MEMORIES – Part 1.

It is a mistake to go back to the scenes of your past, except in your memory.  In reality the houses are smaller, duller, in fact quite ordinary – while in memory they glow with personality, housing as they do the special events and special people that form the warp and weft of the fabric of life.

All the houses in which I’ve lived have revisited me in my dreams – some more than others.  In particular the ‘town’ house in Barmera, and the rented houses in Glenelg and Seaton Park loom large in my subconscious life.  For some reason the Barmera ‘town’ house, as opposed to the ‘block’ house, was crucial to my life – we did live there for eight years, the longest stay in any house.

I have visited most of the houses in my adult years, and apart from the houses in Seaton Park and in Rose Park in which I lived in my late teens, they all appeared to be much smaller and meaner than I remembered them.  They were huge houses, done up with great taste by my parents who could never leave a house as they found it.  Even the rental properties were not exempt from their renovations – floors were stripped and sanded, walls were knocked out (in the ones they owned), bathrooms renovated and kitchens over-hauled.  In later years, my father rather relied on my judgement, asking for my opinion on walls that needed removing and windows that needed widening.

My ealiest memories are of the stairs that led from the gate in the picket fence down deep into the garage at the back of Auntie Dot’s place.  We used to hang on the fence and peer down into the darkness at the bottom, imagining all sorts of creatures that were waiting to get us if we ventured below.  I recall that there were, in particular, a goblin and a dragon.  As we grew we discovered that there was a lane that ran along the back of the garage, in fact along the row of houses – a lane we were to use every day on our way home from Kindy and School.  Inevitably the day came when we had to go through the garage and up the stairs to Auntie Dot’s, where our mother was visiting.  We trembled, hesitated, gathered our courage and began the climb.  Halfway up, one of us saw a movement and heard a rustle.  A snake!!  We flew up those stairs in sheer terror and took quite a considerable amount of calming.

From this one incident evolved a spectacular nightmare that was to recur throughout my childhood and adolescence.  I was running along the back lane as fast as I could with a dragon pursuing me, slithering and scrambling up those steps to reach the safety of the yard.  But I was unable to get through the gate at the top, always kept locked to prevent little children from falling down the steps.  Of course, I always awoke at this point in the dream, sweating and shaking.  As I grew older and recognized the dream as it began I learnt to waken myself, tell myself that it was only a dream, and go back to sleep after an interval of intense concentration about something, anything else.

I remember climbing up a street towards Big Judy’s house in Pascoe Vale as a toddler.  There was a low brick wall outside her house which was two-storeyed, with a curved glass wall around the stairwell – very Art Deco.  She had a Scottish walking doll as tall as me, dressed in a kilt, with a tam on its head, and lovely long lashes.  My sister was very covetous of this doll, but I much prefered the house.

My father built a large Art Deco house in Henley Beach, South Australia, after we moved there from Victoria.  It was innovative, set up high on the hilly block with a double brick garage set below but in front, with a concrete slab roof that formed a balconied patio.  The drive went up beside it to the side of the house, plus there was a double drive into the garage below.  A rock garden bordered the property beside these constructions, and the back yard was big, lawned, with swings and a sand-pit for my sister, brother and I to play in.

The lounge room had a curved wall with large windows, the kitchen had the latest modern equipment, a new round-topped fridge, electric cooker, and black and white tiled floor.  The bathroom was amazing.  The bath and hand basin were pink, set into a black-tiled room – the ceramic wall tiles when wiped with a child’s wet soapy hand played rainbows of colours across its surface.  The bedrooms were lovely, and there was a utility room out the back where my mother held playgroup for local children.  We sat in a circle as she sang in her glorious voice:

           Good morning to you little boy/girl, little

          boy/girl, little boy/girl, good morning to

          you little boy/girl, what’s your name?

The child addressed would sing out their name.  When it came to our turns, my brother and I would answer : Hector and Georgina, which were not our names.  Then we’d all laugh.  I have no idea why we chose those names – it’s not a name I particularly liked.  I think it was really done to get a response from our mother who was sharing our time with all those other children.

I remember one Guy Fawke’s night when I hid in the bathroom from the bangers, with Pride, our Collie dog.  I watched the Catherine Wheels, and the Rockets, and the Roman Fountains, and played happily with Sparklers, but as soon as the Bangers and the Jumping Jacks came out I was off, with the dog close behind me.  I refused to come out until all the explosions had stopped.

