The Secret Garden: a place of healing during COVID-19

Tiffani Angus, Anglia Ruskin University

Frances Hodgson Burnett’s 1911 children’s book The Secret Garden has once again been adapted for the screen. Critics have noted that the film about a healing garden has come just at the right time, with The Telegraph calling it “a sparkling COVID antidote”.

Previous filmed versions appeared in 1919, 1949, and 1993. Since those iterations, however, the world has become more tech-enabled and the lives of children more dominated by screens than ever.

Ofcom in the UK estimates that the average three-to-four-year-old spends around three hours a day in front of a screen. This rises to four hours for ages five to seven, 4.5 hours by ages eight to 11, and 6.5 hours for teenagers. Time spent playing outdoors, as a result, is at an all-time low. It might be a wonder then, why, in 2020, a new film about playing outside is being released to an audience that seems so disconnected from it.

2020 has been, to say the least, an odd year. And, after a nationwide lockdown and restrictions currently being reimposed over large parts of the UK, The Secret Garden, a story about the healing qualities of nature – where magic, joy and, importantly, escape can be found – speaks to children (and adults) more than ever. “It sees a group of traumatised people who don’t get out much find solace in gardening and fresh air,” notes Helen O’Hara in Empire speaking about the similarities between the Edwardian cast of characters and our current reality.

Restorative gardens

The story follows Mary Lennox, a self-centred and neglected child, who is forced to move to her uncle’s estate in Yorkshire after her parents die from cholera in India. Left to her own devices and struggling to adjust, Mary finds distraction in exploring the estate’s vast grounds. It is on one of these jaunts that she discovers a hidden garden. Overgrown and mysterious, the place was locked years before by her uncle after his wife died in it.

The garden is, unsurprisingly, irresistible to Mary and, along with her spoiled cousin Colin who believes he’s disabled, and the good-natured Dickon, a kindly maid’s little brother, she finds that it is more than just a place to play. There nature has the power to heal, create relationships and bring joy; the garden also can help mend the wounds of the past, transforming hopeless grief to possibility.

The importance of nature as a source of healing has become increasingly clear during periods of lockdown as we find ourselves longing for green spaces as an escape from the news and our own four walls. Gardens (those of us who have them) and local parks and green spaces become important spaces where children can run around and adults can take a moment to reset. Like in The Secret Garden, we have discovered nature anew and it has restored us.

Time-travelling spaces

In children’s literature, gardens are a place for dreaming, adventures, and even for time travel. In books such as Philippa Pearce’s Tom’s Midnight Garden, Lucy M Boston’s The Children of Green Knowe and Andre Norton’s Lavender-Green Magic, the garden takes children back in time. There they meet people from the garden’s history or other historically important individuals. They have run-ins with their ancestors or undertake actions to save other (usually young) characters from the past who were treated badly or in danger.

The garden is a place to “fix” mistakes and learn about the great mystery and circle of life. Gardens, also, represent time itself: they never stop growing and changing. Every seed planted carries within it the hopes we have for the future.

While The Secret Garden is not a time-travel device as such, it does act as a conduit between the past and present. In it the family’s history is exposed and reckoned with, changing the present and setting them on a course to a new, more hopeful future together.

This connection between gardens and time (and time travel) might appeal to 2020 viewers who are looking for a way to connect the past with an uncertain future. In this story that many adults hold dear, they can rediscover their childhood and escape for a moment in nostalgia for a simpler time.

Once we enter the garden, however, who we are affects how we relate to it. Children have a completely different relationship to gardens than adults: adults see the backbreaking work that goes into them, while children benefit from all that hard work and only see a place to run and play. For the children in The Secret Garden, the garden is a place of discovery, fun, and recovery, in that order. And that is possibly the main key to the story’s longevity: it feeds into a faith in nature as healing, something difficult to ignore amid the friction over climate change and the destruction of some ecosystems.

