Five years ago I found the best Prince badge at an op shop for 50 cents. Since then, I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to wear it, holding off for that special moment. Then, in true seductive form, Prince announced a 2012 Australian tour a mere month before his arrival. The time had come.

I was too poor to attend his 2003 gig, but I knew I had to go this time around. I was lucky to nab tickets to the first show, which sold out in a few minutes, but I had instant buyer’s remorse. Don’t get me wrong, I was still rapt that I’d get to see Prince, but was concerned about having only spent $99 a ticket. It felt like too much of a bargain for a seven-time-Grammy-award-winning, decade-spanning music icon. I was concerned we would be lodged behind a pole unable to see or relegated to the carpark.

On Monday night, I discovered that my reservations were unfounded, because no matter where you were seated at Rod Laver, you were treated to a pure pop sermon by the purple preacher. ‘I am blessed,’ Prince declared under the spotlight. ‘Look around … you are blessed.’ And I’m here to tell you, with my 50-cent badge over my heart, friends by my side and Prince on the stage, I sure did feel it.

A sell-out crowd meant pre-show anxiety was high; people jostled to find correct entrances and get to their seats, adding to the palpable tension. Before the show, I was unable to tear my expectant eyes away from the 360-degree-visibility, Prince Love Symbol-shaped stage. The crowd was already electric and the atmosphere spiked as a storm – featuring cracking lighting and rolling thunder– appeared on the multiple screens. A guitarist played a haunting acoustic rendition of ‘Purple Rain’ – and then Prince emerged.

It never ceases to amaze me how a man so small in stature (at 5’2″) has so much presence, wields so much power and, at 53 years old, has so much stamina. Like a surreal dream equipped with glitter, lighting trickery, quips, dancers, shredding and outfit changes (hello, white sequins and bling!), the show lasted over two hours, with endurance testing encores. Surrounded by his mostly female bandmates, Prince proved why he sells out shows.

In his element, showing off his powerful pipes and guitar majesty, Prince pumped out most of his hits, including ‘Raspberry Beret’, ‘Cream’ and ‘Let’s Go Crazy’. ‘We just have too many,’ he called from behind his glowing piano-sampler-machine. He wasn’t wrong. After an exciting cover of Michael Jackson’s ‘Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough’, Prince didn’t stop, and I couldn’t get enough. Continuing with a fun one-man-medley-cum-mash-up that included ‘When Doves Cry’ and ‘Pop Life’, he also slowed the tempo with the enchanting ballad track ‘Sometimes It Snows in April’.

An egocentric enigma, Prince is still intense and sexually charged – fingering his guitar and stroking his face in a titillating manner. A gyrating elf, he commanded the crowd’s attention, flirting outrageously – ‘Have you missed me? I’ve missed you!’ – and regularly calling for audience participation (‘I Would Die 4 U’, the audience called to him). In ten-inch heels, he busted quite the hypnotic move during ‘Kiss’ and frequently brought up the houselights to see the audience during the act. Even fully exposed it was impossible to stop dancing like no one was watching – but no one was because in a trance, all eyes were fixed on the purple one.

My only quibbles were the non-appearance of personal favourite ‘Diamonds and Pearls’ – which was dangled before us during the second encore, but not played – and the length between the second encore and his final reappearance caused a little confusion. But then again, it’s hard to complain when the result was more Prince time. The lyrics teleprompter was a slightly distracting reminder that His Holy Purpleness isn’t infallible and I had a few cultural cringe moments (Mexican wave, people? It’s not the cricket, it’s Prince!). But really, these are nit-picky gripes – I otherwise partied like it was ‘1999’ (yeah I did).

Towards the end of the evening, Prince pleaded with the crowd to come back to his other shows: apparently the set list changes each night. Alas, as a cheapskate I could only afford the one time around, in the cheap seats. But as I clutch my badge to my chest, I console myself with the fact that while sometimes it snows in April, this week in May I did some serious dancing in the purple rain.

Stephanie Van Schilt is a writer, editor and Kill Your Darlings’ Online Intern.

Ten lucky online subscribers have the chance of winning Justin Heazlewood’s debut ebook, The Bedroom Philosopher Diaries, thanks to our friends at Affirm Press. Winners will receive Justin’s book through booki.sh. (If you don’t have an account, you can sign up for one here at any time.)

