promise, and that it and its citizens will break anyone dreaming who is not natural to it.’
Twain understood Sydney, in some ways clearer than those who have lived in it, while at the same time being incredibly naïve about certain aspects of it. However, he understood the importance of the Harbour, and it is from here that he launched his dissection of the city, altering it forever. It might appear strange to an Australian that such an important change in Sydney’s history would begin in an American’s book (and published one hundred years after the first Englishman stepped foot on the soil), but after shaping the city and its political climate, historians and academics alike have been forced into recognizing Mark Twain’s legacy for years. The reader only has to walk down George Street, and into the floating mass of American culture that is presented in signs tattooing
McDonalds, Nike, Subway, Taco Bell, HMV Music
, and
Borders
onto his or her subconscious to understand the very basics of the argument.
The seeds of this gift (or curse, depending on your stance) have now been passed onto you, dear reader, with this new edition. In these pages, you will find the finest chronicle of English occupied Sydney, which began when the first of our chained ancestors stepped onto our shores, and the birth of the new Sydney when the most American of Americans began his tour.
And yet, still, the meaning of the Harbour and Sydney has not changed in all that time. It is as if it is immune, or purposefully resistant to anything that arrives. The result of this, is that time has only crystallized the fact that Sydney has never welcomed immigrants, never welcomed the poor, the hungry, or anyone who is in need, and that this mentality spreads throughout the country from here. It is a sad fact in this new millennium that examples are easy to find: Detention Camps that spring up as barbwire islands in the dusty sea of outback New South Wales, fattened with immigrants who have fled less fortunate countries than ours, are just one example. But then perhaps Twain, for all the change he brought, knew that this part of Sydney’s nature would not change. After all, it was he who wrote that ‘Satan made the deceptive beauty of Sydney’s Harbour, which is available for all to witness on shore.’ It is a sentiment that anyone who has lived in Sydney will find familiar.
1788.
Pemulwy, the scarred, black skinned Eora warrior, climbed into the thick arms of a eucalyptus tree. There, he watched his dead brothers row into the ocean on ugly, unsuitable boats, and fish.
The warrior had never doubted the Elders before, but he did now. He could do nothing but. On the ground, beside the grey eucalyptus, lay his spear, tipped with the spines of the stingray; while out in the ocean, the dead dragged one of the great fishes from the water.
The creature was huge and grey and sacred. It had been—and would ever be—since the Eora and other tribes had begun telling the story of the ancient fisherman Jigalulu. In the story, one of the stingrays gave its life to the fisherman so that he could fashion a spear to kill the great shark Burbangi, who had murdered his father and brothers [1] .
Yet, from his perch, Pemulwy watched the dead kill the stingray with a knife, and later, in the evening, watched them cook and eat it.
The Elders told Pemulwy that the dead, being dead, could do as they wished with the fish, but he disagreed. It was not just an insult to the Spirits, but an act of supreme arrogance that told the warrior that the dead did not care at all for their kin.
But it was not a solitary act.
Perhaps worse happened during the day, when the dead would take the young Eora, take their food, and take their land, giving them nothing but coloured ribbons and blankets that left them ill in ways that none had ever seen before.
Finally, on the branch of the eucalyptus tree, watching the dead eat the sacred flesh of the stingray, he was forced to answer
Twain understood Sydney, in some ways clearer than those who have lived in it, while at the same time being incredibly naïve about certain aspects of it. However, he understood the importance of the Harbour, and it is from here that he launched his dissection of the city, altering it forever. It might appear strange to an Australian that such an important change in Sydney’s history would begin in an American’s book (and published one hundred years after the first Englishman stepped foot on the soil), but after shaping the city and its political climate, historians and academics alike have been forced into recognizing Mark Twain’s legacy for years. The reader only has to walk down George Street, and into the floating mass of American culture that is presented in signs tattooing
McDonalds, Nike, Subway, Taco Bell, HMV Music
, and
Borders
onto his or her subconscious to understand the very basics of the argument.
The seeds of this gift (or curse, depending on your stance) have now been passed onto you, dear reader, with this new edition. In these pages, you will find the finest chronicle of English occupied Sydney, which began when the first of our chained ancestors stepped onto our shores, and the birth of the new Sydney when the most American of Americans began his tour.
And yet, still, the meaning of the Harbour and Sydney has not changed in all that time. It is as if it is immune, or purposefully resistant to anything that arrives. The result of this, is that time has only crystallized the fact that Sydney has never welcomed immigrants, never welcomed the poor, the hungry, or anyone who is in need, and that this mentality spreads throughout the country from here. It is a sad fact in this new millennium that examples are easy to find: Detention Camps that spring up as barbwire islands in the dusty sea of outback New South Wales, fattened with immigrants who have fled less fortunate countries than ours, are just one example. But then perhaps Twain, for all the change he brought, knew that this part of Sydney’s nature would not change. After all, it was he who wrote that ‘Satan made the deceptive beauty of Sydney’s Harbour, which is available for all to witness on shore.’ It is a sentiment that anyone who has lived in Sydney will find familiar.
1788.
Pemulwy, the scarred, black skinned Eora warrior, climbed into the thick arms of a eucalyptus tree. There, he watched his dead brothers row into the ocean on ugly, unsuitable boats, and fish.
The warrior had never doubted the Elders before, but he did now. He could do nothing but. On the ground, beside the grey eucalyptus, lay his spear, tipped with the spines of the stingray; while out in the ocean, the dead dragged one of the great fishes from the water.
The creature was huge and grey and sacred. It had been—and would ever be—since the Eora and other tribes had begun telling the story of the ancient fisherman Jigalulu. In the story, one of the stingrays gave its life to the fisherman so that he could fashion a spear to kill the great shark Burbangi, who had murdered his father and brothers [1] .
Yet, from his perch, Pemulwy watched the dead kill the stingray with a knife, and later, in the evening, watched them cook and eat it.
The Elders told Pemulwy that the dead, being dead, could do as they wished with the fish, but he disagreed. It was not just an insult to the Spirits, but an act of supreme arrogance that told the warrior that the dead did not care at all for their kin.
But it was not a solitary act.
Perhaps worse happened during the day, when the dead would take the young Eora, take their food, and take their land, giving them nothing but coloured ribbons and blankets that left them ill in ways that none had ever seen before.
Finally, on the branch of the eucalyptus tree, watching the dead eat the sacred flesh of the stingray, he was forced to answer
Similar Books
A Night to Surrender
Tessa Dare
Flashback
Michael Palmer
Dear Irene
Jan Burke
The Reveal
Julie Leto
Wish 01 - A Secret Wish
Barbara Freethy
Dead Right
Brenda Novak
Vermilion Sands
J. G. Ballard
Tales of Arilland
Alethea Kontis