No Man An Island

This volume is a stimulating series of spiritual reflections which will prove helpful for all struggling to find the meaning of human existence and to live the richest, fullest and noblest life. --Chicago Tribune

This meditative prose conveys the essence of the human place in the world -- past and present.

When her ex-husband dies and leaves Binnie an island off the coast of Cornwall, she has to embark upon a whole new life and try to come to terms with a dark past. There is also the stranger who had turned up in the village only the day before she left.

Taiwan is a peculiar place resulting in a peculiar cinema, with Hou Hsiao-hsien being its most remarkable product. Hou’s signature long and static shots almost invite critics to give auteurist readings of his films, often privileging the analysis of cinematic techniques at the expense of the context from which Hou emerges. In this pioneering study, James Udden argues instead that the Taiwanese experience is the key to understanding Hou’s art. The convoluted history of Taiwan in the last century has often rendered fixed social and political categories irrelevant. Changing circumstances have forced the people in Taiwan to be hyperaware of how imaginary identity—above all national identity—is. Hou translates this larger state of affairs in such masterpieces as City of Sadness, The Puppetmaster, and Flowers of Shanghai, which capture and perhaps even embody the elusive, slippery contours of the collective experience of the islanders. Making extensive uses of Chinese sources from Taiwan, the author shows how important the local matters for this globally recognized director. In this new edition of No Man an Island, James Udden charts a new chapter in the evolving art of Hou Hsiao-hsien, whose latest film, The Assassin, earned him the Best Director Award at the Cannes Film Festival in 2015. Hou breaks new ground in turning the classic wuxia genre into a vehicle to express his unique insight into the working of history. The unconventional approach to conventions is quintessential Hou Hsiao-hsien. “An excellent and groundbreaking volume. This book’s very precise analyses of the films as well as their context make it the primary source for any scholar working on Hou in English.” —Chris Berry, King’s College London “In this first book-length study on Hou Hsiao-hsien James Udden illuminates the most intriguing yet mystifying filmmaker in world cinema. No Man an Island is without doubt a major contribution to the fields of Chinese-language cinema and film studies.” —Emilie Yueh-yu Yeh, Lingnan University, Hong Kong

Australia is the planet's sole island continent. This book argues that the uniqueness of this geography has shaped Australian history and culture, including its literature. Further, it shows how the fluctuating definition of the island continent throws new light on the relationship between islands and continents in the mapping of modernity. The book links the historical and geographical conditions of islands with their potent role in the imaginaries of European colonisation. It prises apart the tangled web of geography, fantasy, desire and writing that has framed the Western understanding of islands, both their real and material conditions and their symbolic power, from antiquity into globalised modernity. The book also traces how this spatial imaginary has shaped the modern 'man' who is imagined as being the island's mirror. The inter-relationship of the island fantasy, colonial expansion, and the literary construction of place and history, created a new 'man': the dislocated and alienated subject of post-colonial modernity. This book looks at the contradictory images of islands, from the allure of the desert island as a paradise where the world can be made anew to their roles as prisons, as these ideas are made concrete at moments of British colonialism. It also considers alternatives to viewing islands as objects of possession in the archipelagic visions of island theorists and writers. It compares the European understandings of the first and last of the new worlds, the Caribbean archipelago and the Australian island continent, to calibrate the different ways these disparate geographies unifed and fractured the concept of the planetary globe. In particular it examines the role of the island in this process, specifically its capacity to figure a 'graspable globe' in the mind. The book draws on the colonial archive and ranges across Australian literature from the first novel written and published in Australia (by a convict on the island of Tasmania) to both the ancient dreaming and the burgeoning literature of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders in the twenty-first century. It discusses Australian literature in an international context, drawing on the long traditions of literary islands across a range of cultures. The book's approach is theoretical and engages with contemporary philosophy, which uses the island and the archipleago as a key metaphor. It is also historicist and includes considerable original historical research.