Neil Gaiman has this to say about the comedic ‘Folkstar’s’ book: “This is what all the great rock-and-roll touring books would have been like, if the people who wrote them had been honest to the point of embarrassment.” You just know it’s going to be good!

Online subscriptions last 12 months and provide full access to Kill Your Darlings’ current issue and back catalogue — which is handy, considering many of our print issues have sold out!

Can’t wait to subscribe? Click here!

You Look Nice Today is the sound of Twitter on tape. The three hosts stumbled upon one another in the social media platform’s infancy, and were encouraged by another tweeter to document their conversations in a more substantial medium.

By their own admission, ‘You Look Nice Today is an audio program that has been prepared by and for ‘adults.’ As a Journal of Emotional Hygiene, our program tackles many of the painful issues typically encountered by persons of this awkward age. Consequently, an uncontrollable level of candor and seemingly non-stop tsunami of profanity may be encountered by listeners. Please do not present this material to non-adults.’

The journal is staffed by Merlin Mann (@hotdogsladies), celebrated for his profound contributions to the productivity movement through the development of GTD software (literally, Getting Things Done); Adam Lisagor (@lonelysandwich), a blogger, developer and video producer; and the lesser-known Scott Simpson (@scottsimpson).

The YLNT trio drive a conversation that doesn’t observe the natural laws of physics, but there is an internal logic to their exchanges. Sequences of a larger unstructured, conversation are edited into discrete passages. A ukulele-and-hand-claps melody valets the listener from one section to the next, with aural ‘subheadings’ or segues that manifest in the computerised voice of one ‘Dr Nguyen’. Dr Nguyen dispenses unrelated and inexplicable sentences: for instance, ‘awkward cake’, ‘do you have a question for the sandwich’ and ‘let’s have breakfast for dinner’. Parts of the discussions are sometimes punctuated with sonic loops, samples and other ephemeral sound effects.

The podcasts are irregularly scheduled and are usually 30 to 40 minutes in length. In one episode their satirical analysis can consume topics as expansive as Arnold Schwarzenegger, the global labour market, allergies, negotiating skills, Stanley Kubrick, packing boxes, self-loathing, Corey Haim, reservations about public transport, Orson Welles, the possible benefits of perforating money in order to detach smaller denominations, and scaling currency so its value is in proportion to its size.

Lisagor, who edits and produces the show, says the journal was a natural conclusion of an immediate and complementary camaraderie, and explains that the output, often described as ‘disappointingly inconsistent’, is the unfortunate consequence of time poverty and existential anxiety. ‘There’s nothing to really make you face your demons like having to listen to yourself say questionable things on mic for eight hours and try and make yourself sound better than you are, it’s really not a fun process for me.’

The title of each show is typically named after a key theme in the conversation. In their inaugural podcast, ‘Morning Powder‘, they discuss a demographic profile of their listenership, revealing not just male-dominated audience: ‘we skew anti-female’. In the episode, they sport a self-conscious irreverence and seem uninterested in rationalising their appeal to a male audience. Rather, they address the presumption of offensiveness to the lady race with a tongue-in-cheek brainstorm about the potential for product sponsorship that would ameliorate any sweat-inducing sexism. This kind of thing is their bread and butter. And they paste it on thick.

‘The Tux Age‘, an episode from 2010, wiggles through plagiarism, online identity theft, internet etiquette, old-timey radio announcements and cynical pick-up strategies. Discussion of the latter results in an appreciative critique of the allegedly ‘classic’ technique of selecting a dance partner who isn’t aesthetically burdened in order to solicit respect for assumed integrity,  ‘You dance with an old lady, or a baby, at a wedding, and everybody loves you. The men are jealous and the women are wondering how fast that cummerbund will come off.’

‘The Tux Age’ hears the YLNTers speculate about the difficulties of communicating in pre-modern life, before bleeding into the disarming hypothesis that the industrial revolution was prompted by the need to mass produce miniature tuxedos to clothe a class of baby butlers. Mann, Lisagor and Simpson often quickly exhaust topics and subjects, so the secret history of America lasts only long enough to service their whims.

Hyperliterate, educated, articulate and fluent in Western pop culture, the team’s references are often expressly American and culturally niche, lending an obscurity to the show that may result in a finite appeal. The three YLNTers are also a little self-congratulatory. You might find it irritating, obtuse and insensible, but don’t let that stop you from listening to it.

