Kylie Tennant, Tiburon (review)
Compassion was, indeed, a scarce commodity in the thirties, vanishing underground with the stream of money and leaving us with dry eroded faces, cracked into grim lines, a desperate humour to defend us from grief
Catherine Helen Spence, A Week in the Future (review)
In the hundred years that had elapsed since I had known the world, first had come a cataclysm sweeping away the old foundations and much that had been reared upon them, and from these had gradually emerged a new society
Kylie Tennant, Ma Jones and the Little White Cannibals
These are stories of a world whose time, though not foreshadowed here, was coming to an end.
Rosa Praed, The Bond of Wedlock (review)
Obviously, Praed saw women of her time as damned if they did conform to society’s standards and damned if they did not.
Eleanor Dark, Slow Dawning (review)
by Debbie Robson. To me, as a reader in the 21st century the novel is not the melodrama that Dark and even her biographer, Barbara Brooks, claims it is. I found the book a wonderful barometer of the twenties.
Ernestine Hill, The Great Australian Loneliness (review)
It was in July, 1930, that I first set out, a wandering ‘copy boy’ with swag and typewriter, to find what lay beyond the railway lines. Across the painted deserts and the pearling seas
