No question there are here, as anywhere, unsung moments of supreme seriousness, nobility or tragedy - the sort described by Australia’s most famous writer (or used to be), Henry Lawson (1867-1922). One of his narrators, digesting the story of secret love, self-sacrifice and tragedy in a tiny bush town just recounted to him by a fellow swagman by a billabong, reflects: I lay awake thinking a long time, and wished Mitchell had left his yarn for daytime. I felt – well, I felt as if the Lachlan’s story should have been played in the biggest theatre in the world, by the greatest actors, with music for the intervals and situations – deep, strong music, such as thrills and lifts a man from his boot soles. (“The Hero of Redclay,” in Henry Lawson, Favourite Stories, chosen by Walter Stone [West Melbourne: Thomas Nelson (Australia), 1976], 53)
And yet I don’t think I’ve entirely misread Joan Makes History. Making a life out here you may need to make your peace with the fact that the great actors and musicians won’t play your story, or even hear of it – just as Grenville’s Joan does. And most people do, of course, everywhere… Maybe Americans are the odd ones out here for living with the illusion that somehow, some day, their life will be the subject of myth or at least a musical! (Not us bloggers, of course...)
Bear with me, folks; I’m used to theorizing about centers and peripheries from within centers (or my own personal periphery within a center), as I’m just starting really to realize!
PS
Here's a picture a friend sent me of Bairnsdale, a town near the fire fronts. It's two in the afternoon.
