The ConversationThe six books that make up the shortlist for this year’s Stella Prize consider the problem of violence – both personal and cultural – in very different ways. The abusive ex-husband, the heavy boot of the law, the brutality of invasion, the pressures of isolation and loss. But hearteningly, each book also has a bright thread of kindness, the richness of natural and built environments – and the consolations of poetry. Even when these narratives are desperately bleak, there is always a shard, at least, of light.The Stella Prize, established after a long period when women writers were largely overlooked by the Miles Franklin Literary Award, focuses on diversity of form as well as authorship, creating a luscious literary smorgasbord. This year, that’s reflected in a shortlist that includes a poetry collection by a former Stella winner and a graphic novel by a formerly shortlisted author – as well as a grief memoir, a nonfiction reflection on war and violence, and two novels.As former Stella chair of judges Kerryn Goldsworthy once said, “excellence is achievable in any form”. I agree: this decision has provided me the opportunity to read six excellent books, across a range of genres, all doing what they do exceptionally well.The Rot by Evelyn Araluen Evelyn Araluen’s new collection has already won the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award and a number of glowing reviews. Let me add mine. Many of the poems in this collection shimmer with energy. Many play with form, too, introducing a fresh poetic diction: lineated and prose poems, fragments of lyrical prose, numbered paragraphs. Alongside this innovative use of language and line, Araluen introduces a kind of hermeneutics: a mode of interpretation that (ideally) leads to deeper understanding. The Rot powerfully conveys what it feels like to live in the morass of late capitalism, racism, neocolonialism, sexism, incompetence and social media addiction – and offers a subtle road map out of all this. Araluen is one of those rare poets who can take on political battles in poetry, without her poems being tendentious or soaked too deeply in ideology. The result here is a collection that left me nourished. She has reinvented a poetry of social and political crises for 21st century Australia. Memorial Days by Geraldine Brooks On United States Memorial Day in 2019, Geraldine Brooks was bluntly informed her husband, fellow writer Tony Horowitz, had died suddenly. This memoir opens with that moment, and the failures of the US system to offer even basic empathy, let alone practical support. Writing with concision and clarity, Brooks tells the story of the long process of learning to go on, despite sometimes overwhelming melancholy. The account flicks back and forth between the first stunned months and her life three years later on Flinders Island, Tasmania, where she has retreated to spend her “own memorial days”. We see her re-inhabit that first shock, and the early stages of bereavement, while simultaneously remembering the delights of their shared life and drinking in the beauty of the island and its consolations. This is a splendid example of a grief memoir. It maps out a productive approach to how to mourn – and how to begin living again. Fireweather by Miranda Darling In Fireweather, Miranda Darling continues the account of coercive control that began with Thunderhead. The novel’s blurb describes it as “feminist fiction”, and certainly it provides the perspective of a woman, Winona, who has lost custody of her children and is being menaced by her ex-husband. But for me, it is the focus on language that characterises this novel. It deals creatively and persuasively with what words can do, how they engender sensation, and how they offer Winona a safe space during a season that combines apocalyptic bushfire with the catastrophic fallout from her marriage. Words are also her companions: the voices in her mind who offer running commentary, the voice of neighbourhood dog-cum-therapist Bruce, and her relationship with the plants she rescues. If the writing were not so engaging, surprising and often very witty, the content would perhaps be too bleak. Yet the novel manages to explore how one might learn to face great disaster and remain at least semi-functional. Cannon by Lee Lai I am a fan of graphic novels, and Cannon is captivating, innovative and self-reflective. It is also a wryly critical commentary on the state of the cultural sector and its interest in monetising other people’s identity. Lucy – aka Luce Cannon – and her friend Trish are the sort of outsiders who excite arts funders, being young, queer and Asian. Trish, a writer, is vampirising Lucy’s story for her own benefit; Lucy carries everyone else’s load, and is being crushed by it. Most of the novel is presented in black-and-white cells, except for the snatches of horror movies the characters watch, which are in (blood) red, a creepy burst of colour in an otherwise monochrome book. Also creepy and “unnerving” (Lucy’s term) are the birds that loom whenever she is particularly overwhelmed. While it offers a deeply thoughtful portrait of family and workplace stress, the story is often tender and very funny. Cannon is a persuasive comment on contemporary values.58 Facets: On Law, Violence and Revolution by Marika Sosnowski The Byzantine – that is, intricate, complex and unyielding – nature of law is a fact of life in pretty well every nation. So is the violence it legitimises, along with the reduction of individuals to official documents. This remarkable book works thoughtfully and convincingly through what this means for everyday people, living what should be everyday lives. Marika Sosnowski is particularly equipped to explore this topic, as the descendent of Holocaust survivors, a researcher in Assad’s Syria and resident of an Australia that built a legal framework for cruelty toward asylum seekers. The account she provides of the damage inflicted, and the overt and everyday acts of resistance against it, sounds as though both dictatorial and democratic regimes have been scripted by Kafka. But the misery is leavened by charming anecdotes, snatches of poetry and an overall call to collectivity: to “open our hearts to the woundedness of ourselves and others, to how similar our stories really are, to the great potential we all carry for acts of everyday revolution”.I Am Nannertgarrook by Tasma Walton I Am Nannertgarrook could have been a case study for Sosnowski’s discussion of law and violence. This novel focuses on historical violence – the brutal invasion of the Australian continent by European (mostly British) sailors, sealers and whalers, who were in fact acting to some extent under the protection of the law. The murder and abduction of Indigenous people, and the predatory destruction of the environment they had tended for so long, are presented in horrifying closeup. The women and their children who occupy this novel have moments of comfort and consolation offered by Country, and by the more-than-human beings that inhabit it. Otherwise, they live with unrelenting horror and misery. And though so much was lost through this violence, the narrative insists on the continuity of culture. The generous use of untranslated Indigenous language (there is a glossary at the back of the book) and the richly textured descriptions of traditional practices and values are deep reminders of the things that matter.Jen Webb has received funding from the Australian Research Council.