The national railway of Sarah Island : Richard Flanagan's Gould's Book of Fish

In the latter half of the nineteenth century the railway became an emblem of technological advancement, stood for the improvement and progression of European life, and became a recognizable symbol for the achievements of governments and citizens. The implementation and use of the railway became closely linked with notions of national identity and character. The railway became an identifiable artefact in official history but at the same time it became a part of everyday life. Richard Flanagan’s Gould’s Book of Fish retells the life-story of a fictionalized convict sent to Sarah Island and who paints fish, eventually he metamorphoses into one. It could be thought that a novel set in convict times would have little to do with notions of national identity, technological advancement, and railway travel. However, Richard Flanagan, in this very complex, almost surreal, novel, has used the construction of a fictional national railway as one of the ways to explore Australia's complex relationship with history and space. The novel tells of the plans of a history-loving Commandant and his desire to build a national railway on Sarah Island. This paper explores how Sarah Island becomes a metonym for Australia as a whole and Flanagan's novel takes on a metaphysical dimension as he reveals the struggles that emerge when official history collides with non-official versions. The fabulations of the novel contribute to an historical reconstruction of the spatial/architectural history of the Tasmanian colonial project.

The book of revelations

"Nihilistic act embraces doomsday The Age – December 2012 By Rebecca Harkins-Cross For The Book of Revelations A WOMAN stumbles backwards through the audience, burdened by an overflowing backpack, muttering about the home she’s left behind. When she reaches the mountain onstage, she looks upon its cloud-swirled peak with awe. This stillness is ruptured by an involuntary outburst as she begins spitting out the scourges of the modern world – “nuclear explosion… war… car salesman”, she yells. This is the final show in La Mama’s explorations season, which allows performers to stage works still in development. Devised and performed by theatre maker and academic Alison Richards, it questions our eschatological paranoia that the end times are upon us. It is fitting then that it is premiered on the eve of the Mayan’s prophesised doomsday. Like many pilgrims before her, Ada (Richards) ascends the mountain in search of salvation, but her journey evokes sublime terror; she speaks in tongues, collapses into fitful sleeps. Richards combines operatic singing with an ethereal score by Faye Bendrups, her eruptions into song apparently brought on by the mountain’s ecstatic pull. Richards’ seraphic voice is haunting, the lyrics evoking visions of birth and death. But when Ada finally converses with the heavens, she does not receive the revelations she hopes for: the voice of the divine is nihilistic, urging her to accept the universe’s chaos. While the work is still fragmentary, unfolding like a dream, this is a powerful performance by Richards. Its striking imagery fails to cohere yet in narrative terms, but it is promising nonetheless."