Their banter is acerbic, with no fixed tempo, and isn’t always explicitly ridiculous. The guys move between farcical hypothetical, opinion and commentary with a humour so athletic and politically agnostic that everything from domestic violence to environmentalism, diet, class, gender and humour itself is sacrificed in the course of a conversation. If you believe jokes trivialise and sanction political inequality, YLNT is not funny. If you believe jokes don’t have to behave ethically, it’s funny. But either way, it’s satire.

Originally from New Zealand, Jessie Borrelle is a Melbourne-based writer, editor and an executive producer of the antipodean podcast Paper Radio.

Ten lucky online subscribers have the chance of winning Justin Heazlewood’s debut ebook, The Bedroom Philosopher Diaries, thanks to our friends at Affirm Press. Winners will receive Justin’s book through booki.sh. (If you don’t have an account, you can sign up for one here at any time.)

Neil Gaiman has this to say about the comedic ‘Folkstar’s’ book: “This is what all the great rock-and-roll touring books would have been like, if the people who wrote them had been honest to the point of embarrassment.” You just know it’s going to be good!

Online subscriptions last 12 months and provide full access to Kill Your Darlings’ current issue and back catalogue — which is handy, considering many of our print issues have sold out!

Hang on; I think it’s that guy … the one in the bunny suit.

So you’re an emerging writer. You’ve made it to the Town Hall Writers’ Conference with a cup of coffee warming your hands. Uber-cool panellists like Benjamin Law and Sammy J are probably sleeping off last night’s hangover. You, on the other hand, have a shiny new pen, an open notebook and a slightly anxious feeling, not unlike the one you’d get just before you jump out of a plane.

I have something to tell you: by being here right now, you’re already one hell of a writer. You are, in fact, the best kind, because you’re open to the advice, encouragement and wisdom of other writers.

The EWF, it’s like a river. It’s two days floating on the current and seeing what surfaces. It’s not an author empowered ego-trip or a puffed-up marketing exercise for overblown hacks more at home in a Kmart than a local independent bookstore. The EWF is for you: the beginning, emerging or fully emerged writer. And you, in turn, are what makes the EWF rock, roll and even shimmy from time to time.

That said, you’ll still need a few things to really enjoy the festival, such as:

a)    an open mind

b)   a sense of humour and an ability to laugh at yourself

c)    a willingness to develop a mad crush on someone you’ve only just met.

The EWF is not about impressing people. Just be yourself. Wear a scarf. Knit mittens. Start a conversation about Hall and Oates. Eat someone’s Cruskit and blame it on the guy who likes Kafka, who’s totally hot, by the way, and were you more confident you’d go get a brioche together, talk politics, have your first kiss and then bam: the next Saturday, you’re necking at the asylum seekers rally.

EWF 2009: Lisa Dempster is the coolest girl on the planet. Not only is she funny, smart and ethical but she also likes Naïve. Super by Erlend Loe, one of the coolest books ever written. Could I become vegan so we have more in common? What will my fiancée think?

You’ve noticed a problem. You’re only one day into the EWF program and you’ve met someone who thinks they’re a writer with a capital W: someone to be marvelled at rather than somebody who, like you, started with a dream and is still working at it.

To be fair, these writers aren’t evil, just annoying. They might be shy, they might be drunk or they might just be incredibly insecure. Whatever the case, it’s important to remember that a) you don’t have to be their friend and b) their opinion of you and your writing is of no consequence whatsoever.

There are others who matter because they like you for who you are, and indeed who we all are: writers of all types, from all genres, dedicated to getting better at our craft; committed to learning how best to write, read and play a part in fostering an inclusive literary culture.

So how do you meet these people? Well, that depends. You can go to a panel session or you can mill around the café, waiting for the right moment to start a conversation. If you choose the former, be wary of anyone carrying a copy of their own manuscript.  If you choose the latter, then be sure to buy two Tim Tams or two coffees … or two Tim Tams AND two coffees, with the second just waiting to be snapped up by a poor, hungry and incredibly lovely new friend.

Once you’re talking, it’s important to establish rapport. Touching their arm is a good move, touching their arse is ambitious and touching their journal is tantamount to manslaughter, unless you lightly stroke the cover and whisper, ‘Is this a Moleskine?’

EWF, 2010: I’m sick and in bed. I’m swearing at shadows and I’ve developed an unhealthy addiction to Vicks VapoRub. Somewhere in Melbourne, writers are collaborating. They’re sharing trade secrets, high-fiving each other and wondering what happened to that tall, slightly weird smiley guy from previous years.

