Welcome to The Spinoff Books Confessional, in which we get to know the reading habits of Aotearoa writers, and guests. This week: Claire Baylis, author of Dice and guest at the forthcoming HamLit programme at the Hamilton Arts Festival. 

The book I wish I’d written

My mind seems surprisingly unwilling to rank books, and this first question make me consider how much a book is the product of its author’s worldview, background and identity – could I ever write someone else’s book? But that’s dodging the question so I’m going to plump for My Name is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout – I so admire both the restraint and the intensity of Lucy’s voice.

Everyone should read

How Many More Women? How the Law Silences Women by Jenifer Robinson and Keina Yoshida because it gives an international, big picture perspective on the multiple ways the law is used to silence those speaking out about sexual violence.

The book I want to be buried with

I don’t believe in an afterlife as such so I’m not choosing a book to reconnect with, instead I’m going with my novel Dice as a precious object of meaning for me – because it took me 50 years from when I knew I wanted to publish a novel to achieve that, and because even though it is utterly fiction it aims to reflect the lived experience of many real people – the jurors, complainants, survivors who I talked with, listened to in court, or read.

The first book I remember reading by myself

I must have read others before these, but I have strong memories of the act of reading: The Magic Wishing Chair by Enid Blyton because I had to hide it from my mum who disapproved even in the 70s of Blyton’s sexism and racism; and Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfield, which inspired me to audition for one of the children’s parts in the village production of Bitter Sanctuary by Rosemary Anne Sisson – I imagined being discovered. I didn’t fully understand the play, which is set in a refugee camp, but it certainly helped me understand the emotional power of language.

The book I wish I’d never read

The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy – because it was our assigned text in my first year at Central Newcastle High School at 11 and I was too young for it; it gave me the impression that the classics were ponderous and boring, and put me off reading them for years.

It’s a crime against language to

Suggest that books by authors from Aotearoa are not as worthy of your reading time – I mean WTF – there is such a breadth of incredible writers here in all forms and genres, so if you can afford to buy books, prioritise buying NZ to support our authors in this very small market.

The book that haunts me

Michael Ondaatje’s Coming Through Slaughter about the life of Buddy Bolden, a jazz pioneer in New Orleans. It haunts me because of the power and rhythm of Ondaatje’s language especially when describing the parade during which Bolden breaks down, but also the texture of the book – its collage of fragmented memories, interviews and historical documents – and now I want to read it again.

The book that made me laugh (and cry)

The Axeman’s Carnival by Catherine Chidgey – I was hesitant about a novel from a magpie’s perspective but was caught up by the end of the first paragraph, and found Tama’s voice hilarious, and subtly devastating as a portrayal of a coercive relationship from the perspective of a dependent.

If I could only read three books for the rest of my life they would be

Light the Dark: Writers on Creativity, Inspiration and the Artistic Process edited by Jo Fassler, a book of essays where writers describe the personal impact of favourite passages from literature – that would spark my own creativity and remind me of books by those authors and those they select.

Next, would be a book from one of the authors that was particularly important to me when I was first trying to find my voice as a serious writer – Alice Walker, Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, Patricia Grace, Janet Frame, John Berger, Kazuo Ishiguro, Milan Kundera because any one of those would trigger memories from that intense reading period – today I’d go for Frame’s complete autobiography because it’s been a while …

And finally, Intimacies by Katie Kitamura, a quiet, taut book about an interpreter in the International Court in the Hague, which both stylistically and content-wise feels inspiring.

The plot change I would make

Had I written A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara I would have omitted the car accident because I couldn’t have written such an unrelentingly traumatic book. I struggle with the fact it’s become a BookTok teen favourite – I know some who have struggled as they read it, and feel you need maturity for this one.

Encounter with an author

When I was about eight, I went to an event where Roald Dahl was promoting, I think, Danny the Champion of the World. Mum and I waited in the very long signing line and presented him with my copy which I’d already read, only for him to refuse to sign it because it was not a new copy bought at the event. I’ve remembered that incident (and my mum’s fury) for 50 years, but I also remember writing to Elizabeth Gundrey, author of Collecting Things, about my collection of collections – bottles, shells, teeth etc and how she sent back a handwritten letter with a sheep’s tooth. Similarly, I remember Kirsty Gunn, soon after Rain was published, taking me seriously as a writer even though I’d only published a few short stories at the time. I know which kind of author I want to be.