The past seven months of lockdowns have fostered a hunger for personal green spaces. With the newest film version of The Secret Garden, our love affair with gardens is again brought to the big — and small — screen, where those of us who have been stuck inside can unlock the garden gate and, with a childlike innocence we yearn for, enter a magical green wonderland to take advantage of the healing properties and timeless qualities of a garden that has been waiting for us.The Conversation

Tiffani Angus, Senior lecturer in Creative Writing and Publishing, Anglia Ruskin University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Five books to read to children that adults will enjoy

Alison Baker, University of East London

Recent research from the Literacy Trust has indicated that children’s interest in and enjoyment of reading increased during lockdown. However, some children who were less confident as readers did not report that their reading was as easily supported by parents when schools and libraries were closed. As some parts of the UK go into lockdown, what books can parents and carers share with children that both adults and children can both enjoy?

Oi Frog! by Kes Gray

In this wonderful picture book for kids aged three to six, an officious cat explains to a frog why it must sit on a log, even though it is bumpy and there is a danger of splinters in the bottom. All animals must sit on objects that rhyme, such as pumas on satsumas and gorillas on chinchillas. The inventive rhymes, combined with Jim Field’s colourful illustrations, will provide many laughs and make repeated sharing enjoyable.

Illustrations by Jim Field.

Look Up! by Nathan Bryon

Rocket loves looking up at the stars and wants to be an astronaut when she grows up, like Mae Jamieson, the first Black woman to travel into space. Her brother Jamal, who is more interested in looking down at his phone, has promised to take her to the park to see a meteor shower, but first, they have to go to the supermarket, where Rocket tries to get the other shoppers excited with amazing space facts. Can she interest her neighbours? And will anyone else come to the park? Rocket’s enthusiasm is infectious, and the tender portrayal of the siblings’ relationship will delight adults and children six and up.

Illustrations by Dapo Adeola.

Harriet Versus the Galaxy by Samantha Baines

Harriet has had to move in with her gran because her dad’s lorry driving job takes him away from home. While looking for her hearing aid under her bed, Harriet finds an alien and discovers that when she wears her aid she can understand its language. Harriet learns that her gran is a member of an intergalactic security agency and Earth is under attack. Can Harriet, her new friend Robin, her gran and a sock munching alien save the planet? This funny and exciting book, from inclusive publishers Knights Of, has short chapters and lively illustrations, making it a perfect shared book for readers not quite ready to read a novel for themselves (ages six to 11).

Illustrations Jessica Flores.

Nevermoor: The Trials of Morrigan Crow by Jessica Townsend

Ten-year-old Morrigan Crow was born on the unluckiest day, Eventide, and as such is blamed for all misfortunes that befall her town. Worst of all, Morrigan is cursed to die midnight on her eleventh birthday. However, just before the curse can come true she is whisked away by traveller, adventurer and hotel proprietor Jupiter North to the hidden Free State city of Nevermoor, home of the Wundrus Society. Can Morrigan pass the trials to join the mysterious society? Can she outwit the Free State immigration officers? And is Morrigan’s life still in danger?

This book is enormous fun. Jessica Townsend has created a fantastic cast of characters, and it would be a wonderful book to read with or to children aged eight and above. The audiobook, read by Gemma Whelan, would also be wonderful to share.

Sawbones by Catherine Johnson

Film writer and novelist Catherine Johnson is well known for her historical novels, and this is one of her best. In 18th-century London, Ezra McAdam, a mixed-race 16-year-old surgeon’s apprentice, foils a break-in at his master’s house. This sets off an exciting chain of events that include grave robbing and murder. Along the way he is befriended by Loveday Finch, the daughter of a man whose murdered body has similar injuries to corpses that Ezra has dissected; can Ezra and Loveday survive to find out the truth behind her father’s murder? A fantastically exciting read to be shared and discussed with readers aged ten and above.The Conversation

Alison Baker, Senior Lecturer in Early Childhood Studies, University of East London

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Dylan Thomas: ‘lost’ fifth notebook reveals how great Welsh poet changed his style

New insights: Dylan Thomas’s fifth notebook shows how the poet’s creative process developed.
Photo by John Gay © National Portrait Gallery, London

John Goodby, Sheffield Hallam University

It’s the dream of every researcher to get their hands on a hitherto-unknown manuscript by the author in whose work they specialise. As you’d imagine, most never realise that dream. But on December 9 2014 at Sotheby’s auction house in London, I was lucky enough for it to happen to me. A school exercise book that had once belonged to Dylan Thomas, filled with 16 of his poems in his handwriting, was bought by my then-employers, Swansea University, for £85,000 and given to me to edit.