My sister had a very bad accident at that house.  There was no railing around the top of the garage roof, and one day she fell off it, down onto the concrete drive below.  Dad was distraught and angry with himself – she was his favourite, and he’d caused her harm by not putting in a railing.  Of course, she shouldn’t have been messing around that close to the edge anyway, but she had spirit and was always pushing the boundaries.  He installed a rail after that.

My doll suffered a cracked skull in the garden bed there – I’d left her out accidentally overnight and the frost was so cold that it robbed her of all her colour and cracked the back of her head.  I painted pink cheeks, lips and nails on her with mother’s nail polish, but could do nothing with her head.  She was my favourite and I loved her dearly.  Even now, having had to replace her with an identical doll when she got plastic cancer – a condition where the plastic shrivelled and gave off a vinegar smell – I could not throw her away.  She is stored in a bag in a cupboard in the spare room.  And I can’t feel the same attachment to the replacement doll, no matter how identical it is.

My brother nearly ‘drownded’ in the estuary outlet nearby while we lived there, or perhaps when we were visiting Auntie Rite as we often did on trips down from Barmera.  We would roam along the waterway at the back to the estuary – the outlet had huge sloping concrete walls, with grooves for steps down its sides.  We loved to follow them playing at being giants, seeing who could step from one to another without slipping, or missing any.  My sister, by dint of her older age, was the best at it.  One day as we searched for tadpoles along the creek leading to the outlet, my brother slipped on the bank and fell in.

He couldn’t swim, and neither could I, but my sister had done some swimming.  Auntie Rite’s son was with us, and he jumped in and saved my brother as he gurgled and splashed about.  A man walking his dog came and helped us, and carried my brother home to my parents, who were horrified that we had been down at the outlet in the first place.  We weren’t exactly allowed to go there.  And, after that, we were strictly forbidden from going near the place ever again.  Auntie Rite’s son was a hero, while we were in disgrace.  The fact that he took us there was beside the point.

I remember on one of our visits to Auntie Rite’s that we were sent to the bakery at the end of the road to get bread for her.  It was quite a walk for children, past many houses including Auntire Dot’s and Anne and Charles’ place – they were named after the prince and princess, and were about the same age as them.  We teased a dog behind a big brush fence as we trudged to the corner shop.  There is no way children of today would be sent on such an errand.  We walked home hugging the warm bread to our chests.

When we reached Auntie Rite’s we sat inside her fence and picked at the rounded front surface of the loaf – just to level it with the crust.  We picked a bit more, tearing off strips of the warm bread and chewing it delicately.  Eventually we had hollowed the whole loaf out and were left with only the crust shell.  Horrors!  Now we had to go and tell Auntie Rite.  And what would Mother say?!

They were very angry with us, and we were immediately sent back to the bread shop with our pocket money to buy another loaf for Auntie Rite.  Mother was embarrassed, and Auntie Rite thought it was funny – we could hear her laughing as we hurried down her steep drive to her gate, on our way back to the Bakery.  We laughed as we walked along, picturing the empty loaf sitting, still wrapped around with tissue paper, on Auntie Rite’s kitchen table.

(C) Jud House  25/01/2013

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According to Abrahms A Glossary of Literary Terms the: “overall setting of a narrative … work is the general locale, historical time, and social circumstances in which its action occurs; [while] the setting of a single episode … within a work is the particular physical location in which it takes place.” (Abrahms, 1993, p 192) (my italics)

The fantasy texts, The Nargun and the Stars by Patricia Wrightson, and The Lake at the End of the World by Caroline Macdonald are both set in our world – Wrightson’s book in Australia, Macdonald’s in New Zealand.  As a literature:

Fantasy … reflects reality through unreality, life through illusion …. makes visible the invisible and illuminates the darkness.  It brings the wished for and the imagined into the rational world….  [and] arises from the human desire to penetrate the unknown and to venture beyond the here and now. (Saxby, 1997, pp. 231-2)  

Established in the opening chapter/segments, the overall settings set up a familiar, yet uneasy, ‘comfort zone’ for the reader – uneasy due to the fantasy element each contained.  To the reader, all was not right with the narratorial worlds, which both reflected reality through unreality.

