392 resultados para Comparative literary studies
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Creative non-fiction published by Voiceworks.
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This paper considers the functions of Greek mythology in general and the “Theseus and the Minotaur” myth in particular in two contemporary texts of adolescent masculinity: Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series (2005-2009) and Matt Ottley’s Requiem for a Beast: A Work for Image, Word and Music (2007). These texts reveal the ongoing flexibility of mythic texts to be pressed into service of shoring up or challenging currently hegemonic ideologies of self and state. Both Riordan and Ottley make a variety of intertextual uses of classical hero plots in order to facilitate their own narrative explorations of contemporary adolescent men ‘coming of age’. These intertextual gestures might easily be read as gestures of alignment with narrative traditions and authority which simultaneously confer “legitimacy” on Riordan and Ottley, on their texts, and by extension, on their readers. However, when read in juxtaposition, it is clear that Riordan and Ottley may use classical mythology to articulate similarly gendered adolescence, they produce divergent visions of nationed adolescence.
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Interview and short story published in Avid Reader Magazine.
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The OED reminds us as surely as Ovid that a labyrinth is a “structure consisting of a number of intercommunicating passages arranged in bewildering complexity, through which it is it difficult or impossible to find one’s way without guidance”. Both Shaun Tan’s The Arrival (2006) and Matt Ottley’s Requiem for a Beast: A Work for Image, Word and Music (2007) mark a kind of labyrinthine watershed in Australian children’s literature. Deploying complex, intercommunicating logics of story and literacy, these books make high demands of their reader but also offer guidance for the successful navigation of their stories; for their protagonists as surely as for readers. That the shared logic of navigation in each book is literacy as privileged form of meaning-making is not surprising in the sense that within “a culture deeply invested in myths of individualism and self-sufficiency, it is easy to see why literacy is glorified as an attribute of individual control and achievement” (Williams and Zenger 166). The extent to which these books might be read as exemplifying desired norms of contemporary Australian culture seems to be affirmed by the fact of Tan and Ottley winning the Australian “Picture Book of the Year” prize awarded by the Children’s Book Council of Australia in 2007 and 2008 respectively. However, taking its cue from Ottley’s explicit intertextual use of the myth of Theseus and from Tan’s visual rhetoric of lostness and displacement, this paper reads these texts’ engagement with tropes of “literacy” in order to consider the ways in which norms of gender and culture seemingly circulated within these texts might be undermined by constructions of “nation” itself as a labyrinth that can only partly be negotiated by a literate subject. In doing so, I argue that these picture books, to varying degrees, reveal a perpetuation of the “literacy myth” (Graff 12) as a discourse of safety and agency but simultaneously bear traces of Ariadne’s story, wherein literacy alone is insufficient for safe navigation of the labyrinth of culture.
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David Almond and Dave McKean's The Savage is a hybrid prose and graphic novel which tells the story of one young man’s maturation through literacy. The protagonist learns to deal with the death of his father and his own 'savage' self by writing a graphic novel. This article reads The Savage in the context of earlier, 'Northern' literacy narrative - particularly Tony Harrison's poem "Them & [uz]" and Barry Hines' Kes — through the discourse of neoliberalism and the notion of the reluctant boy reader. It is suggested that Almond and McKean are influenced by currently dominant ideologies of gender and literacy.
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This thesis consists of a 46,000 word polyphonic novella, Unravel, and an exegesis, Picking at Scabs: the Underside of Grief. The works are companion pieces, sitting side-by-side, and together they plumb the complex depths of loss and its resultant disorder, painful longing, and sorrow. The novella, representing 75% of the work and creative practice, is a multilayered work, which scrapes at the potent unspeakability of the presence of absence in the lives of its chief protagonists, Hana and Guy. As the novella progresses, loss is unraveled to reveal the interplay of remembering and forgetting, past and present and the ways in which these knotty fibres are connected with the strands of memory, trauma, silence, and the uncanny. Each of these threads is woven into the novella and as they plait together, loosen and fray, they expose the mystery, lies and secrets at the core of the novella. The exegesis, which comprises 25% of the thesis, picks at loss to uncover and loosen a complex and worn tangle of knots and loops. In this way, the exegesis and creative work are constantly in dialogue and while neither provides all the answers, both stretch the yarn to reveal an enthusiasm of practice.