A PhD student, Adrian Osbourne, was funded to help me in my labours. A greater honour, and a more daunting, more thrilling task, would have been hard for either of us to imagine.

To begin at the beginning, however, some context. From April 1930, aged 15, Thomas began copying his completed poems into a series of school exercise books. In his short story, The Fight, the “D. Thomas” character notes how: “In the evening, before calling on my new friend, I sat in my bedroom by the boiler and read through my exercise-books full of poems. There were Danger Don’ts on the backs.”

A red school exercise book belonging to Welsh poet Dylan Thomas.
Lost until 2014: Dylan Thomas’s fifth notebook.
Swansea University, Author provided

In a letter of 1933, Thomas referred to an “innumerable” number of such notebooks. And, unlike most poets, he hung onto his juvenilia, carrying them around with him and raiding them for material until 1941. At that point, in the darkest days of the second world war, hard up and with a family to support, he sold the first four, which run from April 1930 to April 1934, to the library of the State University of New York at Buffalo. Scholars were given access to them and they were published in 1967 as Poet in the Making: The Notebooks of Dylan Thomas.

No more notebooks emerged during Thomas’s lifetime, nor – despite much speculation – did any appear after his death in 1953. Thus, the Sotheby’s notebook is the only one to have appeared, and it covers the period summer 1934 to August 1935 – making it a direct continuation of the first four.

Scrap paper?

The fifth notebook’s extraordinary nature as an object is matched by the story of its survival. Two notes contained in the Tesco’s bag in which the notebook was found allowed us to establish this. The first, a brief description by Thomas himself, shows that the last time he was in possession of it was early 1938.

After marrying in summer 1937, he and Caitlin Macnamara lived with Caitlin’s mother at her home in Hampshire until early 1938. The second note – by Mrs Macnamara’s maid, Louie King – revealed that after Dylan and Caitlin’s departure she was given the notebook, with other “scrap paper” they left behind, to burn in the kitchen boiler. King, however, withheld the notebook from its fiery fate – out of curiosity, sentiment, or for some other reason we know nothing about. When she died in 1984 the notebook passed to her family, who kept it, still a secret to the outside world, until 2014.

We now had three tasks – to transcribe the notebook poems, deciphering, if possible, Thomas’s many corrections and deletions. We then set out to compare them with the published versions and to work out what light – if any – they shed on Thomas’s poetic development.

It should be said that the fifth notebook poems are all published ones. Unlike its predecessors it contains no unpublished items (this may be why Thomas does not seem to have minded losing it). Where it differed was in the number of corrections it contained. The poems in the first four notebooks are almost always clean copies. In the fifth, many poems undergo radical revision, allowing us to trace Thomas’s creative processes at first hand.

Two pages from a handwritten notebook of poetry containing revisions.
Unlike the four that preceded it, the fifth notebook contains many of Thomas’s revisions.
Swansea University, Author provided

Luckily, we were able to realise most of our aims. Thomas’s handwriting is clear, so most poems and corrections were easy to read. Some problems arose as the notebook progressed, and the poems grew more complex and worked-over. Usually, educated guesswork (not to mention my colleague’s keen eyesight) carried us through – although in a handful of cases we called in a technician armed with a super-photocopier. In the end only five words were unresolved.

Changing style

Among the deleted passages were many of great beauty and originality, some of which Thomas reworked elsewhere. There were also three stanzas, in two of the poems, which had never been seen before.

Everywhere his incredibly rapid development as a poet was evident. Sometimes, even the tiniest item could alter our understanding of a poem; in I Dreamed My Genesis, the notebook confirmed that a comma should replace a full stop found in three print editions, making better sense of eight lines of the poem.

At the other end of the scale of significance, after poem eight, When, Like a Running Grave, we noted that Thomas had, unusually, written out the date in full: “26th October 1934” – the eve of his 20th birthday – with an emphatic line in the centre of the page. We know from the number of poems he wrote about birthdays (they include Poem on His Birthday and Poem in October) that they held great significance for Thomas. So we feel it is no coincidence that the poems that follow this point, beginning with Now and culminating in Altarwise By Owl-Light, the final poem, differ from these before it, and are the most experimental he ever wrote. Agonisingly aware of human mortality, of the end of youth, this emphatic dating marks the exact moment of Thomas’s momentous decision to adopt a more daring style.

