A Discussion on the New Zealand Short Story (3)

江 澤 恭 子＊

A Discussion on the New Zealand Short Story (3)

Kyoko EZAWA

The second short story is another of Sargeson’s narratives, entitled Cow-Pats. This too is a very short story, one page and a half, written in an easy, simple style. In spite of its shortness, as far as I know, it characterises New Zealand. In the cold morning of winter, one of“my” brothers working on the dairy farm‘found out a good way of warming his feet up. He stuck them －gum-boots－ into a cow-pat that had just been dropped,1 ） and he said it made his feet feel bosker and warm .... So we’d watch out, and whenever a cow dropped a nice big pat we’d race for it, and the one who got there first wouldn’t let the others put their feet in.’ One early cold morning, at the hotel,“I” －the youngest boy－ saw:‘Just as the porter was finishing －cleaning－ the steps an old man came along the street and asked if he could warm his hands up in the bucket of water ... so he kept them there until they were warm.’‘Well, that was something I understood without having to ask any questions.’ Thus the boy realised, through strange and rare experiences, what living is. The next-to-last work in this series of essays is Vincent O’Sullivan’s Grove. Grove is a plotless story. It begins in a very simple manner with an external explanation of Grove’s face without any preliminary knowledge of him.

Grove’s face wasn’t injured, as you could tell, but it curved in on one side, so that his left temple and jaw were at least an inch further out than his left cheek. Whether he talked or smiled, his lips on that side stayed straight and together, and the right side of his face moved by itself. And there were two deep lines that ran from beside his nostrils almost to the end of his chin.

Grove, the protagonist, seems to us a strange, even grotesque character from the above. But he is not ‘hideous or funny.’ And the most characteristic feature, above all, is‘his head like a dented kettle,’ which is very important in this story. Mary and a disembodied narrator,“I”, speak of him: he is described varyingly as ‘delicate,’‘clean,’ ‘punctual,’ ‘solemn,’ and a trombone player for a band.

＊Kyoko EZAWA 国際学科（Department of International Studies）

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“What else is there?” “What else should there be?” “If there’s nothing else why do we think there is?”

He is an object of everybody’s great concern. He never cares that he is always called“Grove” in spite of his real name being“Graham.” Why does he read? “There’s reasons for books ... I mean the reasons are always interesting ... The reasons why they write them.” O’Sullivan shows us on the one hand that Grove is a purposeless man, but on the other hand that he is a great figure, immovable like a grove. He also implies that he is really living with a guiding principle, telling that he is‘put on some committee.’ His statements are, as a whole, very subtle, minute, and of thoughtful consideration. But his way to explain sexual love is very humourous, minute, unique, and realistic, but not vulgar nor overly revealing, as might be expected of a great poet. T. Reeves points out:‘His work achieves, in its best moments, a certain charm and uniqueness of observation within its context of minutely recorded incidents.’2） He states it on one occasion from the character’s own perspective but on another occasion in a detached way.

We’d been lying on my bed talking about him －Grove－ and I began unbuttoning her blouse. We always seemed to have our eye on the clock.

With only the street light from up the road her breasts were like two pale bowls.

Then Mary surprised me for the second time that night, and more than the first. She had gripped my arm tightly then thrown the blankets back and her tongue was working over my chest and down to my stomach.

From the above, we can surmise that J. C. Reid’s interpretation which follows is not appropriate as far as O’Sullivan’s works are concerned:‘the rarity with which love, sex and marriage are treated with insight and sensitivity in our fiction, the grave absence of joy in man-woman relationships, is a measure of the still markedly provincial character of our writing’ or‘When sex is not ignored, romanticized, or homosexual, ... it is often abnormal,’ although such distrust of normal sex is‘a reflex from New Zealand’s primary Puritan or colonial attitudes ....’3） Grove’s naivety is revealed through actions such as when he‘touched very lightly the hair that curled above her pink collar. It was a shy sort of touch, as though he were brushing the skin of a baby’ and as even sings for‘his naked woman’ when Grove is in the bed with Ruth,‘ten years older than he.’ In the following, his naïveness is bound together with something erotic.

It amazed me that Grove just didn’t see what was obvious as the day. I mean, she only had to hitch at her bra strap through her blouse, or uncross her legs so that she could ease down the heel of one

44 A Discussion on the New Zealand Short Story (3)

shoe with the toe of the other, for you to tell what a bag she was. You didn’t need to get as far as her teeth or her gritty hair or the ladder that began in a small hole behind the crossed knee and disappeared somewhere in the lump of her thigh.