It was Saturday afternoon. The spacious lawn in front of Mr. Crawshay’s house was spread with bamboo tables and deck-chairs. At the porch stood Mr. Crawshay and Mr. Ambrose Pratt side by side, smoking long cigars, chatting and laughing with the familiarity of old friends. Mr. Pratt’s right arm was in a sling. “It’s time they came,” said Mr. Crawshay, taking out his watch. He wore a large panama, and his suit of spotless ducks gave him a festal air. “They’re probably squabbling for precedence,” said Mr. Pratt; “not on social grounds, but for modesty. It’s an ordeal, you know, Crawshay; and when they see your rig, and that purple tie of yours, they’ll be abashed.” “What’ll they say to the women, then?” returned Mr. Crawshay. “Upon my soul, Pratt, I think you are right to come in your old clothes; they’ll feel more at home. It never occurred to me.” “Oh, well, you’re lord of the manor; I dare say you’re right to look the part. But here they come, in a bunch. Mrs. Rogers is, perhaps, a shade ahead.” Mr. Crawshay turned and called through the open door. His daughter, in a dainty confection of muslin and lace, and a straw hat trimmed with pink silk, came running out, followed by her mother, an impressive figure in blue, and our three campers, in flannels and blazers. Armstrong also had an arm in a sling. Grouped in front of the porch they awaited the coming of the party that had just entered the drive. Mrs. Rogers, in stiff black silk, and a wonderful bonnet, marched along a little in advance of her husband, hardly recognisable in his Sunday suit of blue serge and a bowler hat sitting uneasily on the back of his head. Samuel Blevins, the general dealer, had affected a long frock coat and a tall hat. Henery Drew, magnificent in a brown bowler and a suit of large-checked tweed, walked beside Hardstone, the constable, disguised in habiliments that might have become a prosperous plumber. The rest of the company, whose names we do not know, were alike in one respect; all had donned their “Sunday best.” Every face, without exception, wore an air of deep solemnity. Mr. Crawshay took a step forward. “Glad to see you, neighbours,” he said, genially. “We are lucky in a fine afternoon.” He shook hands with them individually, a greeting that inflicted on them various degrees of embarrassment, deepened by the smiling welcome of his wife and daughter. Mr. Pratt contented himself with a general salutation; it was not until the boys began to crack jokes with them that the prevailing gloom lightened. “You didn’t bring your sister, Rogers?” said Mr. Crawshay to the innkeeper. “True, sir; she bain’t come along.” “She couldn’t face ‘ee, sir,” added Mrs. Rogers. “I always did say as she was making a rod for her back, though never did I think Rod was such a downright wicked feller. And Henery Drew, as would have made her a good husband as far as husbands do go, and now he can’t marry her without committing bigamy.” “Well, well! We must hope for the best,” said Mr. Crawshay. “Now, my friends, we’re all here. Take your seats, and we’ll have tea.” The company seated themselves. Maids brought from the house trays filled with good things. Mrs. Crawshay poured out tea, and Lilian and the boys carried round the eatables. Under the influence of good cheer the villagers’ stiffness wore off, and they began to descant upon the moving events of the past days. For the first time in its history the village had become a place of importance. Visitors had flocked to it from all parts; journalists with cameras had interviewed the actors in the drama, and expressed themselves very freely on Mr. Pratt’s refusal to admit them to his grounds, and to pose for his photograph. His modesty in this respect was a standing puzzle to his humble neighbours. Mrs. Rogers, for instance, was extremely proud of the portrait of her husband that had appeared in the previous day’s picture paper. “The scar shows beautiful,” she said, complacently. “Dear me,” said Mrs. Crawshay, with a discreet glance at Rogers’s broad face, “I wasn’t aware––” “Take off your hat, Joe, and show the lady.” Removing his hat, Rogers displayed a red furrow that ran across his shiny pate. “What a narrow escape!” exclaimed Mrs. Crawshay. “Ay sure, ma’am, ‘twas so,” said Mrs. Rogers. “And I’m certain a widow’s cap wouldn’t have suited me.” “Well, Mrs. Rogers, you won’t be so particular about Joe’s wig after this,” said Percy Pratt. “You see, if he’d worn his wig, his scalp wouldn’t have been touched; think what millions of people have had the pleasure of admiring your husband, talking about his bravery, discussing the track of the bullet across his skull. No one wanted to take my photograph.” “They took ‘ee unbeknownst, then, becos there you be, next to Joe, with ‘Pepper and Salt’ printed underneath; very clever, I call it, Joe being once a sailor.” “Oh, I say,” exclaimed Pratt, “did they get the others too?” “No, sir. Not as I think it a very good likeness. You’ve got your two eyes half shut, and your mouth is a very queer shape, like as if you was expecting of somebody to pop something in it–a drop of physic, maybe.” The villagers looked merely interested, the others frankly amused. Pratt blushed. “He must have caught you when you were singing a particularly sentimental song, old chap,” said Warrender, smiling. “That reminds me,” said Mrs. Crawshay. “Do bring out your banjo, Mr. Pratt, and sing us something.” “Wait a minute,” said Mr. Crawshay. “Before we begin the–entertainment, shall I call it?