Gerald Murnane was born in Melbourne, Australia, in 1939. He is the author of eleven works of fiction, five of which will be published by And Other Stories in the coming years. He has won multiple high-profile awards across Australia including, most recently, the 2018 Prime Minister’s Award for Border Districts. He lives in the remote village of Goroke in the north-west of Victoria, near the border with South Australia.
New York Review of Books
‘[For Murnane,] access to the other world – a world distinct from and in many ways better than our own – is gained neither by good works nor by grace but by giving the self up to fiction.’
New York Times
‘Strange and wonderful and nearly impossible to describe.’
‘Murnane has proven, over four decades and some dozen books, to be one of [Australia’s] most original and distinctive writers.’
New York Times Magazine
‘The greatest living English-language writer most people have never heard of . . . The next Nobel Laureate in Literature.’
‘Murnane, a genius, is a worthy heir to Beckett.’
Ben Lerner on Gerald Murnane
The New Yorker
‘Murnane’s sentences are little dialectics of boredom and beauty, flatness and depth. They combine a matter-of-factness, often approaching coldness, with an intricate lyricism.’
M. A. Orthofer
‘Murnane's writing is carefully, thoughtfully worded, his deliberations seemingly open, even as there's obviously much more hidden care and attention behind it.'
Benjamin H. Ogden
New York Times
‘An image in Murnane’s prose has the quality of an image in coloured glass: One both sees the image and sees through the image simultaneously.’
‘Murnane’s is a vision that blesses and beatifies every detail ... Fascinating . . . Relentlessly introspective but dependably playful.’
'An old man ruminates on landscapes and houses, authors and religion, colored glass and memory in this drifting quasi-fiction. The unnamed narrator, age 72, has recently moved from a city to live alone in a 'quiet township' near an unspecified border in an unnamed country. In the opening pages, he recalls his school days and the religious brothers who taught him.'
Wall Street Journal
'Border Districts, with more room to expand, feels less formally oppressive while still holding the author’s signature moments of crystalline detail and uncanny observation. (...) The sequences are inscrutable and resistant to interpretation.'
'Devotees of Murnane (The Plains), the exacting Australian writer of crafty, austere fictions, will find familiar themes in this prismatic work: the fascination with color, the grassy landscapes, and the obsessive compiling of a mind's 'image-history.' The aged narrator, a 'student of colors and shades and hues and tints, ' has retired to a 'district near the border' of his unnamed native land. There he explores the regions of his psyche with a monklike devotion, 'study[ing] in all seriousness matters that another person might dismiss as unworthy, trivial, childish.''
‘To give over to [Border Districts’] demands, to its way of making the familiar strange, is to open oneself to the delicate power of its rhythms, the haunting depth of its images, and the irrefutable craftsmanship in every sentence.’
'His new book, Border Districts, is weird in the way everything he has published is weird. It possesses the peculiar quality of being intimately familiar and unidentifiable. (...) Border Districts is a bit like a Wordsworthian epic in quasi-lyrical mode that has been translated from the Hungarian and reconfigured as an old codger’s attempt to find his fragments in his ruins and to adjust to his obsessions a language of maniacal precision and blindness. (...) This is a book that refuses to name names, and its elaborate winding stair will preserve the wonder of a sensibility at the edge of solipsism. (...) You will not find a more intimate or more lame or more deeply wrought piece of fiction anywhere in the world.'
'Border Districts is a devotional manuscript in which the intention is not the divine but a recuperation, even a restoration, of self. It is thrilling. Nothing happens, everything happens.'
Australian Book Review on Gerald Murnane
‘[The] Nobel Prize contender writes like a clockmaker: every sentence is a finely tooled cog, every book an exquisite machine.’
Adrian Nathan West
Times Literary Supplement
‘As Murnane remarks, “My writing was not an attempt to produce something called literature but an attempt to discover meaning”, and his insistence on the artifice of written enterprise bears witness to a thoroughness and integrity that far outweigh the minor virtue – or minor vice – of readability.’
‘Murnane, in his unfailingly serious way, is very funny. We read and think about him ruminating on his reading and thinking about reading and thinking until the book rather gloriously threatens to swallow itself whole.’