However, the author revisits the imagery of the protagonist’s head and face over and over again till the end as if it were a central theme or the vital point of his story.

He had his hollow side towards me and I thought for a minute is he having me on? ... Ruth’s dyed hair brushing his dented side as though the hollow was there deliberately for her to nuzzle into. ... At first I took it for granted that he must have died of head injuries. It seemed the obvious way for him to die, as only his head ever occurred to you when you thought of him. ... And Grove there silent and polite and his head caught too in the red flare and then in the darkness ...

Grove dies replying to St. John’s parson’s question about whether he wants anyone to witness his death:‘no, it’ll be all right thank you.’ He dies as a man alone, just as Billy Budd4） is executed: naïve and pure, without knowledge of human evil. But who is a real man alone on earth?“I” is now left alone as a result of Grove’s death and Mary’s departure for England. Finally“I” is completely exiled when“I” becomes privy to the fact that Ruth‘didn’t have’ her husband. It was only“I”, not Grove, Ruth nor Mary who was really isolated at the end. It is just as Captain Vere, who convicted Budd to death, and the narrator were much more lonely and solitary than Budd executed. Lastly, I must refer to a Maori writer and his work. Witi Ihimaera is the first and the greatest Maori writer in English. He once said that he had felt compelled to write after he had read B. Pearson’s essay in 1969 which lamented that there had still been no Maori writers in New Zealand. Since he began writing, he has penned many stories of high quality. In all of them we see his distinctive view of rural Maori life. They deal with sadness and happiness in life. They are usually infused with love and anger, particularly with the hope that the values of the Maori will never be lost. Let me discuss The Whale as a case in point. This is one of his most famous, reputable and artistically accepted works. The theme is consistent with those found in all his stories about the Maori. Ihimaera says,‘I read in a newspaper about a whale being found stranded on a beach. When it was towed out to sea, it only returned to the beach again ... That’s how this story created itself.’5） We come, in fact, across a‘whale’ twice in this story. But it means nothing in itself. He wishes to show Maori people what has been lost from their once noble family, which they have lost, land or spirit, or what is happening to them. Therefore, the story itself is a metaphor just as the‘whale’ is a symbol. Throughout the book, his style is simple and unpretentious. It reminds us of that of F. Sargeson, but it seems to me more poetic in part than Sargeson’s. One of the reasons is, I suspect, that the Maori language is elaborately used on some occasions, which imparts a poetic tone through its vowel effect, and is bound together

45 東京成徳大学研究紀要 ―人文学部・国際学部・応用心理学部― 第28号（2021） with English words. It opens with no external exposition of characters or settings:

He sits, this old kaumatua, in the darkness of the meeting house. He has come to this place because it is the only thing remaining in his dying world.

From the beginning Ihimaera’s tone is very rhythmical, forte and piano. It sounds like the rise and fall of sea waves. All his family has died. All relatives are gone except his niece, Hera. So he is now the last of the dreamers with this meeting house, which is left alone, although his village was once a proud place and its people were a proud people. He tells Hera to come to the meeting house if she feels so sad when he is gone, because he remains after death to live with the house. The house is not only a physical manifestation of his past, it is also a symbol of all his race as he says,‘it is also the body of a tipuna, an ancestor.’ This old man recounts to Hera the old legends, stories that are unvarnished history for him, pointing to the carvings on the wall.

That is Pou, coming from Hawaiki on the back of a giant bird. He brought the kumara to Aotearoa. This is Paikea, riding a whale across the sea to Aotearoa. He was told not to let the whale touch the land. But he was tired after the long journey, and he made the whale come to shore. It touched the sand, and became an island.

He knows his world has died, but he doesn’t want the spirit of his people to die too. That is the reason he teaches Hera their history. After the white people came,‘the tattooed face changed. That was the way of things, relentless and unalterable. But the spirit of the Maori, did that need to change as well?’ He mourns inwardly that the Maori language, customs, tapu －sacred－ are disappearing, especially the meeting house, a symbol of the Maori, the floor of which is stained by white people and young Maoris alike.

No matter how far away some of the children went, there was still the aroha which bound them closely to this meeting house and village. But the links are breaking. The young grow apart from each other. They look with shame at their meeting house and this village because it is decaying.

One day people gathered at the meeting house to celebrate a wedding. But some people came too late. Because of their delay, some people in the village would not welcome nor open the door to the storeroom for the late visitors.

