Oh look. I just have to post it. Bear with me.
This is Tessa Duder’s review from the NZ version of the Australian Women’s Weekly:

IT’S REFRESHING TO FIND a rollicking children’s tale that both boys and girls will enjoy.
The heroine of Australian-born Kelly Gardiner’s fine debut novel, Ocean Without End, is 12-year-old Lily Swann, and her world is one of pirates, tall ships, slaves and sword-fighting.
Ocean Without End is the first of the Swash?buckler trilogy, The second, The Pirate’s Revenge, is due out in October.
In the best traditions of historical children’s fiction by the author’s heroes like Rosemary Sutcliffe and Geoffrey Trease, Ocean Without End has an easy authenticity borne of painstaking research.
Kelly Gardiner has a Masters degree in literature, and also works as a journalist and editor.
Apart from extensive internet and library research, Gardiner visited Malta, where she “retraced every step” of Lily’s adventures. She added skills learned as a junior fencing champion in Melbourne to create In Lily Swann a wholly believable, if reluctant, pirate girl.
Abducted from her home by pirates, Lily becomes their leader, embroiled in a quest that takes her ship halfway round the Mediterranean.
The dialogue is convincing, the sailing details spot-on and an earthy humour hints at Johnny Depp’s Pirates of the Caribbean.
Among the standard characters – the fat but caring cook, evil pirate chief Diablo, and Carol [ha! don’t tell Carlo] the enslaved aristocrat – Lily is a confident, resourceful girl who is not afraid of a challenge.
This is a great read for children aged eight-plus and an effortless European history lesson.

And if you’re quick, I think this Sunday is the last 50% discount offer on Ocean Without End in the Sunday Star Times (for NZ people only, sorry): look for the Great Kiwi Reads coupon in the Focus section.

In The LRB this fortnight is this review by Colin Burrow of Donne: The Reformed Soul by John Stubbs, the “decent” new biography of the irreverent Reverend:

Literary biography is one of the background noises of our age. It’s a decent, friendly sort of hum, like the Sunday papers or chatter on a train. It gives the punters a bit of history and a bit of literature, and perhaps a bit of gossip, and what’s more it saves them the trouble of reading history. And poems too, for that matter. Not to mention the ordeal of ploughing through a load of literary criticism.

One might also argue that with such thoughtful reviews, the punters need never even buy the book, especially with lines like this:

Reading poems is usually, if things go well, a process of losing and finding one’s balance, and then wondering if one has really grasped the thing after all.

Quite. Indeed Burrows’ advice is to read the poems (and, I would argue, the sermons) if you want to understand the man – don’t bother with a biography.
But I suspect I will have to read the book, as I’ve always had a soft spot for the old flirt and all his contradictions. Sunne Rising remains the poem closest to my heart, no matter what any biographer may say.

New look. Was so sick of the old blog.
All right?

The Pirate’s Revenge is now afloat in the bookshops, after a minor flurry of radio interviews and a bit of breath-holding until reviews appear.
But this week my focus is on Welsh Black cattle and building barbecues at my day job. Sometimes the dichotomy gets a bit surreal. Two weeks of the month I read books like A History of Sheep in New Zealand, the next week I read a few kids books either for fun or for study, or history books for fiction research, and then if I have a few days “off” I get to read something sensible like a travel narrative or a grown-up novel. Occasionally, as with Tales from the Country, some of these aspects of life overlap: now I’ve stopped weeping at Brian Viner, I’m onto Chris Stewart’s Apple Blossom Appreciation Society, which is part travel book, part escape to the country memoir.
Then on Saturday it’s off to Melbourne for my niece’s birthday, school visits, another launch, and another world altogether. I have a little place of my own in the country there, a hundred-year-old church surrounded by sheep paddocks and filled with stuff. My stuff. Very important stuff, like my great-aunt Myrtle’s fly rod and a wide range of old agricultural implements. And a whole shelf of those marvellous 1950s Readers’ Club or Book Circle hardbacks about somebody or other’s fascinating adventures among the natives in the Amazon or the New Guinea Highlands or perhaps Kent; all with fabulous dust jackets, bought for 50 cents each at Alexandra Op Shop and perfect for weekends in the country.
Although by the time I get there, I might be reading Mrs Wishy Washy or Vikings, Lords of the Sea. Or A Short History of Gum Boots in New Zealand.