In Wrightson’s world, making visible the invisible, there existed an ancient earth-element – the Nargun, a stone that consumed carnivorously when the chance arose.  Moving “on stumpy limbs” (Wrightson, 1975, p. 11) it made its way, over an eighty year period, from Victoria to the Blue Mountains in New South Wales.  Wrightson described the gorges, mountain and swamp of Wongadilla, where the Nargun came to rest, and further fantasy elements – “a chuckle” in the swamp (the Potkoorok), and “ancient tricksters” (the Turongs) that threw sticks from the trees. (ibid, p 14)  On the final page of the opening chapter, the human characters were introduced, reassuring the reader by their presence in this familiar yet eerie landscape. They were Charlie and Edie Waters, the owners of Wongadilla sheep run, and “Simon Brent, the sullen boy who was a stranger [like the Nargun]”. (ibid, p 15)

Macdonald informed the reader in the first two sentences that her world was not as it should be: “They told me there was nothing left outside.  They said the world was empty, finished.” (Macdonald, 1995, p. 1)  As the narrative moved from Hector to Diana, chapter by chapter, Macdonald introduced the environments of both protagonists, and the reader penetrates the unknown, venturing beyond the here and now.  Facing similar worries – of infection from “the illness” (ibid, p. 2, 9) and of survival in a polluted world – their communities had sought different solutions.  Hector’s community had retreated underground away from the contaminants, and were not permitted to return to the surface world. Residing beside an unusual possibly-poisoned wilderness lake, Diana, her mother, Beth, and her injured disabled father, Evan, with “his poor twisted leg” (ibid, p. 19), survived by growing vegetables.  Free, but with no supporting community, they were all lonely.

Caused by their differing environments, Hector and Diana’s contrasting physiques were established by their reactions to and descriptions of each other.  To Hector, Diana was “like a super-being, her physical self developed in the wilds …. [with b]lack hair… brown jawline …. angry red and brown face …[and] white teeth. (ibid, p 9, 8, 18)  For Diana, Hector’s appearance and behaviour led her to ask: “[w]hy can’t he bear the light?  Why is his skin so pale and spongy-looking?  Why does he speak so strangely …?  Why has he fallen apart physically after a little three-hour walk?” (ibid, p. 35)

Both authors continued to reveal their social settings and landscapes as their narratives unfolded – Macdonald by a slow unravelling of details, Wrightson by vivid consolidation.  Using many details of rural life: of the farmhouse, the swamp, the mountain, and the tree-felling, Wrightson’s physical setting took shape.  During Simon’s  car journey to the farm, he saw:

[t]all hills and ridges advanced and retreated, turned about and changed places, in a great slow Morris dance. High rocks and shadowy hollows hung with blue; green humps and ridges; slopes the colour of hay or of moonlight; the frown of forests. (Wrightson, 1975, p. 18)

Examples of the continual establishment of Macdonald’s world throughout her narrative are:- descriptions of the bird-life of the lake read by Simon in the journal at the hide (Macdonald, 1995, p. 45);  the stories told to him about the peculiar nature of the lake by Diana, Beth, and Evan (ibid, pp 38-9, 53-5, 74-7);  the letter concerning the plight/social circumstance of the cave-dwellers that Diana found and read (ibid, pp 152-4);  and the avenging nature of the lake which drowned the Counsellor thus freeing them (ibid, p.181).

Interesting was the use of caves by both Wrightson and Macdonald as important settings within their narratives. To shield the inhabitants of Wongadilla, including the Turongs and Potkoorok, from further harm, Wrightson used a cave to entrap the Nargun.  And as the Nargun was of their ‘dreaming’, the Nyols (cave spirits) were placated for their cave’s closure – they alone could tend to his needs.  Macdonald’s cave was also used as a means of entrapment, and as a shield – between the inside and the outside world.

Vital to both narratives is the setting of water – Wrightson’s clean swamp and underground stream, and Macdonald’s mysterious lake and underground flood. The Potkoorok used his swamp to hide the grader taken by the Turongs, and both he and Simon used it as a means of access to the cave for the climax of the plot. While Diana and Hector used the lake to water their vegetable garden, the Counsellor tapped into it to expel pollutants from the cave.  Because the lake had mystical powers of its own – it had previously caused a couple of developers to drown – it permitted the protagonists’ innocuous activity.  But it rose up against the pollution attempt, flushing the cave system to drown the source of evil – the Counsellor.

