Preparing for bed on Thursday night, I glanced at my phone. There were messages from Greece, Italy, from Scotland and South Africa, from friends all mourning the death of David Malouf. The texts expressed grief at his passing, but they all conveyed gratitude for his legacy. David Malouf was and is, and will always be, one of the world’s great writers.
A wonderful teacher gave me his 1975 novel Johnno to read when I was in high school. I still adore that book, for its acute tenderness, for its penetrating exploration of friendship and memory. From the outset, Malouf’s prose was precise, thoughtful. I recognised his fidelity to the beauty of English.