I try to write but all that comes out is a series of vowels: aah, eee, ooo. It’s as if in addition to being ill, I’m turning into a chimpanzee.

Oh, the pain.

I was lost.  It was February 2008 and I had just arrived in Melbourne, having caught a red-eye flight that ferried me into the city at 6am.

I went to a Victorian Writers’ Centre session that first night. I met a girl called Lisa. I developed an enormous crush on her and three years later she’s the director of the Emerging Writers’ Festival.

There is limitless space in the writing world for enthusiastic, collaborative and passionate people and I think your name would look great in the EWF program in one, two or even three years time. I want to see you shine. I want you to say ‘Yes!’ and see where it takes you.

EWF, May 2011: I think I’m in love, but with whom?  I’ve narrowed it down to Karen Pickering, Philip Thiel, his partner Julien Leyre, Angelina Mirabito, Demet Divaroren, Karen Andrews, Paul Callaghan, Meredith Tucker-Evans, Bel Schenk, Willo Drummond, Angela Meyer and Steven Amsterdam. Past that and I move onto people I just really, really like.

I never want the festival to end. This year I walked in to find old and new friends, forever marvelling at Emmyrose Hobbs’ choice of dress, Bethanie Blanchard’s poise and the warmth and generosity of so many other writers all keen to learn more about their craft.

Like many others, I want our national writing scene to thrive. I want you, me and everyone else to maintain a long and honourable chain of past, present and future EWF attendees. I want to see you filling the stairwells, halls and foyers with conversation, your laughter echoing off the walls.

Let’s emerge together. Even if you don’t think you can call yourself a writer, come anyway. If you struggle in crowds, then struggle alongside us. And finally, if you’ve just met Lisa Dempster, then hands off … I saw her first.

This essay originated from the festival thoughts of Lisa Dempster, Philip Thiel, JoJo Jakob and Karen Pickering, as well as talks with Ronnie Scott, Ryan Paine, Mark Welker, Jacqui Dent, Angelina Mirabito and Sam Twyford-Moore.

Laurie Steed is a writer, editor and Killings columnist. He is currently completing his PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Western Australia.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mums out there – we hope you are receiving calls of gratitude and love, breakfast in bed or a Hallmark card saying everything that your children just can’t say, but in the form of rhyming couplets. Shunning the saccharine or sentimental, I thought it an appropriate time to look at some alternative matriarch characters by listing five of my favourite mean mums.*

1. Agnes Skinner

Principal Skinner’s mother is controlling, haggard and grumpy … she is also still his housemate. Above Maude Flanders, with her treacly teachings, or maternal figurehead Marge, Agnes ‘Lamb of God’ Skinner is my favourite mother on the long-running animated sitcom The Simpsons.
Over the past twenty years, Mrs Skinner has entertained audiences with her incredible zingers and sordid storylines – remember when she began bedding Comic Book Guy or dated her son’s superior, Superintendent Chalmers? As the principal woman in Principal Skinner’s life, Agnes is adept at killing any potential romance that flutters his way, creating a particularly fun dynamic between her and fellow jaded lady, Ms Edna Krabappel. As the ‘overbearing mother’ caricature, Agnes is amusingly grotesque: she is an omnipresent, omnipotent and sinister force in her son’s life, slapping down any morsel of masculine identity or confidence Seymour may muster, making her one mean mother.

2. Norman Bates’ mother

It would be impossible to look at mean mums without mentioning everyone’s favourite Freudian family from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. ‘Norma Bates’ hovers as the Ghost of Emotional Abuse Past – present only as a voice or corpse during the film, we learn that she has reared her son on cruel teachings about the evils of sex and women (except her, of course), providing the impetus for Norman’s breakdown. This sad upbringing drives Norman to dress as his mother – an action recently recreated in a real-life fraud case – but also to kill anyone who seems distasteful to his malformed mind. Although she never gets to speak for herself, Psycho presents Norma Bates as the quintessential mean mum, an archetype of maternal manipulation.

3. Gemma Teller Morrow

Gemma Teller Morrow is the menacing matriarch of a leather-clad biker club SAMCRO in television drama Sons of Anarchy. Portrayed with intense conviction by Katey Sagal, Gemma is a fierce character: dressed in dark eye make-up and denim, she is a loving leader but also frighteningly ruthless. As loving mother, grandmother and wife, she literally wears her loyalty on her tattooed arm and chest, but she is also manipulative. Gemma lies and schemes to Machiavellian proportions, sometimes plotting against her own beloved son Jax (who is Vice President of the club). Over four seasons, Gemma deals with extreme burdens, but also deals out her own form of (often violent) justice, making her the mean mother of not only Jax, but the entire SAMCRO gang.