They had come too late. Heart was locking out heart. He had been stunned, this old one. Always there was food, always aroha －hope－, always open heart. That was the Maori way. The crowd had heard his whispered fury. They parted for him. His tokotoko, his walking stick, it supported him as he approached the door. The music stopped in the hall. The kanikani, the dancing

46 A Discussion on the New Zealand Short Story (3)

stopped. People gathered. His fury gathered. The axe in his hand. He lifted it and ... － Aue ... The first blow upon the locked door. － Aue ... His tears streaming from his face. － Aue ... His heart splintering too. He gave his anger to the axe. He gave his sorrow to the blows upon the door. The axe rose and fell, rose and fell, and it flashed silver from the light. And people began to weep with him.

This is the climax of the story. The poetic expression and the strongly realistic emotion and action are bound together here. There is nobody but remembers Hemingway’s style and locution. He, alone and lonesomely, plods wearily home at the beach helped by his walking stick. On his way home, he hears a young Maori’s wild party. The author employs the device of the old man over and over again to symbolise the inevitability that the younger generation’s time has come in place of his old times. The old man feels‘stranded here.’‘He sighs. Better to die than to see this changing world.’ But‘the sun is setting.’ It symbolises his own figures on the one hand. He sees‘a cloud of gulls blacking the sky ... and cluster upon a dark mound － whale－.’‘Their guttural screams fill the air.’ Does this symbolise the white people who have overcome this island, or young Maoris who are blackening their own future? And finally‘a whale,’ a most significant emblem of this old Maori and his island, appears:

A whale, stranded in the break water, threshing in the sand, already stripped of flesh by the falling gulls. The water is washed with red, the foam flecked with blood. ... The gulls shriek and wheel away from him. And in their claws they clasp his shouted words, battling and circling against one another with a flurry of black wings. ... And the whale lifts a fluke of his giant tail, to beat the air with his dying agony.

An island which was once born from a whale. The white people who once clustered upon the island and sacrificed a great many Maori people, and who are now depriving them of their last nobility of their souls, which young Maori help without knowledge. This old Maori, who valiantly struggles alone against this, who sticks to the Maori original nature,‘Maoriness’. But will this whale, an emblem of this old kaumatua, die soon? No, he never dies as the Old Man never does.6）‘A fluke of his giant tail’ stands for his last fight against the demon blacking the sky, at the same time the breath and the motion to come to life again. This old Maori, King of Kings, will alone keep standing at the beach in the darkness. Silence must be stronger than the sound of the sea waves. Well, will the old Maori win the last victory? No. Will he be beaten up? No. He will acknowledge “permanent defeat” in the same manner as the Old Man. Like the Old Man who secretly wished for lonely defeat, and found his loneliness, his way of living, in its defeat, when this old Maori resigns himself and endures

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absolute solitude, nothingness, he will live forever. From the above point of view, we may conclude that this work is essentially a match for Man Alone and The Old Man and the Sea, although its scale is rather small. I intended at first to discuss J. Frame’s The Reservoir, D. Davin’s Death of a Dog, M. Duggan’s Towards the Mountains in this essay. One of the two reasons is that they are very talented and reputable writers, who have been awarded literary prizes. The other is that those stories are all very remarkable and also deal with children. It is one of the basic characteristics of New Zealand short stories that the writer describes the children’s world or the world from the children’s point of view. It may be said that till the 1930s, roughly speaking, English and New Zealand writers have shared common experiences through war and slump. This similarity was deeply rooted and strong all the more because the new colonists, say, E. G. Wakefield, attempted to make New Zealand‘a second England in the South Sea’7） which would be something different from‘the wild frontier of Kentucky or New South Wales’8） formulated in the vein of British colonial tradition. These attempts originally created a strong sense of equalitarianism, democracy against oligarchy, anti-conservatism, etc. But after the times a new attitude appeared as Robin Hyde says:‘In our generation, and of our own initiative, we loved England still, but we ceased to be“for ever England.” We became, for as long as we have a country, New Zealand.’9） As a result of this, there were, in the 1940s and particularly in the 1950s, an unprecedented number of general writings by many new writers. And in the 1960s and the 1970s there were more writings appearing than at any time. Some of their writings, including short stories, can be said to have surpassed those of anyone except Katherine Mansfield and Frank Sargeson in the past. Vincent O’Sullivan, the editor of New Zealand Short Stories Third Series first published in 1975, also comments on this point, though a little modestly,‘the present state of the New Zealand short story is at least statistically sound.’10） We can consider the aforementioned writing glut from the following three perspectives: (1) The writer’s talent and the critic’s viewpoint; (2) The reader’s attitude, in other words, intellectual level and literary taste or desire of the people; (3) The state’s concerns and support. In New Zealand, the state has for more than thirty years supported writers and publishers, for example, through The State Literary Fund. This is a very rare system at the present time throughout the world as far as I know. But it is said at the same time that the most recent development has predominantly been made by private periodicals such as Landfall. Next, we should look at the reader’s attitude. C. K. Stead cites an American comment in his introduction to New Zealand Short Stories Second Series, ‘New Zealanders are among the most literate people in the world, and they consume books about themselves more rapidly than the citizens of any other country.’11） R. P. Blackmur refers to the same point,‘... the United States is a society with perhaps the highest level of literacy in the world except New Zealand’.12） W. Curnow reinforces this view as follows:‘... books of poetry do sell better here, relatively, than either in Britain or the United States. And how many countries possess periodicals as‘literate’ as The Listener or Arts and Community with comparable circulations?’13）