–I want to say a word or two.” “Hear, hear!” exclaimed Blevins. “‘Tis what I call an event.” “No heroics, for goodness’ sake, Crawshay,” murmured Mr. Pratt. Mr. Crawshay assumed the look of one determined not to be interfered with. “I just want to say, neighbours,” he proceeded, “how glad I am to see you all here this afternoon, in celebration of what Mr. Blevins rightly calls an event in the simple history of our little parish. You all had a part in the frustration of the most nefarious criminal conspiracy that has ever come within my long experience as a county magistrate. Thanks to the ingenuity and perseverance of my dear young friends, their refusal to be intimidated, their sleepless vigils and untiring watchfulness, the secrets of that criminal conspiracy were laid bare, my old friend and neighbour was rescued from a most distressing situation, and you, anticipating the slow operation of the law, but sanctioned by the presence among you of an officer of the law, were able to secure the apprehension of the whole band of criminals, who are now awaiting in the darkness of the county gaol the due reward of their deeds. Our village is to be congratulated on the visit of three young men, typical products of our renowned public school system, and on the public spirit of its own inhabitants, who, when the call for action came, forgetting all class distinctions, regardless of personal risk, braved the murderous weapons of unscrupulous villains, and nobly carried out the first duty of the patriotic citizen. I am speaking the mind of you all,” the worthy magistrate went on, warming to his subject, “when I say that we shall long treasure the memory of our young friends, their high spirits, their unfailing cheerfulness under persecution, their courage and ingenuity; and it is a matter of regret that, yielding to paramount claims, the claims of parental affection, they are leaving us to-day. But it will please you all to hear that, in response to my invitation–I may say to my insistence–they have agreed to visit us again next year; and I understand from my old friend and neighbour, Mr. Pratt, that he intends to acquire No Man’s Island, so long derelict, and restore the cottage as a holiday hostel for boys of our public schools.” Here there were general cheers. “Dear old Father!” whispered Lilian to the boys. “He gets so few chances of making a speech, and he does love it so.” “I won’t detain you longer,” Mr. Crawshay went on. “No doubt Mr. Pratt would like to say a few words.” “Hate it!” exclaimed Mr. Pratt. “One thing only. I’ve had a bad time. I deserved it. I was over-hasty. My old servants are scattered; if any of you know where they are, tell them to come to me. I’ll reinstate them–if we can agree about wages.” Under cover of the villagers’ applause, Percy seized the opportunity of unbosoming himself to a select audience, his companions and Lilian Crawshay. “Are we blushing, Miss Crawshay?” he asked. “I don’t think we are, because, you see, we are supremely conscious of each other’s merits. We really are benefactors, you know–public and private. Who would ever believe that the two old gentlemen were not long ago calling each other luna––” “Now, Mr. Pratt,” the girl interrupted. “Well, X and Y then,” rejoined Pratt. “It’s undeniable, isn’t it, that they’re reconciled through us? And as for my uncle and me, we’re quite pally; the old feud is healed, and before long I expect my father and Uncle Ambrose will kiss again with tears. Tennyson, you know. Anyway, it’s been a ripping holiday, and––” “Now, Mr. Pratt, we are all waiting,” said Mrs. Crawshay, amiably. Pratt obediently went into the house, brought out his banjo, and trolled out ditties of the most sentimental order. Presently Warrender announced that it was time to go if they meant to reach Southampton before dark. The whole company trooped down to the bank with them, and watched them board the motor-boat, already loaded with their camp equipment. Last good-byes were said; Warrender opened the throttle; and as the boat panted down stream there came to the ears of the silent spectators the gentle strumming of the banjo, and Pratt’s melodious tenor...FROM THE BOOKS.

This is the book about immigration detention that all Australians need to read. During the time of the Gillard government, 24-year-old Sydneysider Adele Dumont accepted a volunteer position to teach English to men in immigration detention on Christmas Island. She did not expect to find the work so rewarding or the people she met so interesting. When she was offered a job working at Curtin detention centre near Derby in Western Australia, she took it. Working at Curtin required her to live a fly-in fly-out lifestyle, feeling never quite settled in one place or the other. She lived in a donga when she was in WA, her life full of bus trips to the detention centre and the work she did there; back home in Sydney, she was overwhelmed by the choices people had and the things they didn't do with those choices. What kept her returning to Curtin were her students: men from many lands who had sacrificed all they knew for a chance to live in Australia; men who were unfailingly polite to her in a situation that was barbarous. Slowly, falteringly, these men learned her language and taught her things about their culture. No Man is an Island is the story that will make the issue of immigration detention accessible to far more interested Australians than any number of stern newspaper articles. It is a vividly told story that is full of characters and humanity. It is the story about immigration detention that all Australians need to read.