Académique Documents
Professionnel Documents
Culture Documents
PR A ISE
Winner, The Australian/Vogel’s Literary Award, 1991
Winner, Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book (Pacific Region), 1992
Shortlisted, Victorian Premier’s Literary Award, 1992
Shortlisted, Adelaide Festival Award for Literature, 1992
Shortlisted, Canada–Australia Literary Award, 1992
‘Praise is one of those books that takes a hefty bite out of a piece of subject
matter, chews it to a pulp and then spits it out.’ Peter Craven
‘A tour-de-force revelation of life in the slow lane of drugs and sex and
alcohol.’ Weekend Australian
PR AISE FOR
1988
‘A fiendish and eventful psychological novel . . . hugely satisfying.’ New York
Times Book Review
‘Last Drinks, fast moving, funny and shocking, is a lament for all that can
go wrong not only in the life of one man, but in the life of an entire state.
This is crime fiction that transcends the genre. It’s a truly compelling and
stylish novel, seamlessly written.’ Debra Adelaide, Sydney Morning Herald
‘Wrestles with problems like love, addiction, hate and faith; and with conflicts
of the heart, politics and pain. This is territory you might think belonged
in books like Power without Glory and Brighton Rock.’ Michael Shuttleworth,
Bookseller and Publisher
PR AISE FOR
THE W HITE E A R TH
Winner, The Miles Franklin Literary Award, 2005
Winner, The Commonwealth Writers’ Prize
(South East Asia and South Pacific Region), 2005
Winner, National Year of Reading 2012, Queensland
Winner, The Age Book of the Year (Fiction), 2004
Winner, The Courier Mail Book of the Year Award, 2004
Shortlisted, Queensland Premier’s Literary Award, 2004
Shortlisted, Festival Awards for Literature (SA) Award for Fiction, 2006
Longlisted, International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, 2005
PR AISE FOR
UNDER GR OUND
Shortlisted, Queensland Premier’s Literary Award, 2007
Shortlisted, Best Science Fiction Novel, Aurealis Awards, 2006
‘A corker of a book. On the surface it’s a tense, engaging political thriller, but
there is no hiding from its articulate critique of Australian society.’ Herald Sun
‘The writing is as taut as strung nerves, its grip like that of a madman intent
on taking you to the nightmare of the end of the world . . . an extraordinary
high-wire act.’ Courier Mail
‘. . . the writing rises to invigorating heights, bringing us into the very midst
of a thunderstorm through an intriguing combination of scientific descrip-
tion and a kind of magic realism.’ Sunday Tasmanian
Kind permission received from Faber and Faber Ltd to quote from ‘The Wasteland’
by T.S. Eliot on p. 347.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
T H IS IS M Y L A ST BO OK .
An author can’t always say that with certainty, but as I’m in the
final stages of dying as I type this, it seems a safe bet. It’s a finished
novel—I wouldn’t be letting it out into the world if it wasn’t—but I
can’t deny that my abrupt decline in health has forced the publishers
and I to hurry the rewriting and editing process extremely, and that
this is not quite the book it would have been had cancer not inter-
vened. That doesn’t help with any flaws you might find in the story,
but it might explain them, and for once I can fairly plead—I was really
going to fix that!
A Funer a l
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ever been, working night shifts at an animal hospital across the river in
Kensington. ‘What is there to do, really?’ she replied. ‘I mean, for now.
I know there’ll be the funeral, later, I suppose. Are you going to . . . ?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll see him buried nice and proper, course I will. At least,
when we get him back from that god-awful rock. Did you know about
that job, luv? When did you talk to him last?’
‘Not since before he started there, I think. I’d heard about it though,
it was always in the news.’ And how the old Rita would have railed
against him for being involved in such a project: by all the gods, he
couldn’t have picked anything worse. But the new Rita, thankfully, had
remained indifferent.
They talked details for a few minutes, then, after further protesta-
tions of concern, and offers of accommodation in Sydney from Amanda,
the two women hung up on each other.
Leaving Rita to gaze out at the night. And to think—So, he’s dead.
Dad is dead. I have no father.
How did that make her feel?
In truth, other than a mild sense of surprise, the news had so far
roused little emotion in her at all. Unless, of course, she was in denial,
and masking a deeper grief or rage within.
But she didn’t think so. There was no call for any consuming grief
or shock: his death hardly came out of nowhere. He had never been
in good health since his first heart attack in his late sixties, and then
the cancer scare at seventy-two. He ate all wrong, drank too much . . .
