In 1977, in three consecutive issues, the New Yorker published Hannah Arendt’s ‘Thinking’. Each part was called an ‘article’, a strangely modest, journalistic word in the face of the length of each part of the essay and the profound subject. Thirty-two years ago, the magazine showed curmudgeonly modesty: writers were named in small print at the foot of each ‘piece’, there was never, god forbid, a sub-editor’s catch-all under the title, no short biographies of the writers were printed, and there were never, ever, visual illustrations or photographs to accompany the text. The issue in which the first of Arendt’s ‘articles’ appeared included poetry by Mark Strand; the long book review was by George Steiner; Pauline Kael was the film reviewer; there were four Saul Steinberg drawings; and Andrew Porter reported on classical music. The list of names we revere could go on.

In 1985, the year he bought the New Yorker and placed it under Condé Nast’s masthead, S.I. Newhouse Jr visited Australia and ate at Berowra Waters Inn, which I owned at the time. In a fit of pathetic supplication, I knelt (I swear I did) at his feet and begged him not to change the magazine. He laughed, moved on – so too the world. Over the next decade the magazine did change, especially under Tina Brown. Photographs appeared, fashion raised its ugly but sometimes interesting head, the contributors began to be made much more of, their names appearing at the top of their articles, and their past relevant performances listed. Nevertheless, excellent critics, reporters and thinkers, fine poets and writers of fiction continued to contribute, and there is still a steely attention to proofreading and fact. Its current editor, David Remnick, has my confidence; forty years on from that first subscription, I’m still hooked.

If the history of ornithology seems esoteric, of interest only to specialists, this is the book to open your eyes. Tim Birkhead is an eminent field ornithologist and a gifted and passionate science communicator. Each of these elements shines from this book, a wonderful distillation of the vast ornithological literature that has accumulated over the past four centuries. Effectively a history of natural history, it is a delight to read.

Anyone interested in the natural world cannot help but notice birds. They are common, diverse, adaptable, colourful, noisy and mostly diurnal. Their ability to fly has been a source of wonder and envy for all humanity. These characteristics combine to make birds relatively easy to observe, identify and study. Consequently, more is known about the biology and ecology of birds than any other group of animals, and many of the major breakthroughs in biological understanding have come from the study of birds.

The past is in Scotland

Dear Editor,

Christina Hill’s review of Peter Goldsworthy’s latest novel, Everything I Knew (November 2008), seems sure-footed in both its negative assessment of an ‘overwrought, undisciplined’ work and its appreciation of the novel’s compositional play, both intricate and subversive, with L.P. Hartley’s The Go-Between. It makes no mention, however, of the novel’s pointed intrigue with lyricism.

Ashley Sievwright’s The Shallow End, an often entertaining début, casts a wry gaze over a steamy Melbourne summer. Narrated by an unnamed observer, the novel attempts to capture an authentically idiosyncratic gay male voice while traversing a myriad of issues, such as heartbreak, sex, media sensationalism, love, cruising and happiness. Both witty and easy to read, the novel, though largely superficial, is filled with moments of droll sagacity.

Having fled the quagmire of a failed relationship in Barcelona, The Shallow End’s nameless protagonist forlornly returns to Melbourne and begins to wallow the summer away at the Prahran Pool. While filling his hours sunbathing, and enjoying the beautiful gay cohort on display, he becomes intrigued by the enigmatic disappearance of a fellow swimmer, Matt Gray. Increasingly animated by the ensuing media fracas surrounding the questionable particulars of Gray’s personal life, the protagonist launches his own conjecture-driven investigation of the case. As the narrative meanders haphazardly toward the denouement, and as the narrator’s new ‘sugar-pill sex’ lover (who, incidentally, happens to be another swimmer picked up at the Prahran Pool) appears to be linked to the disappearance, the greater mystery – just what went down in Spain – intensifies.

The evocative prose and cynical humour are Sievwright’s strengths; the conjuring of the pool in summer, complete with its eccentric regulars, is testament to this. Similarly, the dry commentary on media hype, and the playful representation of the erotically charged dance of gazes involved in the politics of a hook-up, are impressively rendered. The narrative trajectory, however, is ultimately dissatisfying. The issues at heart of the story – love, loss and the emergence from emotional darkness – frequently take the backseat. Though promising to lead us into deeper water, The Shallow End remains, disappointingly, where its title suggests.