Menu lock

i_can_see_my_house_from_here_(cover)I Can See My House From Here: UTS Writers’ Anthology 2010
Reviewed by Sam Cooney

University anthologies are often pedestrian and insular. Even worse, at times they smack of desperation – you can almost wring it from the pages like water from hair. ‘Here is my story,’ each writer seems to say. ‘This is what I did this year.’

Not so the swish publication from the University of Technology in Sydney, titled I can see my house from here. Edited by students of the Creative Writing course, submissions are open to students from all faculties at UTS, and in this case, the hits to misses ratio is commendable. Whether the seven editors (all female – come on Sydney fellas, pull your finger out) were simply lucky with their submissions, or whether there was some heavy groundwork undertaken, we can’t know, but the result is a collection that triumphantly walks a tightrope between variety and quality.

Nam Le provides the foreword, and it’s a bit of a hurdle. Because of his ‘aversion to the typical foreword’ we are presented with a curious piece of writing. It is annoying yet beguiling, and it left me wondering at its motives (other than his ‘aversion’). Simply put, I simultaneously liked it and disliked it, as it raises a couple of noteworthy arguments but diverts attention away from I Can See My House From Here. Only two and a half pages in length, Le uses most of his foreword to examine the raison d’être of anthologies in general, writing in a self-referential style that is a discordant mixture of semi-pertinent questions alongside opinions that are prone to backflip immediately after they’ve been asserted. He bemoans that ‘the typical foreword end[s] up being about its own author, rather than the main text’ and then admits that he has done the exact thing he is grumbling about. He criticises ‘the ritualised calling out to chosen pieces’, only to do just that in a belated and hurried fashion. (It is only in the final paragraph that he actually discusses this specific anthology he is introducing and its contributors.)

I imagine that Le’s short foreword is not what the editors had in mind when they approached him, but I imagine they realise also the value of having Le’s name on the cover. Hey, at least it’s different, even if painstakingly so; I’m still talking about it four paragraphs into my review, which signals something superior to the usual hemmed-in introductions normal of publications such as this.

The thirty-two short fictions are divided into three sections: ‘I can see’, ‘My house’, and ‘From here’. Although I was initially suspicious that this was just a superficial stylistic choice, the stories in each section correspond thematically with their particular banner, and thus the separating succeeds in adding character to the collection.

I’m not sure if it simply took me a while to become immersed in the anthology, but I found the latter two sections to be of higher quality than the first. Rosalie Bartlett’s evocative story ‘The Navel Gazed’ allows us entry into the world of Camille. Shouldering a severe eating disorder and tied to a hospital, Camille is dumbfoundingly real and believable in her awful quest to lose more and more weight. The writing is spot on and doesn’t lose control, even when describing moments like Camille syringing out the liquefied contents from her stomach that she had been force-fed by a hospital nurse. Throughout the story we are there as involuntary voyeurs:

‘She lifted her shirt and hunched over in a ritual, counting the ribs she could see and checking the protruding pelvic bones and the knobby spine that rose along her back like a heckled echidna, making sure they were still there, that she was still accountable for what she refused, rejected and regurgitated, and that she was still, she was sure, a monster, reprehensible for all of this and everything that could ever come of it.’

Tyswan Slater’s ‘Justin’ tells the first person story of another exceptional character: a mute (and presumed disabled by most, but actually fully cognisant) young man living in a care home. His love for his carer is terrible and beautiful; unable to let her know, he almost falls apart when she takes leave to get married. Slater underpins the surface narrative with a softly spoken conundrum: are we ‘better alive and unhappy’, or not?

The other standout is Georgia Symons’ ‘Character’. The most ambitious piece in the anthology with its atypical narrative and air of inscrutability, Symons grants us a few minutes in the life of the girlfriend of a character actor. The premise is original, and tangents other writers would avoid for fear of plot holes are tackled so that they add to, rather than detract from, the intimacy and enjoyable nature of the story.