 4. Medea

Euripides’ eponymous heroine from the tragic play Medea has always fascinated me. After having children with Jason (of ‘and The Argonauts’ fame), Medea is dumped for a younger princess. A ‘woman scorned’, homeless and exiled from her homeland, which she had shunned for love, Medea vows revenge on her smug former paramour. In the play, Jason is presented as an egocentric douche, while Medea is articulate and passionate. Manipulating the audience and pleading her case poetically, Medea demonstrates how her once vehement love has been unavoidably supplanted by ire, due to Jason’s betrayal, and that she has no other choice but to act.

When it comes to putting your feelings above your children’s livelihoods, Medea tops the list. After pleading her case and, apparently, finding no other option, Medea steps beyond the realm of emotional abuse by committing infanticide – killing her two precious children to get revenge on Jason. And when it comes to mean mums, you can’t get more malicious than that.

5. Beverly Sutphin

Kathleen Turner plays Beverly Sutphin in John Waters’ black comedy Serial Mom. A satire on the suburbs of Baltimore, the film subverts the ‘nice mom’ stereotype on an absurd scale. Beverly is a pretty, blonde perfectionist, attends PTA meetings and church, sews and cooks for her family. But Beverly is also a foul-mouthed serial killer, making demonic prank calls to neighbours and killing at the slightest insult. Once on trial for these atrocious (yet somehow amusing) acts, Beverly as ‘Serial Mom’ becomes a media sensation – a movie starring Suzanne Somers is even made about her – demonstrating a fascination with mean mothers the world over.

*Mum, if you’re reading this, it is no reflection on you!

Stephanie Van Schilt is a writer, editor and Kill Your Darlings’ Online Intern.

The sad passing of legendary children’s book writer Maurice Sendak this week has rightfully seen a wild rumpus of tributes circulate online, and here are five that have moved or educated us at Killings. Remembering Sendak:

Dwight Garner at the The New York Times reflects upon his personal experience as an adult ‘Sendak devotee’.

Art Spiegelman’s comic about hanging out with Maurice Sendak in 1993: “Kids books…grownup books…books are books!”

From drawings about Sendak to drawings by Sendak: reflect on some of the beautiful artistry from a variety of his works.

Inspiring children and adults alike, Spin take a look at five ways Sendak influenced music.

And on a lighter note  Sendak’s last interview with Stephen Colbert makes for entertaining viewing – when genius meets genius.

For more laughs, have a giggle and gander at this child’s adorable reaction to animatronic wild things.

The First Tuesday Book Club are trying to create ‘the ultimate Australian reading list’ and need your help. Vote here!

Dinotopia author James Gurney has found a winner for the creepiest romance novel cover of all time…

What’s your favourite movie about writers/writing? Pop Matters list ten here.

Swoon over some gorgeous colour Kodachorme film photos from the past, or some sleek futuristic-styled fashion snaps and video featuring a Downton Abbey heroine.

Most days when you open your mailbox for the postal lucky dip, you expect to reveal an unfortunate bill or shiny takeaway menu, not a personalised letter. So when I read that 71-year-old Scott McMurry received a postcard 53-years (!) after his mother sent it from the Shedd Aquarium, it seemed like a poetic miracle, literally from another time.

I encountered this sentimental story after venturing to my local Post Office to send a rather haphazardly packaged, valuable item. After dropping the parcel into the mailing chute, I was overcome with anxiety that it wouldn’t reach its destination. Clearly this was not a fear shared by McMurry’s mother, who, all those years ago, had scrawled on the postcard ‘We’ll probably be home before this gets there!’

As a child of the eighties, I grew up with penpals across the world. For weeks on end I would wait with bated breath for the postman to deliver the written voices of my friends in rural Australia or urban UK. I would then dedicate myself to reading the precious response – which would most likely just describe the banalities of everyday life elsewhere. I loved it so much – it would never have occurred to me that this would become a relatively defunct form of communication or pastime, usurped by the newer, multiple relatives of the single Apple computer screen we had at my school.

