australia for Europe aboard a British ship, the Abosso. Nearing the end of its journey, in the dangerous wartime waters of the north Atlantic, the vessel was torpedoed by a German U-boat. Boschwitz was among the 362 passengers and crew who perished. An unpublished manuscript of his was lost forever, and even his published work, now long out of print, seemed fated to leave scarcely a trace.
Articles from Inside Story
Is there any basis to all this base talk? On the Australian side, everyone from the prime minister down expresses “great concern” about a Chinese military installation in Vanuatu.
Like much else in the United States at the moment, the sheer scale of the problem is breathtaking.
When Tony Abbott told the Sydney Institute last month that Australia’s migration program should be cut from 190,000 per annum to 110,000, government ministers from Scott Morrison down queued up to tell him he was wrong. “You’d have to drop [the intake] by 80,000,” said the treasurer. “The hit to the budget of that would be about $4 billion to $5 billion over the next four years.”
For one who spent so much time surrounded by sharp-eyed artists and writers, Mollie Dean would prove a challenge to describe.
Timor-Leste returns to the polls on 12 May, almost ten months after last July’s election failed to produce a sustainable government. Fretilin won the largest number of seats at that election, twenty-three, but managed to recruit only one other party, the Democratic Party, or PD, to a governing alliance. Together, they could muster just thirty seats in the sixty-five-seat parliament.
In Brisbane in the early 1970s a six-year-old Egyptian-born migrant girl offered up the following theory to her mother: “Mama, I’ve been thinking. I think we are asleep. The real us — we are all asleep and we are dreaming and this is the world — it’s us dreaming. Because we are not real. We are just dreams.”
With smart phones to hand, the line between the audience and the media is in a constant state of flux. And in a world saturated with digital images, it’s the grisly, disturbing and explicit that often get the most clicks.
In the early 2000s, when Martin Buzacott and I were writing about the songs of Van Morrison, we set about our task as fans, anxious to explore his words and music. But the longer we listened and wrote about what we heard, the plainer it became that Morrison’s greatness lies not so much in his lyrics, melodies and chords as in his voice and what he does with it. And his voice is most powerful when he departs from the basic tunes and abandons words for a sort of guttural keening.
In 1788 a young gentlewoman raised in an English vicarage married a handsome, haughty and penniless army officer. In any Jane Austen novel, that would be the end of the story, but for the woman who would play an integral part in establishing Australia’s wool industry, it was just the beginning.