Two other pieces that have comparable father characters are worthy of mention, both for their simple familiarity and their implicit understanding of domestic relationships. The narrator of Cybele Masterman’s ‘April’ journeys north on a trip with her dad, to collect and cremate the body of his own dad. The writing is clean and strong, with wonderful lines like, ‘Dad’s signature looked like the screen of a heart monitor in a hospital.’ Kelli Lonergan’s ‘Westaway’ has a dad that is just as recognisable, but in an opposite way: stringent and strident, with no room for negotiation. The fresh-out-of-school narrator is thinking of starting a Fine Arts course; the dad’s ‘lips go tight before saying that doing that would get me nowhere.’

Rather than descend into superlative praise, I’d just like to reiterate that I Can See My House From Here justifies its existence with its content. If you like stories, you’ll like this anthology. Maybe for reasons other than mine, but the depth and diversity of the collection means a win for all readers.



Sam Cooney is a writer living in Melbourne. Having recently completed an undergraduate degree, he spends his days reading, writing and editing. You can find him in various hidey-holes about the internet.

christos-cwpIn honour of the recent awards won by two authors I admire very much, I thought we could revisit my interviews with them. First of all, which awards were these?

Christos Tsiolkas won the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best Book, awarded at the Auckland Writers’ and Readers’ Festival last week, for The Slap. See the full details here. I have high hopes that The Slap will also win the Miles Franklin, to be announced in June. And Nam Le has finally scooped an award in Australia (having already won the prestigious Dylan Thomas Prize), receiving the NSW Premier’s Literary Award for Book of the Year, and the UTS Glenda Adams Award for new writing, for The Boat. See all the NSW Premier’s Literary Award winners here.

Nam was the first ever victim of my ‘responsive’ interview format. And he absolutely nailed it. Looking back on this now, it’s both articulate and possessing a certain rawness, which is the point of the format. Ideas and thoughts flow freely. Nam said:

nam_leApparently, 700,000 people pass through Grand Central Station in New York every day.  I once saw sped-up footage from a camera situated above the main concourse; what was most remarkable was that all these people – many moving at a fast Manhattan clip – fell into an eerie, communal rhythm wherein they barely touched each other.  Almost the whole floor was filled with people, yet there was an elegant, evolved choreography at work that, in keeping people from each other, I found a thing of great beauty and sadness.

Revisit the full piece.

The Slap is one of the best Australian books I’ve read. Ever. The beginning of my interview with Christos has a lengthy spiel/review – basically explaining the way the book affected me. I’m still kicking myself that I hadn’t yet read it (or anything of his) when I met him and sat at the dinner table with him and the Overland crew. Though I believe he is going to Ubud this year (as I am). When the email came in with his wonderfully generous answers, I knew I had something special: the kind of interview that might be cut or censored in other media. Christos said:

I think that people, in the main, are terrified of conflict and that ignorance seems preferable in that sense because getting to truth is often not safe. I talked above about trusting the reader and I know that as a reader I am elated when I feel that trust has been reciprocated by a writer. Illumination is what I think good and/or honest and/or beautiful and/or savage art can offer.

When someone says of a book or a film or a play that it was ‘too hard’ I think they have been made conflicted, uncomfortable. That discomfort is sometimes what is most precious to me about great art.

Enjoy the whole piece here.

Coming soon: Emerging Writers’ Festival reports, a large round-up post, May haiku comp, interviews with Sarah Manguso and Tom Cho, and plenty more reviews…

Other People's Words

Nov 24, 2008


Louisiana Alba is the author of Uncorrected Proof, which I heart, so I asked if she would write something just for me (and you lit-lovers). Here ’tis:

Italians have a phrase: non mettere le mani avanti, don’t put your hands out in front (to prevent the fall you fear). Let the scholars sort out my fictions. I am trading here on memory and instinct alone, a dangerous line, I know, particularly as I was going to do a piece on Windschuttle and other historical fabrications. Do you know Windschuttle? Does anyone care? No? Then, I best leave him for another time.

