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The first time I saw Richard Flanagan I was saying something loud and obnoxious like “Who’s going to save Oz lit?!”, waving my arms about and thumping the table like I knew what I was saying and it mattered. We were sitting at a table in a pub called Knopwoods (more on that later), a group of writerly types, talking about writerly things, and because I’d arrived late I had my back to almost everyone else in the pub. I backed up my insightful question by answering it—seeing as though my companions were obviously still racking their brains: ‘I don’t know. Maybe Flanagan. Maybe Flanagan.’ (Please keep in mind: they sell beer at Knopwoods.)
It’s hard to miss Richard (he’s ‘Richard’ to Hobartians); he’s tall with a big, slap-bald head, a booming voice (his ‘pub’ voice) and, on this particular night, he was wearing a florescent orange Hawaiian shirt that seemed blessed with the power to generate its own light.
The silence with which my question was greeted was not, to my surprise, because of its challenging nature. It was mainly (let’s face it: wholly) because they were trying to tell me, with distressed eyes and nodding heads, to shut up. But because Knopwoods sells beer I was immune to their subtle hints. ‘And, I mean, who even knows if he could do it?’ More sighs and shaking heads that were trying to alert me to something happening behind me. In the end I took a breath and turned around.
Luckily, Richard’s pub voice is louder than his shirts, and unless he reads this (hi, Richard), he’ll never know about it. Still, he was close. I chose not to introduce myself that night—though I did about a year or so later, at an event for the Booker Prize-winning Narrow Road to the Deep North where I told him I was getting a copy for my mother-in-law and could he sign it. (I’m not good with people.)
Hobart has been tarting itself up over the last decade or so. We’ve all heard of MONA and its benevolent dictator, whose galleries and festivals are attracting butt-loads of Ray-Bans and man-buns. We’ve also heard of the produce, culinary delights, fresh air, buena vistas and (relatively) cheap housing. The colonialists called it idyllic; seems the neo-liberals are too.
But there’s a flipside to all this hip and happening stuff. Hobart is also known affectionately as Slow-bart. It’s small. It’s quiet. Shit shuts early. Maybe it’s the climate (brass-monkey cold); maybe it’s because everything closes early; or maybe the people are just more intelligent, but people read here. Booksellers often punch well above their weight in comparison to Sydney, Melbourne and the UK. Also, Hobart seems to attract writers. Here you can drink and then be left alone to write—or vice versa. But there are still a few distractions for the literary-minded, and while they like to keep relatively quiet (unless they’re Richard), there are still some truly inspiring places that get the juice (as Papa said) flowing.
Read more at http://junkee.com/eight-hobart-haunts-for-the-literary-minded/55893#xwC88HOAoLUwkZcQ.99