Best thing about reading

As well as all the usual things about opening worlds and changing perspectives, for me, it is those moments of pure excitement when I’m stunned by something a writer has done in crafting their work. At 25 I was blown away by Lawrence Durrell’s use of perspective in The Alexandria Quartet and years later by Christos Tsiolkas’ in The Slap. I’ve been astounded by Alice Walker’s imaginary photos in Living by the Word, Cormac McCarthy’s meandering, shimmering sentences in All the Pretty Horses, by the subtle yet profound jump in circumstance in Charlotte Wood’s Stone Yard Devotional, by Katie Woolf’s juxtaposition of verbatim accounts in The Haka Party Incident, and by the sheer power of Tusiata Avia’s voice, to name just a few…

Best place to read

The hammock, our deck, at one of the Rotorua lakes. But I also recently rediscovered the pleasure of audiobooks while driving when I listened to Elisabeth Easther’s beautiful narration of The Seasonwife by Saige England – a poetic, devastating story about the impacts of early European colonisers. I say rediscovered because we listened to audiobooks a lot with our children – including all John Marsden’s Tomorrow When the War Began series. And as a child, my parents taped themselves reading Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons series at night and then played it back to us, the tape reorder on the backseat between my brother and I, as we drove from Northumberland to see my grandparents in London.

What are you reading right now

I only read one novel at a time and that usually takes precedence, but I always have several other books on the go as well – poetry, short stories and non-fiction. I’ve just finished Colm Tóibín’s The Heather Blazing which I reread after doing some work with judges. I’ve moved on to Delirious by Damien Wilkins – his books are deeply psychological, funny and moving. Delirious feels very pertinent because I’ve been through the transition to retirement village living with my parents so I’m enjoying Mary and Pete’s perspectives on this, and they live on the Kāpiti coast where I’ve spent a lot of time.

I often read a poem to loosen my mind before I start writing and right now it’s The Girls in the Red House are Singing. Tracey Slaughter’s use of language and imagery in both her poetry and short stories is just extraordinary, so I’m looking forward to her talk at HamLit in a couple of weeks. Finally, my non-fiction current reads are Her Say by Jackie Clark and the Aunties and The Art of Revision by Peter Ho Davies which are both useful as I finish my second novel manuscript. 

Claire Baylis will appear at HamLit, the writers events at the Hamilton Arts Festival 22 – 23 February. Dice (Allen & Unwin, $37) is available to purchase online at Unity Books. 

Books of Mana: 180 Māori-Authored Books of Significance, edited by Jacinta Ruru, Angela Wanhalla and Jeanette Wikaira has just been released by Otago University Press. In this essay, Books are Taonga, Jeanette Wikaira explores her personal relationship to books and their value.

For me, books are taonga. The knowledge they contain, the feel of them in my hands, the smell of the paper, the beauty of the object, the story of the author and the excitement of being transported somewhere new or the curiosity of learning something new are all important to how I experience a book. Books and taonga are two things that have loomed large in my life. Let me explain.

We didn’t have much growing up, but we had books. We also had a love of reading, learning and knowing something about the world beyond our community. My parents instilled in my brothers and myself a belief that education was the means to lift ourselves into a better future, and access to books was part of how they intended us to succeed. In my whānau there wasn’t much money for extras, but there was money for books. They were not grand books – we had comics, novels, encyclopedias: humble books that were passed between siblings. I was the youngest, so the books stopped and stayed with me.

As kids we read whatever came into the house – everything from Tolkien to Te Ao Hou periodicals, the Bible in te reo Māori, Best Bets, rugby almanacs, trashy novels, classic novels and my father’s whakapapa papers. 

Both my parents were raised in small Māori communities on the Coromandel Peninsula and both had left school by the age of 16. My father grew up in the small settlement of Manaia and my mother was raised by her grandmother in the Waiomū valley, along the Thames Coast. Both were surrounded by extended whānau, where their connection to their whenua, awa, moana and maunga was central to their lives. Theirs was a life vital and alive in Māori knowledge systems and ways of being and thinking, even if they did not realise it at the time. So despite my parents not being formally educated in a Western sense, in our whānau, as in so many other Māori whānau, knowledge and learning are deeply entrenched and respected and books are revered.