While the tunnels could be read psychoanalytically as birth canals from the womb-like caves, as facilitators for access and escape, they differ in both narratives.  In Wrightson’s book, the tunnels to the Nyols’ cave, varied in length – the longer “twisted and curved, rose and fell, with winding ways leading up and down.  The floor was heaved into humps and hills of stone.” (Wrightson, 1975  , p 111)  The shorter tunnel, was “a wide passage, low roofed and sloping upward steeply …. [that] seemed to twist through solid rock”. (ibid, p. 116)  It led past the bulldozer, hidden by the Nyols, to the entrance on the side of the mountain. Assisted by the Nyols or alone, Simon found negotiating the tunnels was relatively straightforward.

In Macdonald’s book, the tunnels were a maze, “twisting upwards in a jagged spiral and branching off in other directions at every turn.” (Macdonald, 1995, p. 133) For two of the captured community, fleeing with a message to the outside world, it proved too difficult – becoming lost, they died.  Thus Macdonald used the maze as a barrier between the cave-dwellers and the outside world of probable pollution and possible freedom.  Only with his Basset hound, Stewart’s guiding sense of smell, could Hector negotiate the maze to reach the surface and return underground. When rescuing Hector from the barricaded tunnel, Diana needed Stewart’s guidance. On a later trip, returning to the surface with antibiotics for her mother, she scratched her initial with a rock on the tunnel walls to mark the way.  She wondered: “why Hector and [she] weren’t intelligent enough to make some sort of marks to show the way we came through the maze…. [like] the children used in the fairy tale.” (ibid, p. 133)

As a setting, the barricaded tunnel, shutting Stewart out in the maze to die, caused Hector to question the life that he lived with the cave community:

We are a people of peace.  We would never kill any living thing except for food or in compassion.  The whole idea of our community is to keep life safe.  But still, that is what happened to Stewart.  This is what I could not understand.” (ibid, p. 31)

It also caused Hector to “follow her blindly through the night without considering the consequences.” (ibid, p 30)  The hide that Diana took him to was a place of isolation – not just from her family or for quarantine, but a place to think, quietly, alone – a place to learn about his new environment.

For Simon, in Wrightson’s book, initially the log by the swamp fulfilled this purpose, until he became aware that he was not alone.  He then took his thinking to the mountain. There, to mark his identity on the farmland, he scratched his full name on two boulders, one of which was the Nargun.  He climbed the mountain to “sort out the things he wanted to think about” (ibid, p.61) but found himself communing with nature instead.

He sat there … feeling the strength of the mountain surging behind him.  He felt the earth rolling on its way through the sky, and rocks and trees clinging to it, and seas and the strands of rivers pressed to it, and flying birds caught in its net of air. (ibid, pp 61-62)

Ultimately, he had to submit to nature, to trust in the protection of the swamp spirit, Potkoorok, and travel underwater through the mountain stream to the cave.

The setting of ‘home’ and ‘food’ were important in both texts.  Wrightson described the physical setting of the house, the peace of the place at night with Edie sitting “moving her rocking chair …  knit[ting] a sweater for Simon … [while] Charlie sat in an old leather chair … [by] the fire … his feet … almost into the ashes … listen[ing] to the news [on the radio]” (Wrightson, 1975, p. 21)  There was good plain food on the table, lunch bags, and constant offers of cups of tea: “Edie supplied bread and butter and cake to stop the ache inside him” (ibid, p.118) when Simon was hungry.  This social setting was used to create a haven for Simon, one that he did not want threatened by the Nargun.  When the time came to deal with the ancient stone, as preparation for their long night ahead, Edie served the meals “all wrong… Lunch was a hot dinner so that Edie needn’t cook later in the day, and afternoon tea included fried eggs in case it was really late before they could eat again.” (ibid, p. 139)

Macdonald used the strained ‘normality’ of Diana’s home and the artificial ‘home environment’ of Hector to highlight the importance of stability and routine no matter what the adversities.  At Diana’s, the nightly routine of winding the three clocks, marking the day off the calendar, radioing the no longer responding other communities, and preparing the vegetarian meal kept their family functioning in their total isolation. (Macdonald, 1995, pp. 3-5)  As a necessity for their survival, the tending of the vegetable garden established that Diana and Beth were physically active, and that their setting was a rural one.  It also established the nature of their restricted diet: “tiny carrots … {mixed] with hot beans  and smother[ed] … with cheese”, with no “meat or bones”, “potatoes with rosemary and tomatoes …. rice with some dried fish” (ibid, pp. 19, 34, 37). Stored in the grain shed were stockpiles of supplies, such as food, clothing, and equipment, which Diana drew on to mend her wingset, clothe Hector, and construct the irrigation pipe system from the lake to the vegetable patch.  By using the library books, rescued by Beth, Diana established an education of her world (ibid, pp 5-7), while her mother used them to relieve the tedium.

