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I want to die. I do not want to be mad...It is like my body is a house, and some visitor has come, and attacked the person who lived there.
After an Australian patrol officer commits suicide on a remote New Guinea island in 1959, five witnesses are called to a government inquiry. Each has a disturbing story to tell: strand by strand, the mystery of the officer’s past is unravelled. But what of other visitants, like the unidentified flying object and the cargo cult it has inspired on the island? Informed by Randolph Stow’s experiences, Visitants is an original, astonishing investigation of colonialism.
Julian Randolph ‘Mick’ Stow was born in Geraldton, Western Australia, in 1935. He attended local schools before boarding at Guildford Grammar in Perth, where the renowned author Kenneth Mackenzie had been a student.
While at university he sent his poems to a British publisher. The resulting collection, Act One, won the Australian Literature Society’s Gold Medal in 1957—as did the prolific young writer’s third novel, To the Islands, the following year. To the Islands also won the 1958 Miles Franklin Literary Award. Stow reworked the novel for a second edition almost twenty-five years later, but never allowed its two predecessors to be republished.
He worked briefly as an anthropologist’s assistant in New Guinea—an experience that subsequently informed Visitants, one of three masterful late novels—then fell seriously ill and returned to Australia. In the 1960s he lectured at universities in Australia and England, and lived in America on a Harkness fellowship. He published his second collection of verse, Outrider; the novel Tourmaline, on which critical opinion was divided; and his most popular fiction, The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea and Midnite.
For years afterwards Stow produced mainly poetry, libretti and reviews. In 1969 he settled permanently in England: first in Suffolk, then in Essex, where he moved in 1981. He received the 1979 Patrick White Award.
Randolph Stow died in 2010, aged seventy-four. A private man, a prodigiously gifted yet intermittently silent author, he has been hailed as ‘the least visible figure of that great twentieth-century triumvirate of Australian novelists whose other members are Patrick White and Christina Stead’.
Praise for Visitants
‘A brilliant, ambitious novel.’ Sydney Morning Herald
‘Tautly and vibrantly written, and brilliantly evocative of its Trobriand Islands setting.’ Australian Book Review
288 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1981
The light falls through the shutters green with leaves. His paths on the matting shine. If you knew nothing of the house, you would know of him from the shine. You would say: There is someone here who walks and walks between the shutters. Someone who leans with his arms on the window-sills to watch the sea.
A house is a conch, he said; and I thought of the sound.
But when Saliba walked near them to go to the dinghy Sagova jumped to his feet, because the sand was so narrow that he saw she would have to step over their legs almost, and he was nervous. And he kept looking down at Mister Cawdor and Mister Dalwood and muttering: ‘Taubada, taubada,’ until Mister Dalwood stood up too, though he did not understand the reason. But Mister Cawdor stayed where he was, and just nodded to Saliba as she passed.
When Sagova and Mister Dalwood had sat down again, Mister Cawdor said: ‘Why did you do that, Sagova?’
Sagova laughed and looked shy. ‘I was afraid,’ he said, ‘of being made impotent.’
‘O!’ said Mister Cawdor. ‘Then, am I impotent now?’
‘I don’t know, taubada,’ Sagova said, full of shame. ‘Your custom is different. For us, if a woman’s box passed over our legs like that, that would be the end.’
‘Sssss. You talk gammon,’ I said to Sagova.
‘Osana, shut up,’ said Mister Cawdor.
‘Very good, taubada,’ I said. ‘He does not talk gammon, and you are impotent.’
‘What do you say, Beni?’ he said. ‘What is not a war-machine?’
‘The star,’ I said. ‘The star-machine.’
Misa Kodo turned and stared at me, with great eyes. ‘The star-machine?’ he said. ‘What is that, a star-machine?’
‘It is like a star,’ I said, ‘at first, when it is far away in the sky. But when it comes close, it is a machine. With the brightest light, taubada, and people. Like a plane, taubada, but it is not a plane.’