Cirrus@Austlit

'Biographers exist in a tight partnership with their chosen subject and there is often during the research and writing an equivalent reflective personal journey for the biographer. This is generally obscured, buried among an overwhelming magnitude of sources while the biographer is simultaneously developing the all-important ‘relationship’ required to sustain the narrative journey ahead. Questions and selections beset the biographer, usually about access to, or veracity of, sources but perhaps there are more personal questions that could be put to the biographer. The many works on the craft of biography or collections about the life-writing journey tell only some of this tale. It is not often enough, however, that we acknowledge how biography can be unusually ‘double-voiced’ in communicating a strong sense of the teller in the tale: the biographer’s own life experience usually does lead them to the biography, but also influences the shaping of the work. These are still ‘tales of craft’ in one sense, but autobiographical reflections in another. Perhaps this very personal insight can only be attempted in the ‘afterlife’ of biography; the quiet moments and years that follow such consuming works. In this article, I reflect on this unusually emotional form of life writing.' (Publication abstract)

Just as its sunshine coasts mask its contested haunted histories of invasion, theft and genocide, Australian Gothic is dark, duplicitous, uncanny and dangerous. Its most famous fictional serial killer (Mick Taylor of Wolf Creek [2005]) bears the same friendly, bluff, workmanlike name as its legendary Mick ‘Crocodile’ Dundee, and in contemporary horror tales its holiday beach towns are infiltrated by predatory transients. How Australia constructs and represents itself in literature and film is necessarily Gothic, replete with hidden, misrepresented and misunderstood histories and a consistent concern with guilt, identity, contradictions and confusions, producing a range of haunted lives, inherited and recent memories, and a hauntology of invaded or erased spaces and diverse pasts. In suggesting that ‘the Gothic itself is a narrative of trauma’ (Bruhm 268), Jessica Gildersleeve sees in the Australian Gothic ‘a sense of shame or guilt about the consequences of Australia’s colonial origins as well as the significance of its early mythologies, such as the Australian Legend’ (‘Contemporary Australian Trauma’). Contemporary Australian Gothic thus builds on and beyond trauma, becoming now ‘a site for political resistance and for social and cultural disruption’ (Gildersleeve, ‘Contemporary Australian Trauma’). In beginning to take a view of a longer history of Australian Gothic in literature and film, it is important to appreciate the mixed relationship of, on the one hand, the overwhelmingly Other landscape, climate, people and living things which the settlers invaded, and which they tried to incorporate, enculturate, relabel or destroy, and, on the other, the parallel lives and ancient histories of those displaced and represented as Other, and the importance of relationship to country, which lies at the heart of Aboriginal culture.'

Source: Abstract