The first time JK Rowling was mistaken for a male author, she barely had to try at all. One wonders how her time spent in the publishing industry contributed not only to her choice of a male nom de plume but to the attitudes espoused in the early works of ‘Robert Galbraith’. There is an element, at least in the first two Galbraith books, that greatly assists in masking the author’s gender: the simmering undercurrent of the protagonist’s sexism.
Fifield still sits with Brandis in the Senate, and in the cabinet (Brandis remains Attorney-General). Brandis is well-known for his long memory and equally long list of enemies. Killing off the Excellence Program altogether may well have started a factional civil war. So Fifield compromised. He gave $32 million over four years back to the Australia Council, under the pretence that this would protect the smaller arts companies.
I have written for my bread and butter (usually margarine!) ever since I failed high school in 1965. I have made both a fortune from it as well as nothing. I have had popular daily or weekly newspaper columns that pay exceedingly well with The Age and The Australian and The Herald Sun and have often spoken brilliantly at office Christmas parties and just as often sat on the same Brunswick Street seat with not a single solitary crumb of pudding to nibble. I have been famous and fucked. But there is no feeling quite like seeing yourself in print.
As an Australian colonial possession from the First World War to 1968, Nauru was the ‘prize of the Pacific’, in the words of historian Nancy Viviani. Nauru, along with New Guinea, was part of what the Australian ruling class felt to be its legitimate claim: colonial control over the Pacific. Often called the ‘Father of Federation’ in Australia, Henry Parkes thought ‘we ought to hold mastery of the hemisphere’. Australia ousted Germany from both Nauru and New Guinea, and fought for joint British-French control of the New Hebrides (Vanuatu), where Australia also sourced slaves.
An adult psychosis in this reading of Bond is not, as it is often represented, a florid display of hallucinations and delusions. The psychotic episode is actually the last ditch attempt to cure oneself of a psychosis, to come up with a master narrative: it was always the fault of the CIA; I am a mighty wizard who can speak to Jesus; television communicates mystical truths to me. Or in Bond’s case: Nothing was my fault; I have been manipulated by an all-seeing secret organisation whose tentacles are everywhere.