Underground, Hector’s community, augmented by many births of which Hector’s was the last, in 2025 comprised a hundred and two individuals.  Their ‘home’ environment was far from a nurturing, safe haven. Although they continued to advance scientifically, they had deteriorated physically, being pale and weak from lack of sunlight and exercise. Speaking in whispers, they lived in a gloomy atmosphere that was gradually, ironically, becoming toxic from “waste products from the generating system.” (ibid, p132) They too had routine, “[w]ork, food, rest, study, in a perfectly regular cycle” (ibid, p129) vital for the retaining of sanity in their supposedly doomed existence.  Their food was grown hydroponically, their families split up, procreation organised, and education controlled rigidly (revealed in the letter, p 152-3).  Mundane physical tasks were taken care of by caretakers who cleaned their rooms and provided clean tunics daily.

The animals in both texts were also important in the establishment of social setting.  On the farm there were obviously farm animals: sheep, dogs, horses, a milk-cow.  Wrightson portrayed the importance of these to the family – the loss of one sheep, a victim of the Nargun, was not just horrifying by its grizzly nature, but had implications of loss of income if the sheep were not immediately moved.  Obviously proud of his working dogs, Trig, Tess and Nipper, Charlie told Simon: “there’s nothing the old boy [Trig] can’t do, he’s a wonder. – Go out, Trig, you blockheaded old dingo! …. [H]e’ll hold them all night. – Stay, Trig, you bludging old hound!  You’re getting as silly as a wet hen.” (Wrightson, 1975, pp 72-3).  Once the Nargun is discovered, the horses are kept away from the mountain, the tractor taking their place as mode of transport, and the animals shut in their sheds at night for protection.

As companions to the lonely teenagers, Diana’s cat, Matilda, and Hector’s dog, Stewart, add a degree of domesticity to a setting devoid of most animals.  The only other surviving species seem to be the birds of the wilderness lake, endangered species brought there by Evan in an attempt to preserve them.  It was ironic that these birds, so close to extinction should survive when the prolific species appear to have all been destroyed.

By her use of dual first-person narratorial voices, Macdonald was restricted to describing the world only through the eyes of her protagonists, as each learnt more of the other’s world. Also seen through their eyes, the supporting characters were described emotionally and physically from two individuals’ points of view.  As the audience identifies first with Hector then with Diana, their involvement with the text grows ever more intimate.

By Wrightson’s use of omniscient third-person narrative, the overview provided allows the emotional elements of fear, love, hate, courage, demonstrated by the characters, to be experienced vicariously by the reader.  This device allows multiple points-of-view to the action – not least that of the Nargun itself.  His setting, “a gorge, deep and dark and filled with rain-forest, but where there was food and where the earth kept to its old rhythms”, (Wrightson, 1975, p. 11) was of great importance to him.  “In its cold, heavy way it loved the mountain.  It had come to love distance and sky and high rocky places;” (ibid, p. 77)

While both narratorial worlds are in reality our ‘ordinary’ world, by nature of their fantasy each has an extra dimension.  Wrightson’s world is our rural world, with a magical dimension.   “Wongadilla is a pastoral utopia …. [highlighting] the imperfections of the here and now … where Simon meets the spirit world and where his healing takes place.” (Saxby, 1997, p 242)  The setting is a recognisable Australian farm with recognisably Australian characters – Edie, Charlie, Simon and the grader driver.  As already established, their world is enhanced by the indigenous spirits of the Potkoorok, the Nyols, the Turongs and even the Nargun which evokes ambivalent feelings of fear and pity for Simon, Edie and the reader.