48 A Discussion on the New Zealand Short Story (3)

At this stage, leaving the first viewpoint apart, we had better look at the qualities and speciality of New Zealand short stories. It is worth beginning by noting that it is very difficult to specify their characteristics and qualities. Because, every time and everywhere, in general,‘the same circumstances have produced the same device in Australian and American writing of a corresponding period.’14） J. C. Reid sums up the distinction in New Zealand writing:‘the proletariat or a“noble savage” ideal’;‘its powerfully egalitarian bias, a distaste for privilege’;‘anti-urban’; ‘ambiguous in its attitude towards Britain and British middle-class traditions and values’;‘stubbornly narcissistic’;‘It wavers between a chauvinistic acceptance of social, literary, and historical myths and a despairing quest for fresh ones’;‘true realism is of the social kind’;‘timid in the face of tragedy,’ etc.15） This distinction is, I think, appropriate on the one hand, even if a partially different opinion is found, say, as in K. Sinclair’s phrase,‘The New Zealander’s egalitarianism, their easy-going good fellowship, their devotion to mechanical appliances, are also characteristics of Australians and Americans.’16） P. C. Meikle also roughly generalises about national characteristics of the short stories of some countries:

Canadian ... the sense of loneliness and melancholy that pervades so many of the stories ... But we have some humour too. What we do not have is much of that sophistication and intellectual intensity that distinguishes a good deal of the contemporary fiction appearing in the older literary societies abroad.

Scottish ... something between a poem and a reflection, a novel and an anecdote. The very best stories have a little of the character of all four.

Welsh ... the product of a passionate, rebellious and humourous generation, with a huge delight in life and no small relish for death ... little use for half-tones, hints, and indirections. ... For even our fantasy (we are strong on fantasy) tends to be as precise and actual as Celtic fantasy of a thousand years ago.

New Zealand The writer begins by saying that‘there is no specific New Zealand contribution to form.’ Then he goes on:‘If we cannot seek a special New Zealand quality in the form we may still find it in things less obvious than the settings. Editorial bias is surely not the only reason why almost all the stories here are about people at work or never very far from work. There are none which depend on wit and only one ... which approaches fantasy. Perhaps this, and the rarity of humour, is to be regretted; but the pervading seriousness may be significant.’17）

Among the above analysis, the last two elements“the rarity of humour” and“the pervading seriousness”

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are quite precise and appropriate points. It is very clear particularly when it is compared with the Australian story. Let me compare S. Ludd’s The Night We Watched for Wallabies with The Making of a New Zealander which I already referred to in the last essay (Part 2). Both deal with hard circumstances and difficult, even miserable living in their early colonial days. But in the former, the battle against poverty and the struggle against nature are more visually, concretely described with actions. The expression is ruder, rougher and the style is more active and dramatic. On the other hand the latter has, as has already been discussed, little humour and less drama throughout the story, but is very serious, suggestive, meditative, more argumentative. It has no actions nor climax. However, it is also true that there has never been in New Zealand a particularly indigenous literary tradition such as the“bush ballads” or the“Bulletin Boards” in Australia, nor has New Zealand ever produced such great, recognised writers as R. Campbell and P. White.18） Why? It may be partly because people ‘tended to prefer factual writing to imaginative writing’19） as Reid reasons. But this tendency was the same, not only in America and Australia, but in all the colonial countries, especially in their early times. Well, then, let us consider the New Zealand case only. Why do they have little imaginative writing? One of the reasons, I infer, is as follows: the New Zealand colony has from the first been better planned and carried out than in America and Australia, where little precedent, naturally led to their method of trial and error. Lack of trial and error, moderate climate and fertile land, no fighting except that against Maori in the early days, strong egalitarianism, easy-going beneath the welfare state; all these may be said to reduce human’s imaginative exercise or to cause a kind of impotency. Reid again refers to this point:

... our writers are hampered by the uniformly unexciting, gray mediocrity of their social environment ... they often spill their considerable technical skill and sensitivity on unrewarding characters and themes because around them there is no real challenge, no conflict such as America, for instance, provides. ... In a modern welfare state, with no grave social or political problems, it is all too frequently melancholy, hagridden, sad, testy, unsure of itself.20）

However, in the future, the circumstances will change because they have begun to review their own experience, as O’Sullivan says,‘All these remain. But the emphases have shifted ground.’21） Now returning to the first viewpoint: The critics, home and abroad, viewing New Zealand literature, have usually viewed its isolating, specifically native characteristics. But younger critics are excluding the above traditional preoccupations. They try to evaluate New Zealand writing from the purer, more precise literary point of view, and on that condition to put it before world literature. On Sargeson’s fiftieth birthday, a group of sixteen authors spoke of him in the Landfall in March 1953. It reads:‘a liberating influence on the literature of this country’‘word true to his own country.’ I thought at first glance that the implication was that Sargeson’s works have some specifically indigenous New Zealand characteristics. But, the article goes on to clarify that: he‘turned over new ground’ and‘revealed that our manners and behavior formed just as good a basis for enduring literature as those of any other country.’22） Allen Curnow says in his 1963 essay,‘Writers in our century everywhere practise their art within a

50 A Discussion on the New Zealand Short Story (3) tradition which looks to Hawthorne, Whitman, Melville, James, Faulkner, Eliot, or Stevens (to name only these few of obvious potency), taking little or no account of the specifically American character of their writing’,23） and this should be today’s traditional critical viewpoint. And as a matter of fact this attitude has already been found in such periodicals as Comment, Landfall and New Zealand Listener. From the above we must naturally distinguish each individual writer, say, Sargeson again. Although it has been said that many New Zealand writers have been influenced by European and American writers, for instance, Maupassant, Chekhov, H. James, J. Joyce, E. Hemingway, etc., they may have learnt from their forerunners’ techniques, they are always distinguishable. ‘Sargeson uses the speech rhythms and vernacular of the anonymous every kiwi, no one could confuse a story of his with that of another writer.’24） Accordingly, it is most important that what we have seen in New Zealand writing is almost the same as what has been seen in all the British colonies. That is to say,‘for New Zealand literature the way out is the way in; and what is most exclusively ours is what is“embrac’d and open to most men”.’25） Therefore,‘the quality and achievements of New Zealand Literature must,’ without the national modifier,‘be determined, not by the presence or absence of recognizable, indigenous characteristics, but by the talent and vision of its writers.’26）

Notes 1）‘Cow-pat’ is a slang meaning‘cow dung.’ It is doubtful whether children really did like it in those days. Anyway we cannot see such a scene today. 2）George Wing (ed), ARIEL: A Review of International English Literature (University of Calgary, 1974), vol. 5, No. 3, p. 31. 3）A. L. McLeod (ed), The Pattern of New Zealand Culture (Cornell University Press, 1968), p. 37. 4）The protagonist in Billy Budd, Foretopman by H. Melville. 5）P. C. Meikle (ed), Short Stories by New Zealanders Two (Longman Paul, 1972), p. 147. 6）The protagonist in The Old Man and the Sea by E. Hemingway. 7）K. Sinclair, A History of New Zealand (Penguin, 2000), p. 283. 8）Ibid. 9）Ibid, p. 281. 10）V. O’Sullivan (ed), New Zealand Short Stories Third Series (OUP, 1989), Introduction. 11）C. K. Stead (ed), New Zealand Short Stories Second Series (OUP, 1989), Introduction, p. xv. 12）‘Towards a Modus Vivendi’ in The Lion and the Honeycomb, London, 1956, p. 6. Cited by W. Curnow in Essays on New Zealand Literature (Heinemann Educational Books, 1973), p. 167. 13）Ibid. 14）D. M. Davin (ed), New Zealand Short Stories First Series (OUP, 1976), p. 5. 15）The Pattern of New Zealand Culture, p. 47. 16）A History of New Zealand, p. 312. 17）Cited by P. C. Meikle in Short Stories by New Zealanders (Longman Paul, 1960), pp. 137～38.

