{"id":120758,"date":"2018-01-26T09:00:01","date_gmt":"2018-01-26T14:00:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=120758"},"modified":"2018-01-26T11:47:38","modified_gmt":"2018-01-26T16:47:38","slug":"scenes-gerald-murnanes-golf-club","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/01\/26\/scenes-gerald-murnanes-golf-club\/","title":{"rendered":"Scenes from Gerald Murnane\u2019s Golf Club"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

The Goroke Golf Club in Victoria, Australia. Photo: Tristan Foster<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Australian writer Gerald Murnane is a man of profound contradictions. A recluse who craves attention. A Luddite who uses his smartphone to google himself. An author who retired long ago, then went on to produce his richest work. He was recently treated for prostate cancer, and yet he\u2019s still the sprightliest person in the room.<\/p>\n

The room on this occasion was a small golf club\u00a0in Goroke, Murnane\u2019s rural hometown in Victoria, Australia, not far from the state border.\u00a0We had gathered from faraway places to attend \u201cAnother World in This One,\u201d a one-day symposium on Murnane\u2019s fiction, and to mark the publication of what is by every account his final novel, Border Districts<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The club was furnished with vinyl chairs and tables with the covers tacked on. It had views of the golf course, the flags for each distant hole waving between spindly gum trees. The attendance for the symposium was capped at forty people\u2014the club is cozy and the kitchen only able to turn out so many scones and sandwiches. Attendees included Murnane\u2019s tireless publisher at Giramondo Publishing, Ivor Indyk; Alexis Wright, another of Australia\u2019s major writers; academics; poets; and passionate readers.\u00a0Rumors abounded that noted fan J. M. Coetzee was due to make the drive from Adelaide. That he had other engagements was perhaps for the better\u2014his presence would have been too much for the little golf club to bear.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The Wimmera, the district the town of Goroke is a part of, is the\u00a0furthest point on the plains of Murnane\u2019s fiction.\u00a0It is the kind of place where the men in the pubs can tell at a glance that you\u2019re not from around here. So can the frogs\u2014the night before the symposium, we drank on the main street of a nearby town, and one jumped into my lap. Before the conference, the organizers at Western Sydney University emailed to say the region\u2019s cellular network was down and that we should study the map before setting out.\u00a0The land smooths over long before Goroke, but it isn\u2019t till Goroke that it turns the color of straw and seems to unfold.<\/p>\n

The symposium began with organizer Anthony Uhlmann reading out a prepared statement from Murnane while the writer stood by tight-lipped; he would be present\u00a0during the breaks and at the end of the day but was under no obligation to stay for the papers. Murnane didn\u2019t stay, at least not for the first session.\u00a0During the second session, he lingered in the bar, pretending to read the newspaper.\u00a0During the third, he collected empty beer glasses and tinkered at the sink. He seemed to be ignoring references to his presence until, during Indyk\u2019s paper, the publisher mispronounced Feversham\u2019s Fag<\/em>, a novel by John Mowbray referenced in A History of Books<\/em>. Murnane called out to correct him.<\/p>\n

Even though his oeuvre demonstrates a deep unity, Murnane\u2019s writing life can still be split into two distinct parts. Underlying the first part is instability\u2014his first seven books were published locally by different publishing houses, each more baffled and antagonistic to the writing than the last. The lack of attention to his artistic vision both from publishers and from the Australian reading public prompted Murnane to retire from writing for publication altogether. His obsessive and distinctive literature, created almost entirely out of personal \u201cmental imagery\u201d that ranges from marbles and the silks of racehorses to Catholic iconography and the rolling plains of his home state, would have disappeared into obscurity entirely if not for the promptings of Indyk at Giramondo. The second part, then, is characterized by certainty\u2014with the support of a trusting publisher, Murnane could explore in full the images that preoccupy him. This narrow yet entirely unexpected body of work has finally started to find readers around the world.<\/p>\n

Murnane\u2019s biographer Shannon Burns presented Murnane\u2019s literature as one of failure, proposing this\u00a0as a source of humor in his writing but also the thing that keeps him writing. Or, more correctly, kept him writing. Murnane hasn\u2019t written anything new since 2015 and stated, in his paper and in private, that he again has lost the desire to continue.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Gerald Murnane at the conference. Photo by Andre Sawenko<\/p><\/div>\n

