The day I cursed David Malouf
David Malouf was revered and much-loved, although having a writers festival session at the same time as him was a problem.
This may sound shocking under the circumstances, but there was a time when I cursed David Malouf. Mind you, it was only once.
I happened to know David. His passing last week makes me, and all lovers of Australian literature, sad but grateful. He was a wonderful person, a real gentleman and he was, of course, revered.
That was the problem for me on this one occasion. Let me explain.
I was hosting a session at Brisbane Writers Festival. It was, according to my recollection, in a room somewhere in the Cultural Complex at South Bank. I sat there dutifully, next to my author, waiting for the crowd to file in. It turns out they were trickling in rather than filing in. So when there’s five minutes to go until the session begins, and hardly anyone there, you start to get a bit concerned.
I felt better when I looked up and saw several ladies come in, looking a bit confused. I waved at them and one of them piped up and asked: “Is this the David Malouf session?”
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“No!” I shouted, as they were at the back of the auditorium.
With that they turned and shuffled out again. We were left with the sort of crowd you get at your average poetry reading. Sparse is a word that could be used to describe the audience on that day.
“Bloody hell,” I said. “I hadn’t realised we were on at the same time as David Malouf.”
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His session would have been jam-packed, of course, because everybody loved David Malouf. Me too, except fleetingly on that day when I resented his magnificence.
I have heard David speak many times and he was such a quietly luminous presence, every word a gem, always. He wrote with such clarity and elegance and his poetry, the numerous volumes, is exquisite and completely accessible. He was generous to other writers and he loved Queensland, even though he spent a lot of time abroad at his house in Tuscany during a couple of very productive decades.
Like a lot of young writers, his novel Johnno was a bit of a touchstone for me.
I was lucky enough to interview David on numerous occasions and I would run into him from time to time at literary events or browsing in the Queensland Art Gallery. He was always friendly and chatty in his quiet way. He had this strangely magnetic aura.
I remember once interviewing him at Riverbend Books at Bulimba. At the end of the interview he asked me where I was off to. I told him I was heading back to Bowen Hills and he asked if he could get a lift to James Street where he was, I think, going to visit his nephews.
David Malouf wanted a lift with me? Well, I wasn’t going to say no, was I?
So, he hopped in the front seat next to me and off we went. As we were crossing the Story Bridge I couldn’t help thinking, what if we had an accident? I had a national living treasure in the car, after all.
I drove very very carefully, dropped him on James Street and went back to work.
Everyone will have their David Malouf memories and I cherish mine, particularly now that he is gone. I feel fortunate to have known him even if he did, inadvertently, put a dampener on that session at Brisbane Writers Festival all those years ago. Bless him.
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