Can’t blog. Too busy laughing my head off at Brian Viner’s Tales of the Country. Sobbed with laughter so much last night my girlfriend feared for my sanity. Perhaps not for the first time.
Off to the Pink Star Walk tonight around the Domain – a breast cancer foundation charity/education event.
You have to wear pink. And fairy wings.
My girlfriend is a “wing judge” and she seems to have somehow channelled Anna Wintour and found herself a “wing slave” amongst the staff at work who whipped up a set covered in plastic flowers from a lei and large pink jewels. Outrageous.
Nobody told me you had to wear pink until after I’d registered. Red might be the best I can do.

The always thoughtful David Malouf addressed the National Library of Australia’s literature conference, ‘Love and Desire’, this weekend. His speech appears (in edited form) in The Age:

Nothing in the whole heady business of writing is more mysterious than the relationship between writer and reader. That is, the spell that is cast on the willing reader by the writer’s voice; the way we internalise that voice and make it, for the time of the reading, our own, so that the experience it brings us seems no less personal and real than what we experience in the world.
When we speak of being unable to put a book down, it isn’t that we can’t wait to find out what happens next. It’s that we don’t want to give up the close and quite tender intimacy that has been established; we do not want to break the spell.
… This is what we, as writers, deal in daily, a dimension, continuously negotiated, of mind, tone, language, where the writer’s consciousness and the reader’s imperceptibly merge, in an intimacy where, all conditions being propitious, I and other, mind and the world, are one.

All the best stories in the world are but one story in reality – the story of escape.
It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times, how to escape.
~ Arthur Christopher Benson

If you’re listening to the radio on Sunday, tune into National Radio for the lovely Lynn Freeman’s Arts on Sunday show and there I’ll be, chatting about pirates.
What else?

(For people outside NZ, a podcast will be available after the show.)

I feel like I’m taking over the airwaves next week, from Coromandel to Canterbury, as the pirate’s revenge upon an unsuspecting populace begins.

I thought I was blase about last night’s book launch until I actually got to Jabberwocky, saw all the posters all over the window, and couldn’t extricate myself fast enough from the taxi driver who was offering to distribute my books in India (he’s very versatile – also a dairy farmer in his spare time).
It’s a bit like having a 40th birthday, except you don’t have to clean up afterwards. All about me. I’m not very good at that.
It’ll be more extreme in Melbourne, my home town, next month, since my entire family will be there (except my brother who will be at Mount Everest, which is the best excuse I’ve ever heard), Mum will cry (don’t pretend you won’t, I know you), and half the people I’ve ever known in my life will be staring at me.
I think I’ve changed my mind.
Nevertheless it’s at Readings in Bay Street on October 18. That’s the old Port Melbourne post office.
I was born in Port. Well, technically I was born at the Royal Women’s, but the Borough is my spiritual home, which is why I wanted to have the next launch there. Many major points in my life have occurred in Bay Street: weddings, christenings, funerals, and my debut at the age of three, in hot pink shantung, as a flower girl. I was forced to wear a prosthetic hair bun, which looked a little like a furry cinnamon doughnut and was supposed to make me look like I wasn’t a ratbag little tomboy.
That was the last time anyone succeeded in that endeavour.
When my grandfather was a kid, he could have stood in the middle of Bay Street and looked towards the beach and seen a forest of masts. And when I was a kid, he’d take us to see the ships at Station Pier. He was a warfie, and back then it was all still nets and crates and ropes and hooks. Small cranes, but no containers, so when a ship was in, the wharf looked alive – not like the Legoland you see on a modern wharf. Streamers from the passenger ships. Baggage sitting out in the open. Blokes shouting, unloading bikes and brown cardboard suitcases with labels all over them, or hessian sacks and wooden boxes.
One day, there was a huge sail training ship, probably the Argentinian Navy’s Libertad. Everything was white: the officers’ uniforms and dazzling teeth, the holystoned decks, the hull. It was covered in gold trim and bright brass fittings.
That’s the day I fell in love with sailing ships. So it’s only fitting that The Pirate’s Revenge be launched upon the briny in Bay Street.

It’s the NZ launch of The Pirate’s Revenge, book two in the Swashbuckler trilogy, this evening.
It’s at 6pm at Jabberwocky Books, 202 Dominion Road, Mt Eden. You are most welcome.