EssayTHERE ARE ALWAYS two landscapes in a Malouf story. The one you can touch with your hands, and the one that is dreamed – discoverable by language, always on the verge of disappearing.

FictionSelected for Best Australian Stories 2006 GO DOWN TO the rock pools when the evening tide is out and there is a chance you will see them. Sometimes one will swim in among the mangroves in the tidal flats but...

FictionIN THE NORTH of Queensland, at the cusp of the modern age, many singular events were recorded and others, no less true for not being recorded, fell outside the legal jurisdiction and moral grip of both the old world...

FictionI WRITE TONIOGHT in a hotel room supplied by two congenial governments, having sent away the evening's inevitable prostitute. My window looks across an ocean of stray light. Chaotic currents updrift into the satellite maps I know of Beijing,...

FictionTHE MOTHER OF my daughter's best friend called him ‘the composer'. She said she bought ironbark honey from him, and that he had a violin for sale. I told her it had to be a good one; Mei was...

MemoirI SUPPOSE HE was from the provinces, the heavily shelled country in the central highlands or further north, where Agent Orange left behind by the American military still seeps from the soil into waterways and poisons pregnant mothers. The...