My story with taonga begins in 1984, when I was 14 years old. Te Karere was still new to television and as a family we often sat and watched this wonderous advancement of te reo on the television. One day the Māori news coverage showed images of a barricaded Fifth Avenue in New York and a stream of yellow cabs halted outside an imposing and majestic building. On the steps of this building a group of Māori were gathered – kaumātua and rangatahi, waiting in the half light of dawn for the first words of ritual. The scene was electric and bristling with spiritual energy. I couldn’t comprehend that a Māori ritual scene so familiar to me was happening in such a foreign place. Witnessing the 1984 opening of the Te Maori exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York on television was my first introduction to the power of taonga. I was transfixed. It was both unsettling and profoundly moving to see our taonga come alive in the halls of such a physically imposing building so far from Aotearoa.

Two years later, in 1986, I saw the exhibition in person when it returned to Aotearoa. The emotions I experienced viewing Te Maori as a 16-year-old were so confronting that they have stayed with me over my lifetime, and eventually led me to work in the cultural heritage field. Encountering taonga of exquisite beauty within the confines of a museum was and often continues to be breathtaking and awe-inspiring, an experience of cultural pride mixed with confusion, loss, pain, grief and overwhelming wairua.

Spiritual and material taonga

Taonga have always been used as vehicles to channel knowledge, ideas and ancestral connections. Acting as a mnemonic to memory, when activated with cultural practice, taonga are crucial conduits for past knowledge to pass to current generations and into the future.

Taonga is a broad and encompassing word. In the Māori version of Te Tiriti o Waitangi the Crown granted te iwi Māori tino rangatiratanga over our whenua, kainga and taonga. Taonga, in this sense, includes everything that is important and has been handed down to us by our ancestors.

Te reo Māori is a taonga: ensuring te reo is taught in schools, Māori voices are encouraged in society and Māori ideologies flourish are ways we continue to activate and practise this taonga.

Mauri ora is a taonga: taking a holistic approach to the health of our people that utilises not just Western medicine but ancient Māori approaches of rongoa and oranga are ways in which we ensure this taonga can flourish.

Te ao tūroa is a taonga: making sure we work hard to clean our waterways and look after the native ngahere and creatures of this land, with whom we have a symbiotic relationship, are ways we protect this taonga.

When understood in this way, taonga represent myriad ancestral connections that reinforce te ao Māori.

Taonga are also material cultural artefacts. Material taonga have always performed a core function within the Māori world, marking important ancestral figures and key ancestral historical moments. Through art practices of whakairo, raranga and tā moko a sophisticated artistic language developed that enabled the transfer of oral knowledge systems within a material form that we know as taonga. Taonga, together with the oral tradition, are valid and robust primary sources in te ao Māori. When taonga are activated through cultural practices such as kōrero, pūrākau, whaikōrero, karakia and waiata, they become vessels that enable a constant weaving and reweaving of relationships between past, present and future, opening up pathways to other ways of knowing and understanding.

Symbols as taonga

Te ao Māori expressions of Māori knowledge relate to a complementary world of symbol. Symbols are deliberate human creations used to depict perceived reality: concepts, formulae, forms, ritualistic ceremonies, interpreted stories, maps, models and paradigms. These forms are visualised within the mind and manifested as material objects or taonga as a way of understanding the world behind space and time.

In the early period of Māori interaction with Pākehā, Māori rangatira sketched their moko on paper, utilising them as legal signatures for land transactions and as self-portraits. The moko at the time was the primary marker of Māori identity. Art historian Ngarino Ellis argues that these moko signatures and drawings are sites of intersection between Pākehā print literacy and Māori oral literacy. Like taonga, these moko drawings act as mnemonic devices in that they have the capacity to reveal the wider worlds in which our ancestors engaged, not only culturally, but also artistically and politically. Rangatira who signed Te Tiriti o Waitangi did so using symbols, many with marks representing their moko. Such marks are regarded by Māori as tohu ‘signs’ – not only physical markings on paper, but also visionary signs of the future.

Image as taonga

Painted and photographic portraits do two important things: they record likenesses and bring ancestral presence into the world of the living. Māori images of ancestors are not merely representations, they are considered to be an embodiment of those ancestors. These are taonga, to be treated with great care and reverence. In te ao Māori, after a person has died, their portrait may be hung on the walls of family homes and in the wharenui, to be spoken to, wept over, and cherished by people with genealogical connections to them. Even when Māori photographs and painted portraits are held in institutional collections and are absent from their whānau, the stories woven around them keep them alive and present. Many cultural heritage institutions, galleries and museums acknowledge these living links through enduring relationships with descendants of those whose painted portraits and photographs are held and cared for within institutional collections.

