Books editor Claire Mabey considers the literary tradition of Whanganui after the Booker prize win by Shehan Karunatilaka, who went to school there in the 90s.

Last week the Booker Prize, one of the most renowned literary awards in the world, was won by Sri Lankan writer Shehan Karunatilaka. Pop star Dua Lipa headlined the ceremony in London with an excellent speech about the value of reading, while Her Majesty the Queen Consort (aka Camilla) handed out the goods.

The Booker judges said that Karunatilaka’s genre-mashing novel The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida, set in 1990 during the Sri Lankan civil war, “is a deeply humane novel about how to live in intolerable circumstances, about whether change is possible, and how to set about coping if it’s not.” (Himali McInnes’ review of the novel will appear here on The Spinoff in December, once the book arrives on our shores – international shipping issues and paper shortages have plagued publishing this year).

Meanwhile, it has emerged that in the 1990 of real life, Shehan Karunatilaka was in Aotearoa, attending Whanganui Collegiate, a boarding school championing “five pillars of academic excellence; sporting achievement; cultural enrichment; Christian fellowship; lifelong friendships …’

When the Booker news hit, the school’s Facebook page celebrated the win for the old boy, while the NZ Herald reported Lesley Stead from Paige’s Book Gallery (the indie bookshop of Whanganui) saying, “It’s a tremendous acknowledgement for Whanganui and the school. We have a strong literary tradition here which Shehan has now strengthened.” In the same article, Simon Cairncross, a former Whanganui Collegiate student who attended at the same time as Karunatilaka, said: “This one is a pretty impressive prize for a Whanganui-educated person.”

Karunatilaka’s Booker win is the most prestigious international literary prize the city can make claim to thus far. But it is far from the only link to bookish magic for Whanganui, which is also associated with the internationally-lauded concept of legal personhood, and its 104-year-old Durie Hill elevator service run by Taite Music Prize-winning musician Anthonie Tonnon. 

In 2005, a novel called A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by British-Ukrainian Marina Lewycka was longlisted for the Booker Prize. A NZ Herald article in the same year reported that Lewycka and her husband were living in Whanganui, where she could write for eight hours a day uninterrupted by repeated calls on her time (“In England they work you terribly hard. They would have you doing two or three readings a week if they could.”). Lewycka said she found New Zealand similar to Ukraine in that it’s a “peaceful, no-nonsense farming country”. At the end of the article is a notice announcing that for $5 you could come to Whanganui’s Alexander Library to hear Lewycka read from her novel and ask questions, with drinks and nibbles included. $5! Incredible!

Sadly, a few years later a Stuff article reported that Lewycka’s terminally ill husband had filed a complaint with the then justice minister Simon Power because he was fed up with a system that had first refused to give Lewycka residency in Aotearoa and was now making it difficult to obtain a divorce. So, while it was a brief stint, Lewycka’s time here was enough to weave another Booker connection into the fabric of Whanganui.

Airini Beautrais is one of Whanganui’s most acclaimed writers, with six generations of her family having grown up in the area. In 2021 Beautrais won the coveted Jan Medlicott Prize for Fiction at the Ockham New Zealand Book Awards with her compelling, urgent short story collection, Bug Week. And in 2017 Beautrais published a widely praised collection of poetry called Flow, the same year that the subject of the book, the Whanganui River, was granted legal personhood in a profound step into a Te Ao Māori approach to equitable relationship with the natural environment. 

On the connection between writing and Whanganui itself, Beautrais says, “I have strong ties to Whanganui and I have found that over the years I’ve been writing, it always finds its way into a lot of my work. All my poetry collections feature Whanganui in some way, Flow most of all. Many of my stories are set here and as I think about new stories it always feels like the logical setting.”

Another writer and former Whanganui resident, Kiran Dass, reflects: “Moving to Whanganui was a revelation and a life-changing experience for me. Whanganui’s engagement with and respect for its rich history and cultural and social heritage is something I found incredibly profound and inspiring.”

The history of Whanganui includes revolutionary nun Suzanne Aubert, whose extraordinarily productive community of Sisters at Jerusalem has inspired a book of fiction by Fleur Beale (The Calling is a brilliantly satisfying YA novel about a young woman who thinks she wants to be a nun), and biographical accounts by Jessie Munro and Meri Hōhepa. Whanganui literary history has also been long-associated with poet James K Baxter who, after leaving writer Jacquie Sturm (his wife), set up a community by the River in the 60s where he died and was buried a decade later. 

When asked about the environment for writing, Dass says: “When I moved to Whanganui it was astonishing to me how many writing opportunities opened up. I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner! I could actually make a living writing full time there, something I was a little afraid of trying to do when I was living in Auckland. In my first week in Whanganui I was welcomed into a writers group. Whanganui is just that sort of easy, welcoming place. This was a community I’d never had before.”

In terms of fostering young talent, Whanganui High School has a regular writers’ group run by teacher Tim Sutherland, who says “We meet once a week during a lunch break and have just a few very passionate writers. They mostly write creatively, and over the years we’ve had all sorts come through the club. Some have written scripts, short stories – one of our students even wrote a whole novel, which they’re in the process of editing!”