The notebook, then, represents a kind of hinge in his early career, and this is something we could only have learned from the notebook itself, since the stylistic shift is completely obscured by the non-chronological order in which When, Like a Running Grave and Now were published. It grants us the privilege of witnessing, for the first time, the young Dylan Thomas at the height of his powers, seizing and reshaping his poetic destiny.The Conversation

John Goodby, Professor of Arts and Culture, Sheffield Hallam University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Infinite Jest: how David Foster Wallace’s classic nineties novel foreshadowed the Year of Zoom

It was fun for a while, but people quickly got sick of video calls during lockdown.
Cabeca de Marmore via Shutterstock

Michael Hedges, University of Leeds

In David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (1996), even the years have their price. They have been sold off and named. Year of the Whopper. Year of the Perdue Wonderchicken. Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment. Time has been reduced to another opportunity for corporate sponsorship, as if it were a Premier League football stadium.

The characters who inhabit Wallace’s world feel the pernicious grip of consumerism even more acutely than we do. They battle with the same addictions: to entertainment; to drugs and alcohol, of course; to sporting success at any cost. Sadly, we recognise each of these in our society. But at least our years haven’t been put up for sale. Yet.

Infinite Jest narrates a vision of the near future, which is now our recent past. The novel depicts a conjectural North American superstate during the first decade of the 21st century. But what if we were we living out Wallace’s speculative fiction? In a number of frightening ways, we are. One thing is for certain: there would be a clear contender for 2020 sponsorship. It would be the Year of Zoom.

Or Teams. Or Meet. Since the COVID-19 restrictions on our lives began in March, these platforms have become household names. Many of us have had to grow familiar with their distinct idiosyncrasies in order to work or socialise. Infinite Jest provides something of a user guide to handling video calls. However, it is not a ringing endorsement of them. Quite the opposite.

That Infinite Jest predicts video calls is hardly noteworthy. Communicating at a distance through a screen has long been a staple ingredient of science fiction. What is so eerily prescient about video calls in the novel is not its description of their rise. It is the reasons Wallace gives for their demise.

Bearded man giving lecture with microphone and lectern.
Ahead of his time: the late author David Foster Wallace.
Steve Rhodes/Flickr via Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA

Wallace calls it “videophony”. This nascent video-telephonic technology enjoyed “AN INTERVAL OF HUGE CONSUMER POPULARITY” before demand “COLLAPSED LIKE A KICKED TENT”. A capitalised passage of faux media analysis concludes that phone users “ACTUALLY PREFERRED THE RETROGRADE OLD LOWTECH BELL-ERA VOICE-ONLY TELEPHONIC INTERFACE AFTER ALL”. It then asks: “WHY THE ABRUPT CONSUMER RETREAT BACK TO GOOD OLD VOICE-ONLY TELEPHONING?”

Wallace’s narrator answers the call. People rejected videophony because of “(1) emotional stress, (2) physical vanity, (3) a certain queer kind of self-obliterating logic in the microeconomics of consumer high-tech”. The pandemic has proven Wallace right on all three counts.

Fancy a Zoom later?

At the beginning of lockdown, we flocked to video conferencing. It was – and remains – an invaluable means of staving off boredom and loneliness. But we have begun to feel the effects of what Wallace identified more strongly in recent months.

We held pub quizzes, then we stopped. We agreed to Zoom every week, then we didn’t. As Wallace puts it: “it turned out that there was something terribly stressful about visual telephone interfaces that hadn’t been stressful at all about voice-only interfaces.”

Plenty of people had been regularly making video calls long before the COVID-19 outbreak. Back then, however, the technology wasn’t serving as a substitute for face-to-face interaction to the same extent. In Infinite Jest, consumers have the luxury of rediscovering an earlier technology, the merits of which passed them by the first time around. We are not in the same position. We know full well the value of what we lack in lockdown – and every call has been coloured by the mourning of its loss.

We continue to use video calls in part because we know that this is as good as it’s going to get for some time. Socialising indoors is once again illegal for millions of people across the UK and elsewhere. So we have developed the videophonic coping strategies that Wallace envisioned.