Nam Le has just won the Dylan Thomas Prize. This is no small prize and no small feat, I said to myself, then realised I was staring at my own. My feet were the only feet in the room. I was intrigued though I confess I didn’t know Nam Le’s work before I went online and ordered the one copy of The Boat held by the British Library. The book of The Boat. The Boat in book form. It says a lot about the focus of readers in London that it hadn’t been snapped up already. After the Booker Prize shortlist was announced every copy of every book the BL had by every writer on the damn list was in use. Hell, what’s going on? I said at the time.

Nam Le, who is he? When no answers came I could interpret I webbed wider to find out more. I came upon: ‘Love and Honour and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice’, from The Boat itself.  I read the screen-printed story. Even in the twenty-first century I still find it hard to read fiction this way. Yet Nam Le had me hooked with his first words. The Boat had cast me a line. ‘LHPPCS’ is a fine and good story, as Hemingway might have said. I saw echoes, or imagined I did. Thom Jones’s an-American-in-Vietnam stories, what was Nam Le doing here, a parody of memoir technique developed by a writer come writing-teacher in an Iowa writing school? Many stylistic lines from many American short story writers crossed my eye-line, Le skilfully self-addressing the author, wannabe, manqué throughout. 

Thom Jones is still on that Iowa program I believe. I have long admired his work and parody him in Uncorrected Proof. Judging by ‘LHPPCS’, I feel no less strongly about Nam Le’s capacities, finding the comments of praise I saw this morning true and right down to the last syllable. Hemingway is an apt voice to mention as well, I suspect, for what happens at the end of ‘LHPPCS’ happens to the Hemingwayesque character in The Garden of Eden as well – the writing and story of both characters ending up…No, I can’t say it either.

Let me be frank or… Nam Le. This writing strikes more than one chord, literary and life chords. When I first left Australia, after university and film school, my first assignment abroad was to film a boat full of ex-Vietnamese hitting land in southern Thailand. Pure fate. It was only the second time I had professionally put an Eclair 16mm camera up on my shoulder, only the second time I had used one live full-stop.  As I clambered about the decks of beached boats, sweat running in my eyes, the stench of summer in the Gulf of Thailand all around, somehow I kept the excitement of the waving forms motoring towards me in focus, somehow I maintained the other arrivees close-by in frame, somehow I didn’t end up in that murky Thai seaside drink all sides up. All along I had no idea I would revisit this plot and theme several times in my life.

I move on to Hong Kong filming and producing two more films on escapees from a hell on wheels inside Vietnam, to a fate far worse than the Thai camps, if my olfactory memory of the warehouses along Hong Kong’s Pearl Harbour serves me well. My fourth and last experience is back in Sydney six years later, making a film for Special Broadcasting Service on a need some Vietnamese children developed for writing up their experiences. In a Strange Land, one girl titled her poem, or was it tilted, living out a nightmarish late childhood horror that was Cabramatta, or as some Australians casually called it back then, Vietnamatta. Reading Nam Le brings it all back.

What is Nam Le’s ‘LHPPCS’ all about then? Writing in Iowa? Growing up in Australia? Relationships? Remembering Mum? Revisiting or leaving Vietnam behind? Getting onto livable terms with Dad? Memory in ‘Love and Honour and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice’ is a wonderfully cruel trick. We live and die by it along with his character in the same instant. Nam Le’s memoir, the memory of his life’s truths as laid out in fiction, is an examination of a fictionalised ‘ex-Boat person’ narrated in such an unadorned air of truth that if the other stories in the collection are even half as good, then I know in truth I am in for even more of this rare treat.

Can’t wait to see what she says after reading the rest! – LM

Nam Le has won the $140,000 Dylan Thomas Prize, for a writer under 30. And how well-deserved!

Read all about it from the ABC, or The Oz, or perhaps what we printed in WBN  today (subscription required).

And do revisit my ‘responsive’ interview with Nam.

This is so exciting, when you love a writer’s work – because a prize like this not only brings them greater recognition, but affords them the time to continue to make a career out of writing. It’s wonderful to know that more of Nam’s imagination and talent will become available for us.

If you haven’t read The Boat yet, get thee to a book retailer.