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18）J. F. Archibald published a weekly paper, The Bulletin, which claimed to be‘the one universal Australian newspaper ... and the organ of the intelligent bushman ... consistently Radical.’ This was an opportunity to make the literature of this country independent from Britain. It‘caught the new popular audience’‘by speaking their language and making articulate their thoughts.’ In every issue of The Bulletin, there were a number of short stories and poems by bushmen, which were called“Bush Ballads”. At the same time a number of poets and writers who were called“the Bulletin School” or“the Bulletin Boards” appeared in it. The common themes among them were: self-conceit as an Australian people,“mateship”, respect for the pastoral life, sympathy with plight and the bitter struggle of the pioneers, etc. The Bulletin of the 9th of December, 1899 says: It is the duty and should be the pride of every father and mother and teacher of Australian children to intensify the natural love of Australia, and to point out in how many ways Australia is eminently worthy to be loved ― both the actual land and the national ideal. (The Writer in Australia, p. xiii) 19）The Pattern of New Zealand Culture, p. 45. 20）Ibid, pp. 45～47. 21）New Zealand Short Stories Third Series, Introduction. 22）Cited by J. Stevens in The New Zealand Novel 1860－1965 (Reed Publishing, 1966), pp. 72～73. 23）W. Curnow (ed), Essays on New Zealand Literature (Heinemann Educational Books, 1973), p. 143. 24）New Zealand Short Stories First Series, p. 7. 25）Essays on New Zealand Literature, p. 154. 26）The Pattern of New Zealand Culture, p. 46.

Bibliography Sinclair, Keith. 2000. A History of New Zealand. Penguin. Davin, D. M. ed. 1953. New Zealand Short Stories. OUP. Curnow, Wystan. ed. 1973. Essays on New Zealand Literature. Heinemann Educational Books. McLeod, A. L. ed. 1968. The Pattern of New Zealand Culture. Cornell University Press. McLeod, A. L. ed. 1963. The Pattern of Australian Culture. Cornell University Press. Davin, D. M. ed. 1976. New Zealand Short Stories First Series. OUP. Stead, C. K. ed. 1989. New Zealand Short Stories Second Series. OUP. O’Sullivan, Vincent. ed. 1989. New Zealand Short Stories Third Series. OUP. Wevers, Lydia. ed. 1989. New Zealand Short Stories Fourth Series. OUP. O’Sullivan, Vincent. ed. 1994. The Oxford Book of New Zealand Short Stories. OUP. McLeod, Marion and Manhire, Bill. eds. 1997. The New Zealand Short Story Collection. University of Queensland Press. Reed, A. W. ed. 1982. A Dictionary of Maori Place Names. A. H. & A. W. Reed LTD. Kimber, Gerri and Wilson, Janet. eds. 2018. Re-forming World Literature: Katherine Mansfield and the

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Modernist Short Story. ibidem. Stead, C. K. 1989. Answering to the Language: Essays on Modern Writers. Auckland University Press. ‘Sweet As’ Project Editors. eds. 2014.‘Sweet As’ Contemporary Short Stories by New Zealanders. Sweet As Short Story Project. Stead, C. K. ed. 1977. The Letters and Journals of Katherine Mansfield: A Selection. Penguin. Williams, Mark and Leggott, Michele. eds. 1995. Opening the Book: New Essays on New Zealand Writing. Auckland University Press. Stead, C. K. 2002. Kin of Place: Essays on 20 New Zealand Writers. Auckland University Press. Jackson, Anna and Stafford, Jane. eds. 2009. Floating Worlds: Essays on Contemporary New Zealand Fiction. Victoria University Press. Manhire, Bill. ed. 1977. N. Z. Listener Short Stories. Methuen. Bones, Helen. 2018. The Expatriate Myth: New Zealand writers and the colonial world. Otago University Press. Sarti, Antonella. 1998. Spiritcarvers: Interviews with eighteen writers from New Zealand. Rodopi. Stevens, Joan. ed. 1966. The New Zealand Novel 1860－1965. Reed Pulishing. Stevens, Joan. ed. 1968. The New Zealand Short Stories. Price Milburn. Wing, George. ed. 1974. ARIEL, Vol. 5, No. 3. The University of Calgary.

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