Bridget Reweti’s 2021 exhibition Pōkai Whenua, Pōkai Moana at the Hocken Gallery in Dunedin retraced the journey of ancestor Tamatea Pōkai Whenua Pōkai Moana, who arrived in Aotearoa on the Takitimu waka and travelled from Tauranga Moana in the north to Murihiku in the south. One aspect of the exhibition explores a contemporary Indigenous understanding of the concept of tapatapa whenua, of sighting and naming landscape. Through landscape photographs from 1889 (taken by Alfred Burton of the famed Burton Brothers) Reweti reclaims and re-records Burton’s original views with a consciousness of the silence of Indigneous existence and knowledge in the original Burton photographs. Reweti’s reframing of the Burton Brothers’ landscape photographs is a contemporary example of how Māori artists are claiming image as taonga.

Writing as taonga 

Books combine paper, image, symbol and the material dimensions of taonga with words. The impact of the introduction of written material for Māori was profound. During the early period of Māori and Pākehā interaction, when print culture was first introduced, books and literacy carried a power and a value that Māori ancestors took up with enthusiasm. Tīmoti Kāretu writes that the introduction of literacy into the Māori world was both liberating and limiting.2 It was liberating in the sense that Māori no longer needed to commit large volumes of whakapapa and tribal histories to memory. For the first time, literacy allowed important kōrero to be committed to paper and referred to when necessary.

However, literacy also proved limiting, because once an oral whakapapa or tribal kōrero was committed to text, it tended to become the version, and errors captured in print were often perpetuated in use.

Māori ancestors wrote to express their anger at the loss of Māori land; they wrote to share their views of the politics of the day; and they were prolific writers of letters to each other, to newspapers and to colonial officials. These early writings are taonga because they tell the story of Māori mastering the art of literacy and using this new technology to become keen writers. Māori writers developed a writing convention based largely on the protocol of marae whaikōrero complete with waiata written to bring their writing to a close.

Libraries, archives and cultural heritage institutions have often grappled with this notion of books as taonga. While “traditional” material cultural artefacts are readily understood to be taonga, the acceptance that books, archives, photographs and paintings are also taonga in their own right has been a slower transition for many curators and institutions to make because it requires an understanding of the nature of taonga and their cultural connections that reinforce and activate te ao Māori.

Books as taonga

A book is a physical object, yet it also signifies something abstract, in the sense of the meaning conveyed by the words. Thus, I believe, a book can be seen as more than its contents alone. A book is a metonym for the words that we read, for the thoughts and ideas we have as we read it and the knowledge that is transmitted from author to reader. Māori-authored books, such as those featured in the Te Takarangi collection, have further value, containing the presence of many others from the past and important knowledge that may be lost to the current generation. The book becomes a vessel that embodies the mana of the author, the presence of others and the knowledge contained within.

Additionally, Māori-authored books are intricately connected to our history and experience as Indigenous people of this land. They have further significance for a people whose language and knowledge have been disrupted through the processes of colonisation. Books as taonga hold the power to affirm Māori identity and interrupt power struggles by the profoundly simple cultural practice of pūrākau, storytelling through the written form. In this sense the books in the Te Takarangi collection do something taonga never needed to do: they retell our stories from the brink of colonial loss; they reclaim Māori identity, culture and knowledge; and they remind us and future generations that mātauranga Māori continues to be vital.

The particular reverence that many Māori whānau, like mine, have for Māori books as taonga is linked to books possessing a life beyond the physical. For books can possess a life of their own. In my whānau, our love of books, nowadays scholarly books written by Māori, is a powerful thread woven through the generations. For my grandparents’ and parents’ generation, their taonga were whakapapa books, treasured tribal histories, and new stories found within the pages of the Te Ao Hou journals from the new urban Māori world. These were their opportunity to reclaim knowledge lost.

For me, I have found my taonga in the expansion of mātauranga Māori across the arts, philosophy and the historical and political work of Māori scholars. Te Takarangi’s body of published taonga is broad, thoughtful, culturally rich and mind-expanding.

Books of Mana: 180 Māori-Authored Books of Significance, edited by by Jacinta Ruru, Angela Wanhalla and Jeanette Wikaira (Otago University Press, $65) is available to purchase from Unity Books.