Thankfully, we have been spared the “emotional stress” of realising that – as Wallace puts it – “traditional audio-only phone conversations allowed you to presume that the person on the other end was paying complete attention to you while also permitting you not to have to pay anything even close to complete attention to her.” Each of us had that earth-shattering realisation midway through our first Skype call, however many years ago. Incredibly, up till then we had never been “haunted by the suspicion that the person on the other end’s attention might be similarly divided”.

Lockdown has been more troubling for our “physical vanity”. Wallace foresaw the “shiny pallid indefiniteness” of seeing our own faces on screen. They are “not just unflattering but somehow evasive, furtive, untrustworthy, unlikeable.” To combat what Wallace terms “Video-Physiognomic Dysphoria”, the telecommunications industry devised “High-Definition Masking”. What started as composites of “flattering multi-angle photos” culminated in “a form-fitting polybutylene-resin mask”. We are not quite at that stage. Yet.

Background information

Our vanity extends far beyond our faces. Or rather, behind our faces to the backdrops that frame them. The early weeks of lockdown were littered with stories mocking politicians and journalists for their carefully curated bookshelves. But who among us cannot empathise with these contrivances? Wallace knew we would want to communicate “the sort of room that best reflected the image” of ourselves that we “wanted to transmit”. In my experience, this means having to resist the urge to tailor the spines on display to match the reading habits and political allegiances of every caller. The call ends up beginning well before the scheduled time.

The alternative isn’t much better. In Infinite Jest, people cover their videophone lens with a “Transmittable-Tableau”. These are “high-quality transmission-ready photographs, scaled down to diorama-like proportions”. Not such a ridiculous idea, given the wide range of video call backgrounds currently available.

The artfully staged bookshelf and the digital backdrop both run risks. The former can be construed as being horrendously self-involved. The latter invites the inference that there is something to hide behind whatever high-resolution facsimile the disembodied head is looming in front of. The key is to find the sweet spot between not appearing too concerned with one’s appearance, while shielding the call participants from the chaos lying slightly out of frame.

Which brings me to Wallace’s third reason for the failure of videophony. In its final throes, there emerged a “chic integrity” in rejecting videophony as “tacky vain slavery to corporate PR and high-tech novelty”. I have noticed a similar trend in recent weeks. Some callers now take a wonderful stance against vanity.

The messier the background, the better. Unsuitable lighting now trumps precisely directed anglepoise lamps. Which begs the question: why bother with the video component of video calls at all? Is the “self-obliterating logic in the microeconomics of consumer high-tech” starting to take hold, as Wallace prophesied?

Wallace’s narration announces that videophony is “less like having the good old phone ring than having the doorbell ring and having to throw on clothes and attach prostheses and do hair-checks in the foyer mirror before answering the door”. These inconveniences would be a small price to pay if it meant our doorbells would ring again. And I don’t mean for another Amazon delivery.The Conversation

Michael Hedges, PhD Candidate in Contemporary Literature and Sound Studies, University of Leeds

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Graphic novels are overlooked by book prizes, but that’s starting to change

Teresa Wong’s ‘Dear Scarlet,’ Jeff Lemire’s ‘Essex County,’ and recently nominated for a 2020 Canadian literary prize, Seth’s ‘Clyde Fans.’
(Arsenal Pulp Press/Penguin Random House/Drawn&Quarterly)

Dessa Bayrock, Carleton University

In the midst of a global pandemic, almost nothing is proceeding as normal. And yet, on a dim October morning, the Scotiabank Giller Prize shortlist announcement went brightly, briefly and virtually streaming into homes and revealing the five books that had moved one step further towards winning Canada’s largest and arguably most prestigious literary award.

In some ways, however, this business as usual was a disappointment. After all, the Giller recently changed its submission guidelines to allow graphic novels to be submitted to the prize, and even more recently announced that a graphic novel was, indeed, included on the longlistClyde Fans, by highly acclaimed Canadian author and cartoonist Seth.

But after raking in praise and aplomb for featuring a graphic novel on its longlist for the first time, the Giller — like so many other book prizes — just couldn’t bring itself to put Clyde Fans on the shortlist. Business as usual, indeed.

And are we really surprised?

Prizes reflect readership

Book prizes have long overlooked and excluded graphic novels from their submissions: if not officially barred from entry (as with the Giller, which excluded graphic novels in its submission guidelines for a quarter of a century), then unofficially (as with Canada Reads, which does not specifically bar graphic novels from consideration but hasn’t shortlisted one since 2011). As a result, graphic novels are a kind of literary elephant in the room: a format of literary fiction which many, including book prizes, refuse to recognize as “literary” fiction.