Interviews + Profiles

Oct 31, 2008


The Boat, Nam Le, 2008, Penguin – Hamish Hamilton (Aus, US), 9780241015414

Sentences – LiteraryMinded

Responses – Nam Le


The terminal point, point of contemplation.

The idea of terminus is critical to narrative: what (and where) is the point that occasions the narrative?  What needs finishing in order for articulation to start?  Because a narrative, no matter how it’s structured, is a linear thing – word comes after word comes after word – one at a time – and on the whole we read conventionally, that is, from one side of the word to the other, from one side of the page to the other, from one side of the book to the other.  From start to finish.

A dizzying array of cerebral and experiential assumptions are embedded into such a teleological mode of reading.  I’m interested in time.  Narrative time and time in narrative.  I’m interested in the techniques of temporal manipulation; how we – as writers as well as readers – can map the movement of consciousness, and its experience of time, onto the page.  What’s that line from “Little Gidding”? – We shall not cease from exploration / And the end of all our exploring / Will be to arrive where we started / And know the place for the first time.

Stillborns and stagnation.

From the start, physicists have set aside ideas of the existence of other kinds of matter – ether, dark matter – to account for empirical systems of understanding that seemed demonstrable and relatable in other respects.  From the start, biologists and chemists have been unable (or unwilling) to steer fully clear of vitalism, the doctrine that posits the existence of some vital principle, some élan vital, that distinguishes ‘life’ from ‘non-life.’  Theologists and philosophers are arguably referring to some version of this principle when they speak of the ‘soul.’  For me – from this vantage – the argument seems persuasive that nothing of real worth comes into being without a determining mystery at its heart.

Per Marilynne Robinson, in a Paris Review interview: “If different systems don’t merge in a comprehensible way, that’s a flaw in our comprehension and not a flaw in one system or the other.”

Who knows what it is that brings a narrative to life?  Who knows what it is that separates something flawless, polished, perfect – but stillborn – from something else that, despite its imperfections, breathes?  I’m convinced it’s unknowable, this something.  I’m convinced that that’s what makes its manifestation valuable, even primal – and maybe – like ether, or dark energy – even extra-human.

Inadequacies. Miscommunications.

We all know Forster’s exhortation: “Only Connect.”  But the rest of it:  Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, / And human love will be seen at its height. / Live in fragments no longer.  Not passion to passion, nor human to human, love to love – but prose to passion.  See previous.  What a heroic (if quixotic) idea.  Live in fragments no longer.  This seems to me particularly apt now, and the word as instrument of ligation – of human love – particularly important.  What an idea.

Lightbulb. Headlights.

It was E.L. Doctorow who likened writing to driving a car at night – you never see farther than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

Geographical variations.

I was on a plane the other day, flying from Hong Kong to London, when a man opened the port window over the wing (I’d scammed an emergency exit row seat) and woke me up. “The Himalayas,” he announced.  And it was incredible – to think that there was a correlation between the mountains out the port-side windows and, to plagiarise a phrase, the mountains of my mind.  Such moments – coming smack-bang against real-life referents – are simultaneously epiphanies (“They exist out there – these places housing so many happenings of my inner life!”) and impositions (“How dare these places exist?  How dare they crowd out my imaginings of them?  And what trumps what?”).  Geography in fiction, of course, is almost always interactive with human concerns.  Its variations are governed by human discriminations (see, eg, this map, which I like because it both highlights and diminishes our stamp on a basically unchanging surface.  (An aside – is it just me or does Australia seem still to be stuck in the mostly dark ages?)).  As a result, the proper apprehension of geographical variation in fiction ends up being much more than an exertion of the imagination – it’s nothing less, to my mind, than an epistemological discipline, a constant coming home, as we talked about above, to a different place.

‘Seated at a table in full sun outside the Ferry Building and sipping pineapple juice, Le retraced his unlikely path to a widely heralded early success.’ (San Francisco Chronicle) ‘He lifts a forkful to his mouth. “I’ll confess to you I didn’t know what panna cotta was,” he says, his Australian accent stretching out each vowel like Silly Putty. He tastes. “It’s quite good.”‘ (The New York Times) ‘But his capacity for the self-puncturing insight is frequently on display.’ (The Age) ‘I write because I read’ (You).