As for rage, well, there wasn’t much anger left. She no longer blamed
him for the way things had gone. Not since her own . . . well, fall from
grace. They had made up in their fashion, after not speaking all the way
from Rita’s twenty-first birthday to her fortieth. And during the lunches
and dinners of their rapprochement they had got along amiably enough.
If they hadn’t kept in close contact since, well, it didn’t signify any great
hatred, or any great issue unresolved. It just was.
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She searched herself again. No, there was no repressed wail of emotion
hiding inside her. Her father was dead now. Her mother, long before.
There was nothing else to be said. Certainly, she could see no reason
why it should change anything in her life.
She poured herself a glass of white wine and drank it in his honour
while sitting on the balcony, watching the river; the cat, Simon—a rescue
from the clinic—on her lap. Then she went to bed.
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the front row alongside Amanda and her stepsiblings, the big screen,
hanging almost directly above, was hard to see. In her abstraction,
she hadn’t cared anyway about what strangers had to say regarding the
no-doubt hideously beautiful mansions and office blocks her father had
designed for them. But when Richman came on, something about his
voice, booming through the hall, made her crane her neck and actually
look at him, looming giant overhead, and listen.
She knew his face, of course, lean and wry and somehow battered,
hair cut long and still lusciously black, even though he must be in
his seventies by now. Who in the world didn’t know that face? Still,
it was different to see it like this, not in a news broadcast or on a
front page, but in a privately filmed clip, shot—where? In the house
her father had built for him? It was impossible to say. Richman was
sitting forward on a couch in a dimly lit room, the background in soft
focus, anonymous.
‘Richard Gausse was my friend,’ rolled the voice, rich and low, with
its effortlessly confident American accent, New York–genteel. ‘And I say
that at a time in life when men don’t easily make friends. But in the
short while that we worked together, on one of the most difficult pro-
jects imaginable, we truly formed a bond. Indeed, in the last years of
his life, I was perhaps his only intimate companion, and learned much
of his heart. And so to Amanda and to all of his children, George and
Jerome and Erica, and Rita, I say this: though he was separate from you
physically, you were all very much in his thoughts—increasingly so, as
his health failed. And he was haunted by sadness and regrets of which
he can never now speak to you. But I hope that you can remember him
well, as I do.’
For a moment more Walter Richman stared earnestly, compellingly,
at the camera. Then the image faded, and he was gone.
What a strange thing to say, Rita thought, as the ceremony moved
on. To claim, in such a public forum, to be in possession of the final
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intimacies of a dead man, in front of his own family. Weird. But no one
else remarked on it throughout the day.
And the last, and strangest memory of all, also involved the billion-
aire. Very late in the night, not long after Rita had escaped the lure of
the threesome couple and was gathering her things before calling a taxi
to take her to the hotel, a woman approached.
‘Ms Gausse?’
Caught unawares, Rita threw back her head somewhat dizzily to get
a look at the woman. She was no one Rita recognised, no one she had
noticed throughout the day, even though she was quite striking; of middle
age, perhaps, but trim and fit, her poise graceful in some indefinable
way, her dress impeccably black, her legs clad in supple knee-length
leather boots, her hair a bright dyed-blonde cropped very short.
‘Yes?’ said Rita.
‘If I might introduce myself, my name is Clara Lang, and I work for
Walter Richman.’
Rita stared in surprise. The woman’s accent was international, mostly
US but mixed with a trace of European, German maybe, or Dutch. And
on closer inspection there was something strange about her face: her
nose was shaped as if it should be one of Nordic fineness, but there was
a sudden bluntness to its tip, a marring of some kind.
‘Oh, yes,’ Rita said, after a gap. ‘What do you do for him?’
The woman gave a quirked smile, and Rita knew, the way the drunken
do, that she was sober, had not taken a drink all day. ‘I’m the chief of
his private staff, although the title he prefers is major-domo. I manage his
day-to-day affairs. He sent me to be his representative here today. I’ve
passed on Mr Richman’s condolences to your stepmother and stepsiblings
already—but I did not want to miss you. You especially.’
Rita swayed a little, flushed and self-conscious now. ‘Well, that’s very
kind of you.’ But couldn’t this have been done earlier, instead of now,
when she was leaving, and so damn woozy?
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twelve-hour drive down the Hume Highway ahead of her. The trip
would have been just an hour by air, of course, but there was no point
reminding herself of that. Even now, after everything else she had repudi-
ated and dismissed from the old days, she could still not go near a plane.
She made for the shower.
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