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Young adult literature is a socialising genre that encourages young readers to take up very particular ways of relating to historical or cultural materials. Recent years have seen a boom in Sherlockian YA fiction inviting reader identification either with the Baker Street Irregulars or an adolescent Holmes. In works by Anthony Read, Andrew Lane, Tracy Mack & Michael Citrin, and Tony Lee, the Sherlock canon provides a vocabulary for neo-Victorian young adult fiction to simultaneously invoke and defer a range of competing visions of working childhood as both at-risk and autonomous; of education as both oppression and emancipation; and of literary-cultural history as both populist and elitist. Such tensions can be traced in Conan Doyle’s own constructions of working children, and in the circulation of the Sherlock stories as popular or literary fictions. Drawing both on the Sherlock canon and its revisions, this paper reads current YA fiction’s deployment of Conan Doyle’s fictional universe as a tool for negotiating contemporary anxieties of adolescence.
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This chapter’s interest in fiction’s relationship to truth, lies, and secrecy is not so much a matter of how closely fiction resembles or mirrors the world (its mimetic quality), or what we can learn from fiction (its epistemological value). Rather, the concern is both literary and philosophical: a literary concern that takes into account how texts that thematise secrecy work to withhold and to disclose their secrets as part of the process of narrating and sequencing; and a philosophical concern that considers how survival is contingent on secrets and other forms of concealment such as lies, deception, and half-truths. The texts selected for examination are: Secrets (2002), Skim (2008), and Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood (2003). These texts draw attention to the ways in which the lies and secrets of the female protagonists are part of the intricate mechanism of survival, and demonstrate the ways in which fiction relies upon concealment and revelation as forms of truth-telling.
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The paper will describe the ongoing project, Imagining the City: Brisbane Short Story Competition. In 2010, as part of a study investigating urban planning and the gentrification of inner city landmarks, QUT researchers developed six personas to help inform the design of city apartments. Rather than view these personas as static, the authors solicited creative responses to promote further development. Submissions of short stories based on one of the persons, and set in Brisbane, were invited from the general public. Successful stories will be published in an online anthology and as an iPhone application. The paper draws on ethnographic fiction theory to answer the question, how can research, specifically persona and use scenario, be transformed into fiction? The authors suggest that such creative responses in the form of fiction may be useful for urban designers.
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Brisbane writers and writing are increasingly represented as important to the city’s identity as a site of urban cool, at least in marketing and public relations paradigms. It is therefore remarkable that recent Brisbane fiction clings strongly to a particular relationship to the climatic and built environment that is often located in the past and which seemingly turns away, or at least elides, the ‘new’ technologically-driven Brisbane. Literary Brisbane is often depicted in the context of nostalgia for the Brisbane that once was—a tropical, timbered, luxuriant city in which sex is associated with heat, and, in particular, sweat. In this writing sweat can produced by adrenaline or heat, but in particular, in Brisbane novels, it is the sweat of sex that characterises the literary city. Given that Brisbane is in fact a subtropical city, it is interesting that metaphors of a tropical climate and vegetation occur so frequently in Brisbane stories (and narratives set in other parts of the state) that writer Thea Astley was prompted at one point to remark that Queensland writing was in danger of developing into a tropical cliché.
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Examining the late style of a writer is like skirting around quicksand. End-of-career reflection can subvert long standing critical accounts; revisionist publishing histories or newly minted archival work can do likewise. And, as Nancy J. Troy suggests, an artist’s last thoughts are rarely planned as such (15). In the case of Christina Stead any consideration of late style is made more difficult because, chronologically speaking, her ‘late’ works were written some 20 years before her death in 1983. Thus chronology can be deceptive, as Nicholas Delbanco points out in Lastingness: The Art of Old Age. Stead’s last novel, I’m Dying Laughing The Humourist, was completed, at least in rough draft form in 1966, when Stead was 64, but friends and readers suggested many changes. The book was published posthumously in 1986. Stead’s work is receiving increasing critical attention so a discussion of her ‘late style’ is important, particularly given that her fiction seems to refuse so many attempts at category-making. This perspective reveals two interesting aspects of her late work: first her consistent engagement with the problems of age for women, and in particular women writers, and second, the consequence of a life-long attention to the representation of dialogic sound in her novels, a preoccupation that results in what can be termed an aural signature. My discussion refers to Edward Said’s and Nicholas Delbanco’s ideas about late style by way of a focus on selective biographical issues and Stead’s engagement with radical politics before moving to an examination of what can be called an aural signature in several novels. Her fiction demonstrates one of the agreed markers of late style: she was constantly looking forward and looking back through innovation in form and content.