I’ll confess to you I didn’t know what Silly Putty was.

The human mechanism. Old man stands up in the bath.

When people talk about what it is we all have in common, they tend quite naturally to focus on anthropological or cultural rather than biological characteristics.  See, for example, this list of ‘human universals’ – one of the most interesting and provocative lists ever compiled (by Donald H. Brown, collated by Stephen Pinker).  Of course Brown’s interest is primarily anthropological, but I think it still speaks to my point that our greatest commonality is so self-evident it’s often overlooked.  Namely: our bodies.  No matter where you fit on the materialist spectrum, you can’t refute the proposition that we exist with – within – because of – and not without – our bodies.  Thought, character, conditioning, impulse, situation – all these, as human characteristics, are contingent on first-principle physicality – and the perishability it presumes.  And it’s precisely that physicality – the machine and not the ghost – or, perhaps more accurately, the machine impelled by its own ghosts – that sites our greatest, most enduring, most relevant mysteries.

Inside other people’s pages.


According to Wikipedia: “Metafiction is a literary term for a type of fiction that systematically and self-consciously addresses the devices of fiction, including the relationship between fiction and reality and the uses of irony and self-reflection.”  I’ll take it.

‘…pixellated it and everywhere turned it to plastic.’ (Meeting Elise)

Now you point it out, this is probably a clumsy elision of metaphors.

Juan Pablo. Juan Pablo.

John Paul.  Funny, I never intended that papal reference but I guess it’s quite at home in the scheme of the story. 

Kafka 1920: ‘8 December. Spent Monday, a holiday, in the park, the restaurant, and the Gallerie. Sorrow and joy, guilt and innocence, like two hands indissolubly clasped together; one would have to cut through flesh, blood, and bones to part them.’

That’s a great quote.  One of my favourite quotes also comes from Kafka; I’ll try to remember it off the top of my head: “You can stand aloof from the sufferings of the world.  That is your right, and it may even express your nature, but perhaps that aloofness is the one suffering you could have avoided.”


I want to talk about David Foster Wallace.  I thought he was one of our best.  One of our brightest lights.  An incomparable mind lashed to a mighty heart.  I thought he was unfailingly brave and, to me, of late, that’s become the real yardstick.  It’s so sad to read back over some of his stories – everything takes on a pall of anguish and prescience and portent now.  To know what we now know – that he was living in hell – renders his work the fruit of almost unbearable generosity.  May we make the most of it.

The person sitting next to you on the plane. Waiting for luggage. Smiling at the hotel desk. Sitting in the hotel room. Talking in front of many faces.

Apparently, 700,000 people pass through Grand Central Station in New York every day.  I once saw sped-up footage from a camera situated above the main concourse; what was most remarkable was that all these people – many moving at a fast Manhattan clip – fell into an eerie, communal rhythm wherein they barely touched each other.  Almost the whole floor was filled with people, yet there was an elegant, evolved choreography at work that, in keeping people from each other, I found a thing of great beauty and sadness.

Not describing bombs.

Listen here.

‘Kids believe in Santa; adults believe in childhood’ (from A Pitch Too High for the Human Ear, Cate Kennedy).

I wish I had my copy of Dark Roots with me – I left it in Australia – it’s full of lines such as these, steeped in humour and wisdom.  I’m hanging out to read her novel.

Sarah and Parvin, two parts of one whole?

So much is bundled up, isn’t it, in this idea of ‘one whole’?

Ending with loss.


Explanation: I deliberately chose an unconventional interview method with Nam. One reason is that he has done many wonderful interviews elsewhere (many present on his website) – I wanted to give him a chance to just have fun and be creative in reflecting on his work and writerly self. Another reason is that I think the blogging medium allows for experimentation, originality and flexibility. I instructed Nam to respond to the sentences however he wished. I derived them from The Boat, my reactions to it, and from things I heard Nam speak of at Byron Bay and Melbourne Writers’ Festivals – such as writing, short fiction, and more. He could also choose not to respond, or use links, other’s words, and/or images.