Flanagan writes as he always does: beautifully and with a pained conscience. I, personally, am not yet aware of any other Aussie writer who writes better and with more passion about the great moral failings of our country.
The things he writes about here he was written about elsewhere, so I feel confident saying that Flanagan has a smallish number of constant moral concerns: our treatment of Indigenous history; our treatment of asylum seekers; the ever-present threat of fascism, nationalism, populism, and all similar political phenomena; and the general idea of the Australian character and nation.
I have left this slim volume unrated for one reason: I dislike nonpractical social critique. I prefer criticism that, at some point, offers practical solutions. To be fair, it is clear that Flanagan never meant for these speeches to serve that purpose. Their collective title, Seize the Fire, reveals the purpose of these essays as an attempt to fire up our conscience, to raise our ire, to stir up emotions of anger and regret and the deep conviction that we can and ought to do better.
And he does that.
The first essay is a study of Aussie culture, especially of its politics. It is true that in many ways we conform to our worst stereotypes: we are lazy, contented to a fault, unable to be roused by big problems, replying with a collective "she'll be right" to systemic issues of political capture by gas lobbies, the gambling industry, and more.
The second essay is a riveting condemnation of our treatment of asylum seekers and, more specifically, our use of offshore processing on islands like Manus and Nauru. Flanagan has such a gift: the essay starts as a discussion of his favourite Tasmanian novels, turns into a discussion of the idea of nationalism, of the idea of a nation, of a national literature, before transforming into a fiery takedown of one of the darkest moments of our history. The structure of this essay, the way it evolved, is really something.
The third essay was my favourite. It again takes on the heady topic of national identity, starting with a discussion of the Anzac legacy, before subverting our conventional understanding of that legacy and connecting it with the legacy of Indigenous resistance to colonialism. In both cases, massive numbers of people died for their nation. The difference is that the Anzacs died for the dying British empire (and our soldiers die today for yet another dying empire, the American), whereas our Indigenous heroes died here, for Australia. Flanagan wants us to reject altogether the idea of dying for foreign regimes, and to find common cause with the Indigenous martyrs who fought and died for this country.
Flanagan writes of the genocide of Indigenous Tasmanians, of how, before this happened, many White settlers abandoned their colonial towns and outposts and went to live with the native inhabitants, dressing like them, eating like them, seeing and thinking and feeling like them, not as a form of subterfuge, but out of a sympathy for these people and their way of life. This, too, this way of life, this merger between our settler history and settled ancient history, is our legacy and our birthright. This mongrel union between two civilisations is Australia. This is what Australia needs to reincorporate once again, not for the first time, if it ever does decide to wean itself from the teat of foreign empires, whether British, American, or the circling Chinese, and become once and for all its own person.
All essays are extraordinary, but the third and last one is particularly great. It should be mandatory reading in all high schools and university history courses and should be considered a primary reference in our ongoing discussions about what it means to be Australian.