Vegemite to the rest of the world must seem like some kind of thrush inducing product… it’s not. I haven’t had vegemite for a while, but this morning I bothered. I bothered simply to celebrate Australian, not because I am particularly patriotic (That’s an American word isn’t it?) but because of the fine authors this usually unimaginative public has produced. My patriotism extended only as far as my toast, as my coffee wound up in a Starbucks mug. I am enjoying the coffee more.
But Australian authors. They bring a certain gritty depth filled narrative that you don’t find elsewhere.
Let me give you some names.
- Colleen McCullough: Troy, The Thorn Birds, An Indecent Obsession
- Ruth Park: Harp in the South, Swords and Crowns and Rings (Okay… she was born in NZ)
- John Marsden: Tomorrow When the War Began… all seven+ of them
- Ivan Southall: Hills End, Ash Road
- Bryce Courtney: The Potato Factory
- Tim Winton: Cloudstreet, The Turning (Many narratives)
The life and blood of my growing up years, bar Winton/Courtney who are more recent discoveries. I think that I found out more from some of these books than I should have at certain ages, yet they are the books I return to because I am entranced by the characters.
I have discovered more about redemption, about life from fiction than I ever have from non-fiction, and non-fiction has become a large part of my world the past few years.
Last night I think that learnt more about living out Christianty from the short story, ‘The Turning’ (in the book the Turning), than I have ever from reading the ’emergents’. Stories have the ability to hit a place that theories can never go.