Cirrus@Austlit

'Once, I was walking on a ridge and lightning was sparkling peaks to the east and the west, while a white spear of cloud hurtled straight for us. We found the top of the mountain, felt its texture through our boots, stared at the views, then turned and ran through an explosion of rain that was dark in the fury of its clouds, that swapped the sweat from our faces with its own jealous wet. Going was the only thing to do, but it still felt a terrible idea, because we’d have to leave the top of the mountain. There were still views. We could still see.' (Introduction) 

'From vanishing islands to talking flathead and nightmarish bushfires, Ben Walterâs visionary Tasmanian fictions are unique in the landscape of Australian writing. An unemployed man chooses only to apply for jobs advertised in The Economist; a failed mountain expedition is mocked by the dead bodies of past climbers; and a father and son travel urgently to witness the miracle of Lake Pedder emptying. In What Fear Was, Walter combines beautiful, mesmerising writing with surreal discomfort and absurdist hilarity to completely upend the idea of an Australian short story.'

Source: Publisher's blurb.

'Breathing Space is a book of essays, poems and stories about Tasmanians' changing relationship with nature, commissioned to mark the TLC's [Tasmanian Land Conservancy] 20th birthday.'

Source: Publisher's blurb.

'In one essay, Richard Flanagan describes the phone call that alerted him to the death of wilderness photographer Peter Dombrovskis:

'I was driving to Salamanca through black clouds and heavy-dropped rain that sweeps and slaps rather than falls, while Hobart’s higher suburbs were being coated in snow. The radio news said a solo walker had failed to return from a walking trip to the Western Arthurs. I rang a friend who worked in police search and rescue.'  (Introduction)

'Here we are, in a freezing valley covered in grass and edged by snow-bothered mountains, sitting nearer to the bottom of the world than just about everyone. It’s a still winter day—fog blocks the morning and the air is nearly tactile. We’re not far from Hobart, but every hill between us is another door opening to chilled air; just like the airport, to come home is to step outside. We’re that much closer to the wet and windy south-west, where muddy buttongrass plains give way to tangles of green scrub and an audience of endless peaks. We’re a long way from the major urban centres, and glad to be. The air is worth breathing, the high places worth climbing and the world is worth touching with our hands. But what does this mean for our writing?' (Introduction)