Given hindsight (and the rise of sexting) it seems naïve that we merely had penpals as kids, but there is something romantic and sad about losing the anticipation of receiving mail. The action of waiting for the mailman – so perfectly encapsulated in lyrics such as ‘Wait a minute, Mister Postman’ – is now a rare experience. (Is the modern version ‘Wait a minute while I click refresh and my Gmail reloads’ or ‘I don’t expect a call, just write on my Facebook wall’?)

My postal-safety anxiety stems from my now irregular experience with post, but it’s no revelation that the digital age has changed the mail system, with envelopes, stamps and handwritten notes coming second to immediate emails, a variety of fonts and social networks. And obviously this newer type of correspondence has its merits – McMurry received his postcard after a kind stranger’s Facebook sleuthing! But I don’t intend to weigh up pros and cons.

I think this push away from post towards a less personalised form of correspondence gives postcards and letters a special sentimentality – it is heart-warming to receive something handwritten instead of typed at 75 wpm. Nostalgic as it may seem, there is nothing I like more than receiving a postcard from friends overseas – it remains a sensory token or gift from their trip.

The anticipation that is associated with waiting for mail, along with its tactile nature, gives it a time-travel element, with stories like McMurry’s adding to the sepia sheen. We may not wait 53-years, but each letter received feels like a diluted form of the Shedd Aquarium postcard time-capsule – a little piece of someone’s history.

Stephanie Van Schilt is a writer and editor, arts worker and Kill Your Darlings’ Online Intern.

Not far into Riikka Pulkkinen’s True, Anna is at work tidying the bookshelves when she realises, ‘Almost every novel has a love story, a description of love beginning’. Anna, so heartbroken she recently spent eleven days lying on the floor of her apartment, is no stranger to the disappointments of love. ‘There’s something the same about all these,’ she thinks, running her eyes across the myriad titles, ‘so much the same that their particular details are almost superfluous’.

The same could be said about True: with its bright pink cover of a headless woman in a dress, readers wandering through a bookshop might pass it by as yet another ‘sweet, girly and soft’ novel about love, which would be a great shame. While the scene just mentioned is about as self-reflective as the novel gets, Pulkkinen presents a love story that on the surface might appear overly familiar but underneath has its own distinct edge.

True tells the story of three generations of women dealing with the complexities of loving others and being loved. Terminally ill matriarch Elsa has returned home to be cared for by her husband Martti and daughter Eleonoora. When Anna, Elsa’s granddaughter, discovers a dress hanging in her grandmother’s closet, she learns it belonged to a woman named Eeva, who worked as a live-in nanny when her mother was young. This discovery is a major turning point, sending the reader back forty years to when Eeva first appeared, revealing a hidden affair between Eeva and Martti and the unforeseen consequences it has on their family and friends’ lives.

The novel focuses mostly on the ‘forbidden love’ between Martti, the tortured artist, and Eeva, his beautiful, much younger muse, at the expense of the other less clichéd stories about unconditional love and familial responsibility. Far more interesting than Martti and Eeva’s extensive conversations about love is the idealised  picture of sixties Europe Pulkkinen sketches for the reader: the growing student movement, the sense of revolution in the air.  Translated by Lola M. Rogers (True is Pulkkinen’s English-language debut) Pulkkinen has her characters debate love and life in the great European tradition of existentialism, which in the case of True, sees this transplanted to a Finnish landscape; the salons of Paris swapped for lakeside saunas and croissants for cardamom buns.

There is also a nod to the French New Wave, with a quote from Jean-Luc Godard’s film, Pierrot le Fou, opening the novel: ‘We are made of dreams and dreams are made of us.’ The novel’s structure borrows some of the stylistic traits of La Nouvelle Vague: the plot is fairly elliptical, skipping back and forth between decades, but more crafted – the characters’ fates, from beginning to end, are so intertwined it’s as though a mirror has been planted in the book’s spine. Such symmetry of plot is, for the most part, subtly handled and is better understood on a second read.

Some readers might find the thematic preoccupation with love too much. Certainly the characters are overcome: Eeva describes herself as having ‘affection so abundant that it seems to flow from the tips of [her] fingers like nectar’, while other characters, in sheer ecstasy or despair, describe feeling as though they could sink through the floorboards – or in the case of Anna, lie prostrate on her apartment floor. But if readers are being true to themselves they can identify these symptoms as an unfortunate side effect of giving oneself over to others. This is where True differentiates itself from other ‘sweet, girly and soft’ love stories: it depicts how love, or more accurately the idea of love, can not only bring great joy to people but destroy them too.

