In the March issue, we ran a review of three books on architecture. Well, we almost ran Jim Davidson’s review. More than half of it got left out in the paste-up. I printed an apology in the April issue announcing that we were now running the review in full. We didn’t. This time we managed two-thirds. I discovered this after the issue had been sent the printer and spent a sleepless night wondering how to ruin Jim Davidson’s breakfast by announcing the news gently. As a distinguished former editor of Meanjin, Jim is very sympathetic towards the hassles of editing. But this was editorial incompetence on an awesome scale. And inexcusable. You don’t announce this sort of news gently. You just blurt it out. It’s a depressing end to a stint of editing. At least from this sorry saga of incompetence, Jim Davidson emerges as straight-talking, generous-minded, and tolerant beyond reasonable demands.

Editing a monthly magazine on a part-time basis is hard work. So is trying to make sure that nearly a thousand books get noticed each year. And properly noticed, with some degree of objectivity. Which means, among other things, handling discreetly phone calls from eager reviewers, who consider themselves the most appropriate persons to review their cousin’s latest novel. From writers who have helpfully found a reliable reviewer for the book on the social implications of watching Halley’s comet. From publishers who know just the person to give an unbiased account of their coffee table book on the dietetic benevolence of prunes, Pritikin bread, and jogging. From people in Sydney who think we are a Melbourne mafia. From people in Perth who think we have a fixation about Adelaide. Of course, we publish letters from disgruntled writers. More treasured is a file of letters – not a big file mind you – from authors who have written in appreciation of what we are doing. They are marked by the writers, for obvious reasons, Not for Publication. Two insist that they be destroyed immediately after reading. Of course, I have not destroyed them - though occasionally I check my filing cabinet to make sure that they have not self-destructed.

Swansong. Dying swans and superfluous associate editors are allowed to sing erratically one last time ... To get back to the unsung people who keep ABR alive. The Booknotes people, a group that has gathered once a month for many years to take home books for the difficult task of writing an intelligent and informed comment in about a hundred and fifty words. Their reward is an excellent meal provided by Shirley McLaren, some cheap wine, good company, and a copy of the book. I know this sounds like an acceptance speech for that Mickey Mouse digital watch. I shall sing on, regardless. Thank you for helping keep ABR alive Vane Lindesay, Vida Horn, Ken Gott, Barbara Giles, Barbara Falk, John Anwyl, Max Marginson, Robert Pascoe, Margaret Dunkle.

I leave ABR with other mistakes behind me. Lost reviews. Duplicated reviews. Books that we have missed. In my next retirement, I shall offer ABR a retrospective review of Janine Burke’s Speaking. This was one book that through a series of mishaps never got reviewed. It has always seemed to me an exciting and important novel, that has not been sufficiently recognised: However, it’s not all a matter of disasters. While it seems to me a small but significant miracle that ABR appears every month, it also seems to me that the magazine looks better and is better organised than it was three years ago. (Notwithstanding the disaster I have already detailed – which was my own personal achievement.) Many people are involved in keeping ABR alive and moderately healthy, and before I get handed my Mickey Mouse digital watch, I am going to mention them. John McLaren, at present on leave, is the founding editor of this magazine in its present incarnation, and has kept it alive for seven years through his unfailing dedication, immense energy, and contagious enthusiasm. The book reading public owes him an immense debt. So do I.

There are many other people who have been extremely important to ABR. One is our former secretary/editorial assistant Michelle Johnston, who for years was central to the life of ABR and who still knows more about it than any of us. Patricia McWilliams now fills this role, and her hard work, devotion to the magazine and cheerful cooperation have been an unfailing support to me in recent months. Before I accept my watch l thank Laurie Clancy, my predecessor as associate editor; who has been generous and indefatigable in his support of ABR; Ludmilla Forsyth, who has been associate editor in John McLaren’s absence and who over some years has offered ABR her support, hard work and her unfailingly cheerful common sense and wisdom; and Kerryn Goldsworthy, who unwarned has been thrust into the role of acting editor and who has responded with dedication and generosity.

I was going to preach another sermon (monastic habits die hard) about the sorry state of reviewing. In summary the sermon read, reviewing is in a poor state. Reviewers are too timid. Too many mateship reviews are published. Too many reviews fail to give a clear idea of what a book is about and too many fail to give a forthright opinion of the value of a book … on one hand, on the other hand. Supposedly a nation of knockers, we are remarkably docile and subdued in print; In my swansong opinion, ABR can hold its head modestly high in this respect. But one disappointment as an editor is to find so few letters to the editor. We have survived one threat of a libel suit from an author who thought he was wronged. But I would love to see many more indignant letters. End of sermon. Almost end of swansong. One of ABR’s greatest supporters is my thirteen-year-old handicapped daughter, Brigid. She still cannot read properly. But she has an intense desire to write and has begged me to publish one of her stories. Here is one:

Today Daddy took me to my riding lesson. I rode on Peppy. Patrick was having a rest. Daddy spends a lot of time with books. I love books. But horses are better. We both patted Peppy when I got off. Peppy was pleased. By Brigid Hanrahan.