This is, however, beginning to change. Increasingly, book prizes are beginning to reflect a reality many readers, professors, librarians and publishers have known for years: that graphic novels do, in fact, have serious literary value. Graphic novels span a wide variety of content, and they’re visual narratives with the same complexity and depth as purely textual novels. It’s taken decades, but public perception has changed. And now, too, so are prizes.

After all, “good literature” is not — and never has been — a static category, but rather an ever-shifting, nebulous definition built collaboratively by anyone who’s ever picked up a book. After decades of marginalization, graphic novels are now inarguably coming to be included in this mainstream definition of what is “literary.”

Furthermore, this process of acceptance is helped in no small part by book prizes’ increasing support of graphic novels; the connections between canonization and prizes are well studied. When literary institutions hold up a graphic novel as one of “the most powerful pieces of fiction published this year,” as the Giller did when it announced its longlist in September, the reading public begins to rethink their own biases against what they think is or isn’t literary — whether they know they hold those biases or not.

A troubling trend

When we start to look at the history of graphic novels and book prizes, however, a more troubling trend seems to spring up: that despite their increasing presence on book prize long- and shortlists, graphic novels don’t ever seem to win book prizes.

For instance, Sabrina, a graphic novel by Nick Drnaso about “the story of what happens when an intimate, ‘everyday’ tragedy collides with the appetites of the 24-hour news cycle,” was longlisted by The Booker Prize in 2018 — the first time a graphic novel had ever been longlisted by the Booker.

Like Clyde Fans, it too, failed to make the prize shortlist. Earlier this year, Canada Reads similarly longlisted — but didn’t shortlist — graphic memoir Dear Scarlet by Teresa Wong, which deals with post-partum depression.

Ironically, graphic novels seem to have had better chances in the book prize world the further back we look: Essex County, a graphic novel by Jeff Lemire about a rural community in Southwestern Ontario, made the Canada Reads shortlist in 2011 — making it further in the process than Clyde Fans, Sabrina and Dear Scarlet only to get knocked out on the first day of competition.

Going back even further, the highly-acclaimed Maus by American author and artist Art Speigelman won a Pulitzer in 1992. The book (full title: Maus: A Survivor’s Tale) shows Spiegelman interviewing his father, a Polish Jew, about his memories of surviving the Holocaust during the Second World War.

Even so, Maus didn’t win a Pulitzer for literature, but rather a Pulitzer Special Citation — which basically equates to a Pulitzer given by a jury when they’re not quite sure what category to put it in. Is it literature? Is it art? Is it memoir? Is it history? The answer: it’s a special citation.

Literary evolution remains slow

If these kinds of approaches to recognizing graphic novels seems like gatekeeping what we consider “serious literature,” that’s because it is.

These prizes have been slow to shift away from a European high-culture approach, demonstrating how infuriatingly slowly the western literary canon evolves, especially in any direction away from the exclusionary principles it was and is founded on.

It is, frustratingly, a sluggish and non-linear progression — both in the public perception of what is and is not “literary,” and the ways in which literary institutions such as prizes reflect those perceptions.

This is only underscored by the fact that a graphic novel won’t win the Giller this year, and a graphic novel probably won’t win it next year, either. But eventually, one day, it’ll happen — and if this new trend of graphic novels hitting prize longlists is any indication, it’s a future we’re moving closer to all the time.The Conversation

Dessa Bayrock, PhD Student, Department of English, Carleton University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

2020 Franz Kafka Prize Winner

The link below is to an article reporting on the winner of the 2020 Franz Kafka Prize, Milan Kundera.

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2020 ACU Prize for Poetry Winner

The link below is to an article reporting on the winner of the 2020 ACU Prize for poetry, Geoff Page, for ‘Jericho.’

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2020 Victorian Premier’s History and Community History Awards Shortlists

The link below is to an article reporting on the shortlist for the 2020 Victorian Premier’s History Award and Community History Awards.

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2020 Blake Poetry Prize Winner

The link below is to an article reporting on the winner of the 2020 Blake Poetry Prize, Judith Nangala Crispin, for the poem ‘On Finding Charlotte in the Anthropological Record.’

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