Cirrus@Austlit

'‘Islands, islands. An oneiric vision of islands shimmers before most inward eyes, and none of us quite knows why’ (Fishing 281). So writes Ruth Park in Fishing in the Styx (1993), a phrase that can be read as linking the beginning and ending of the archipelagic organon of Park’s oeuvre, conjuring an arrangement that mirrors the need to align complex, disparate events into a singular narrative of a life. To date, Park’s essays and fiction have not been read through an island or archipelagic lens, save for Monique Rooney’s recent work on the subject (‘The People Who Live There’). In light of Rooney’s analysis, this essay re-reads Park’s oeuvre in the wake of the archipelagic turn emerging from the field of island studies, which forms the first section of this essay. Following this, I move to consider the resonance of islands throughout the early part of Park’s literary career. This essay then concludes with a close analysis of the use of island forms to create associative links between the different events and sequences in Fishing. In the end, as Park is reported to have said to longtime literary agent Tim Curnow around the period she wrote Fishing, ‘we’re islanders’ (‘Harp in the South comes to the stage’).'  (Publication abstract)

'Ruth Park’s A Power of Roses (1953) focuses on the inhabitants of a boarding house in Sydney’s inner suburb, The Rocks, a diverse community largely sequestered from the modernising city beyond. While the narrative's immersion within the enclave at first holds the larger city at bay, dramatic rooftop visions of the Harbour Bridge begin to open the view. The Bridge in A Power of Roses, as Paul Genoni observes, is richly emblematic of Sydney as a city. But the Bridge is also a figure of ambiguity, conjuring both progressive modernity and an underlying condition of diasporic loss. Through the Bridge, Park’s novel mobilises a poetics of scale and perspective that serves to breach the enclave and to imagine the energies of the wider city. Her young protagonist Miriam McKillop moves outward from the impoverished yet intimate world she inhabits with her beloved Uncle Puss towards adult life in the world beyond. This movement is first anticipated by Miriam’s use of her Uncle Puss’s telescope, which enables her to bridge the distance virtually. Ultimately, however, Miriam’s movement towards the city is a joining premised on an irrevocable separation. This essay considers Park’s mobilisation of scale and perspective for its poetics of the city, and its depiction of the enclave in juxtaposition with the Bridge. It concludes by noting the narrative’s play of perspectives, its crossings of time as well as space, and its uncanny echo of Park’s later retrospective account, in Fishing in the Styx (1993), of her own father’s death.'  (Publication abstract)

'The paper considers Ruth Park’s memoirs by reflecting on three autobiographical texts: a lengthy article in the Sydney Morning Herald (1946); her first memoir The Drums Go Bang (1956, co-authored with husband D’Arcy Niland); and her third and final volume of memoir, Fishing in the Styx (1993). Each offers a reflection on the same critical turning-point in Park’s career – her controversial winning of the Sydney Morning Herald Prize in 1946 for an unpublished novel, with The Harp in the South. This was, Park declared, the moment ‘The drums went bang with a terrific sound’ (Drums 188).

'Park’s accounts of this incident are examined in the context of her observation – made while questioning her capacity to accurately frame a narrative moment in her memoir Fishing in the Styx – that ‘there is a truth in there somewhere, but like all truth, no statement of it can be final’ (210). It is argued that whenever Park recalled her life and career she modified how she expressed the ‘truth in there’ regarding the extraordinary episode of the Herald Prize, an incident that resonated throughout the span of her life.' (Publication abstract)

P'ark’s bold, glittering descriptions and her vigorously alive characters are forever lodged in my consciousness.'

'The question of vocation takes centre stage in the two volumes of Ruth Park's autobiography, A Fence Around the Cuckoo and Fishing in the Styx. From earliest childhood, Park writes, she knew she would be a writer: 'It had been as if a voice spoke from a burning bush.' Her depiction of her vocation to the literary life contains all the classic elements of the artist's call: it came out of nowhere, it was a summons that could not be set aside or ignored, and it shaped her destiny. Normally, however, this call takes shape in a specific cultural context: the little girl who longs to be a writer begins her life as a passionate reader surrounded by books, and as part of a family or society that holds writers (in the abstract, at least) in high esteem. Park's context was very different. According to A Fence Around the Cuckoo, for the first ten or so years of her life, she had no books, and no access to books. In the early 1920s, her father was part of a work gang that travelled around remote parts of the North Island of New Zealand building roads and bridges, and until she was six years old her home was a tent. Neither her father nor her seamstress mother owned any books. Even when the family settled in the tiny town of it Kuiti, where Ruth would go to school, books were in short supply. As Park Writes in Fence, 'No one I knee. had any books.' The irresolvable problem of Poverty was compounded in the wider community by a moral distrust of all that books stood for. As Park explains, 'It was thought that reading poked your eyes out and kept you from doing wholesome things.' (Introduction)