It is a demonstrable fact that Australia, where a rough masculinity rules the roost, has never really known what to do with its fiction writers.
For decades after the continent was colonised, the only printed fiction available was imported from England. Settlers who dared to write novels soon discovered that unsympathetic copyright laws and pitiful royalties made it near impossible to find an audience and make a living. Little has changed since, despite the best efforts of a handful of brave people determined that this country – despite and because of its burdens – deserves a literature of its own. Until his death last year at the age of 83, Frank Moorhouse was one of those people.