During the lunch break, Murnane opened the bar and served drinks: $2.00 for a can of Coke, $4.50 for a bottle of Carlton Draught. He is the club\u2019s barman\u2014an ideal position for receiving horse-racing tips\u2014as well as its secretary. On the end of the bar were copies of two items lifted from his archives, to be consumed in the breaks with tea and cake: an exam he sat during his undergraduate degree and a palindrome of 1,600 words beginning, \u201cDo good, dog-god! Do, o god! Do!\u201d<\/p>\n

In his presentation, Uhlmann observed that Murnane\u2019s images are not just images but are laden with meaning. Though Murnane is repelled by psychoanalysis and doesn\u2019t believe in the idea of the unconscious, his fiction is full of the slow uncovering of the secret meanings hidden in the imagery. When it was Murnane\u2019s turn to speak, he stood at the lectern with his hands behind his back and offered an updated reading of \u201cThe Breathing Author\u201d titled \u201cThe Still-Breathing Author.\u201d The original paper, delivered in 2001, marked both his return to publishing and the beginning of his post-break career. The symmetry was not lost on anyone in the room, least of all Murnane. As he did back then, he used this occasion to reinforce some of the Murnane mythologies\u2014the young author of Tamarisk Row<\/em> never planned to retire as the old author of Border Districts<\/em>; academics and critics complicate his simple ideas; he doesn\u2019t go in search of images, they come to him. Murnane doesn\u2019t like being put into a category but stated that, if pushed, he would call himself a \u201ctechnical writer.\u201d As if for proof, he held up a diagram illustrating one of his stories\u2014a wobbly parallelogram with lines from the elements on each corner linking to one major element in the center. It could have been a map of the nearest horse-racing tracks as much as a plan for a piece of fiction. To reiterate that his writing was finally finished, he quoted Thomas Hardy: \u201cI have been delivered of my books.\u201d During Murnane\u2019s talk, it started to rain.<\/p>\n

In the documentary Mental Places<\/a><\/em>, Murnane quotes the name of a file in his archive: \u201cI am a very strange fellow.\u201d Which he is\u2014as strange as a literary symposium in a country-town golf club, but not so strange that he\u00a0was blind to the importance of what was taking place here. As the end of his paper approached, Murnane\u2019s chin quivered, his voice rose, and he shook a fist like a jockey clenching a riding crop.\u00a0When it was over, he thanked us for coming, then went back behind the bar to serve drinks and sign the odd book.<\/p>\n

The rain continued to fall as we went back across the plains. It didn\u2019t feel like a goodbye, nor the last time we would see the old writer. We had all begun our prayers for a third\u00a0act of his career coming sooner rather than later.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is co\u2013editor in chief of<\/em> 3:AM Magazine. His short-story collection <\/em>Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father is forthcoming from Transmission Press.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  The Australian writer Gerald Murnane is a man of profound contradictions. A recluse who craves attention. A Luddite who uses his smartphone to google himself. An author who retired long ago, then went on to produce his richest work. He was recently treated for prostate cancer, and yet he\u2019s still the sprightliest person in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1374,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[23218,32735,32699,776,32728,23212,32700,12059,32734,1292,32698,698,829,32733,32701,32731,32729,32702,32730,3368,32732],"class_list":["post-120758","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-a-history-of-books","tag-alexis-wright","tag-anthony-uhlmann","tag-australia","tag-australian-literature","tag-border-districts","tag-fevershams-fag","tag-gerald-murnane","tag-giramondo","tag-golf","tag-goroke","tag-horse-racing","tag-j-m-coetzee","tag-john-mowbray","tag-mental-places","tag-stream-system","tag-symposium","tag-the-breathing-author","tag-the-plains","tag-victoria","tag-wimmera"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nScenes from Gerald Murnane\u2019s Golf Club<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In which, at a symposium gathered to discuss his fiction, Murnane slips behind the bar to serve drinks\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/01\/26\/scenes-gerald-murnanes-golf-club\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Scenes from Gerald Murnane\u2019s Golf Club by Tristan Foster\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"January 26, 2018 \u2013   The Australian writer Gerald Murnane is a man of profound contradictions. 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