Macdonald’s world is our ‘ordinary’ world projected into a possible post-disaster future, after our land has been destroyed by pollution, and erosion – by progress. “Macdonald’s book create[s] dystopia ….a world gone wrong, where there is dysfunction and disharmony …. by taking human exploitation and individual weakness to the limit in our own highly industrialised and technologically exploitative era.” (ibid, pp. 242-3)  However there is the little pocket of wilderness with at its heart the mystical lake, protected and fostered by Diana’s family.  They, the wilderness lake, birds, Diana’s family, and Hector’s cave-community, are the only apparent survivors of the devastation that wiped out the land, the cities, and most of the inhabitants, both animal and human.  The difference between the fictitious world of Macdonald and ours is that our world is still surviving but with signs of pollution build-up that are ominous.

These settings were used by their respective authors to under-line the importance of the ideology embedded in the narratives.  For Wrightson the quiet ‘utopian’ rural setting “characterised by a kind of innocence and by simple, even homely values” (Stephens, 1992, p 128) acted as a foil to the noisy mechanised world of the cities.  There Simon’s parents were killed in a car accident, and from there the bulldozer and grader were brought with their noise and destruction.

The theme of noise and silence are integral to the setting: “And what’s wrong with a bit of noise? thought Simon sullenly” (Wrightsons, 1975, p. 19) while on his journey to the farm. There the farm noises, “dogs … whimper[ing], hens cluck[ing] … magpie’s call … a hard nasal cry [of a sheep], … [were taken by]  the silence [which] … out of them built more silence.” (ibid, p. 19)  This theme abets the conservation message within the text.  Not only is deforestation (by noisy machinery) bad for our environment globally, but locally offends and rouses the spirits of our land to revolt.

Macdonald used noise and silence as indicators of setting.  The silence within the underground community caused its inhabitants to gradually quieten, until they spoke in whispers, and loud noise hurt their ears as bright light hurt their eyes.  In Diana’s story about the lake, noise: “of screaming kids and fighting couples and televisions and rock music and pneumatic drills from council workers doing overtime” (Macdonald, 1995, p. 39) was equated with the crowded life of the cities and towns.  The noise of “the frogs … roaring and the birds in great flocks … shrieking” (ibid, p. 39)   equated with the peace of the lake.  Silence meant solitude, isolation, a thing she and especially her mother, Beth, dreaded.  Using the radio at night, Diana wanted another community to be still out there but Beth had virtually given up hope.  So in Macdonald’s ‘dystopia ‘noise was a good thing, silence repressive.

Wrightson used the rural setting “to evoke [and reveal ] the mythic past not of the European Settler people but of the indigenous Aboriginal people” (Stephens, 1992, p. 126) in the form of carefully researched non-sacred earth spirits.  She wanted to show the Australian reader, who have only had access to European mythical creatures, such as dragons, elves, etc, “that indigenous magic did indeed have powers of conviction and interpretation unmatched by the imported kind.” (Wrightson, 1980, p. 615).  As her spirits are of the trees, the swamps, the mountain, of stone, of nature, it was necessary that Wrightson used their landscape to bring the imagined into the rational world.  They “were part of the earth and this mountain.  People might come and go … but those others …had belonged here always.” (Wrightson, 1975, pp 61-2)  She wanted us to believe that they really exist in our world, as they do for the Aboriginal Australian.  But today’s world of the white Australian is one of mechanical and social progress which leaves little room for fantasy.

Both authors used the environmental warnings of our world to give meaning to their stories.  They used them as the foundation for the overall setting, of social functional and disfunctional circumstance, historical time of here and now and beyond, and general locale, ‘utopian’ and ‘dystopian’, of mountains and lakes, retreats from metropolitan life, in which their protagonists operated.

(C) Jud House  23/10/2012


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Stephens, J. (1992)  ‘Post-Disaster Fiction: The Problematics of a Genre’, Papers: Explorations into Children’s Literature, Vol. 3(2): 126-130

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Nargun and the Stars (1975)

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Alexander, L. (1971) ‘High Fantasy and Heroic Romance’, Horn Book Magazine, Vol. 48(6), December: 577-584.

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Tymn, M., Zahorski, K. & Boyer, R.J. (eds) (1979) ‘On Fantasy’, in Fantasy Literature (3-38), New York: Bowker & Co.

Wrightson, P. (1977) ‘The Nature of Fantasy’, in Robinson, M. (ed.) Readings in Children’s Literature (220-243),  Melbourne: Frankston State College.

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