Emily Laidlaw is Kill Your Darlings’ Online Intern; her book reviews have appeared in The Big Issue and Readings Monthly.

Image credit: anemoneunterwegs

Last month, Google unveiled its second round of the Google Art Project, which now freely displays online high-resolution images of more than 32,000 artworks from 151 museums and galleries worldwide. You can browse the collection by artist; explore every inch of a painting (what is Leda doing with that swan?); or, using Google’s mapping tools, you can virtually wander the halls of the galleries themselves.

When Google first launched the project in February 2011, art critics sniffed that mere pixels could never compare to real brushstrokes, with The New Republic’s Jed Perl noting that the ‘impersonality of the old-fashioned museum is nothing compared to the impersonality of the Google Art project’. As someone who appreciates art without being steeped in its history or theory, I’ll give you an interested bystander’s view of Google Art. Is the project better or worse for casual art appreciation than visiting a real-world gallery or hanging a five-dollar art print on your bedroom wall?

PROS

Convenience. The urge to visit galleries is often strong on holidays, and it can result in unexpected windfalls: I once stumbled upon the most complete collection of Salvador Dalí’s work ever exhibited – including the privately owned Sleep – while lost in the maze of Venice’s canals. But it’s not always practical to fly to London simply to settle a debate on how many green dots Damien Hirst used in his Apotryptophanae. The German cultural critic Walter Benjamin, in his 1936 essay ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, argued that an original artwork emits a certain ‘aura’, a ‘unique existence at the place it happens to be’. But I’ve already chosen convenience over quality in other forms of media: MP3 versions of songs have an inferior sound quality to those produced as FLAC files – which you can buy from an increasing number of online music retailers, including Bandcamp – yet I prefer MP3s because they’re easier to corral and play through iTunes, which doesn’t accept the FLAC format. In many situations, I’d trade the aura of original artwork for the ability to keep it in my pocket.

Synergy. I’m a big fan of entwining sensory experiences: books with music, music with food. I usually amble through galleries with earphones firmly jammed in, partly to ignore the stern warnings of humourless guards, but mostly to give the art a soundtrack. But what if you could take that synergy to the next level? Using the Google Art Project, you could call up Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night on your big-screen TV, sip a glass of red wine, nibble on roasted chestnuts and let your gaze melt into the painting while Don McLean’s maudlin homage to Van Gogh, ‘Vincent’, plays in the background (slicing off your earlobe to pay a prostitute is optional – and not encouraged).

Privacy. The Louvre has yet to lend the Mona Lisa to Google, but I can’t wait for the day when I can ogle the enigmatically smiling lady without first fending off a horde of sweaty tourists. The Mona Lisa’s surprisingly diminutive size makes for depressing real-life viewing. Even once you’ve elbowed your way to the front, someone’s bound to sneak their camera-clutching hands over your shoulder, intent on capturing a tourist-free shot. That’s the kind of aura I can certainly live without.

CONS

Lack of perspective. It’s impossible to appreciate the scale of an artwork from a digital image, unless you’re viewing it on a cinema-sized screen. I was shocked when Michelangelo’s sculpture David towered over me in Florence – I’d imagined him as life-size, but he’s a good five metres tall. For sculptures, or even large paintings, Google Art lacks the gobsmacking surprise that comes when you round a gallery corner to find an enormous artwork (and, in David’s case, oversized genitalia).

No curation. Google provides detailed notes for each artwork, and you can create personal collections of artwork on the site. As an interested bystander, however, I crave the invisible hand of a curator to push pieces of art together, whether by theme, time period or artistic technique. A list of artists or museums gives me no easy access point, and Google’s gallery street view, which allows you to digitally move through gallery spaces and see where the art is placed, is still too rickety to provide a comfortable browsing experience.

I’m on board with Google’s aim to bring art to the digital masses. It suits my antisocial tendencies and allows me to display art in my home without the hassle of carrying a print back from an overseas trip. Just as I’ve continued to see live music despite being able to play songs on demand, I’ll probably supplement my Google Art with gallery visits. But, as it currently stands, the Google Art Project limits me to the art world that I know, while a properly curated collection could expand my horizons. Is a Google Curator too much to ask?

Nikki Lusk is a Killings columnist and an editor based in Melbourne. She matches books to music at The Book Tuner.