With Whanganui’s house prices falling (according to the latest OneRoof report) to vaguely dreamable territory, its beautiful river with a history longer and richer than any one person’s, and its links to the Booker Prize and award-winning Aotearoa writers, the city’s writerly environment seems a generative one. Shehan Karunatilaka is rumoured to be relocating back to Aotearoa in 2023: it’s not yet known as to where, but we’re guessing he’ll always be welcome in Whanganui.

Some dreams are worth retelling. In this extract from Chris Parker’s new book Here For a Good Time: Organised Thoughts From an Unorganised Mind, he does just that.

I find listening to people’s dreams about as interesting as listening to that friend who doesn’t have a tattoo and doesn’t want a tattoo tell you at length that if they got a tattoo what it would be – that is to say, incredibly dull. Like I’m sorry but I just don’t have the energy to pretend that your idea for a hypothetical “take a risk” tattoo placed where no one can see it is a radical idea.

That being said, I had a dream the other night that was so vivid, so visceral, that it left me waking up feeling sick to my stomach. The dream seemingly came out of nowhere, I hadn’t been hanging out with anyone who featured in the dream earlier in the day. I can’t seem to draw any parallels as to why my mind subconsciously came up with it while I was sleeping, and that in a way almost makes me feel like it could have been a premonition. So with that I need to tell you all about the craziest dream I had the other night.

The Julia Roberts dream 

It was a Wednesday afternoon, nothing out of the ordinary, just a day like any other day. Living in the beating LA heat. That’s right, I live in LA now.

I’m in my sun-drenched LA apartment, catching up on the morning news, scrolling through Twitter and downing a smoothie that I have definitely put too many ingredients in. It’s thick, almost too thick to drink, it really is almost like batter, a big fruity batter in a glass. Why am I doing this to myself? I don’t even like smoothies, I’m a toast guy, always have been, always will be. Why am I suddenly obsessed with forcing these healthy smoothies down my throat when all I really want is two pieces of Marmite toast with loads of melted butter. Oh yeah that’s right, I live in LA now, and you can’t buy Marmite in LA.

My phone rings, which is shocking, who even calls in 2022?

NO CALLER ID. It’s an unsaved random number. I’m afraid to answer. Could this be immigration? Am I going to be sent back home? Or is this what I think any call from an unsaved number is, someone calling to offer me a job that will solve all my financial concerns?

I immediately answer the phone. ‘Hello, Christopher Parker speaking.’ I’m instantly mortified by the formal phone-answering manner that my father instilled in me from a young age. No one answers the phone like that in LA. Why couldn’t I have just answered with “Hey” or “Sup?” This is going to be a real put-off to this potential LA agent who was going to cast me in the next Marvel movie that was going to launch my career into the big time.

“Hi, sorry, is this the Chris Parker from New Zealand?” says the Unknown Caller with a thick American accent.

They already know who I really am, a good sign.

“Yes it is,” I answer, trying to play down my suspicions.

They inform me that they’re a personal assistant to a very well known celebrity in America. That this celebrity is a fan of my work, they have been watching my funny videos on Instagram with a secret anonymous account and they want to meet me in person.

They tell me this isn’t a work thing, this is strictly social. This celebrity is looking to be my friend.

“You have my interest,” I reply on the phone, “but one question – who is this celebrity?”

And they answer: “JULIA ROBERTS.”

I’m told that a private car is going to pick me up and bring me to Julia. That I don’t need to bring anything, not even a polite bottle of wine, in the way that people do that without any intention to drink it. I get myself dressed in the finest clothes I own that don’t have food stains on them. For some reason it’s a turtleneck, as it’s suddenly very autumnal in LA. There is a honk outside my house and a black Mercedes waiting in my driveway.

I arrive at Julia’s house in the late evening – the sun is setting. Glaring through the windows and filling her warm, open-plan, surprisingly Scandinavian house with a gorgeous orange hue. I always thought Julia’s house would have been more grand and what I would consider more classically American, maybe with a ginormous kitchen island she never cooks at and curved archways throughout. Her assistant opens the door. It’s a large wooden door that swings open, it feels a little excessive but then again this is Julia Roberts.

“You must be Chris. Ms Roberts is waiting for you. You may call her Julia.”

Julia. My heart skips a beat.

“Do I leave my shoes on or take them off?” I ask the 19-year-old assistant who wears head-to-toe black clothes in the way that you don’t know where the shirt ends and the pants begin, but also in the way that you know that every single item she is wearing, which could be anything from one piece to nine, is ridiculously expensive.

“SHOES OFF,” a voice echoes from a distant hallway. I’d recognise that voice anywhere. It’s Ms Roberts. Sorry, Julia.

She doesn’t introduce herself to me – she barely looks me in the eyes, she just dives straight in.

“What do you drink?”

“Water,” I answer.

She laughs back at my face and asks me again.

“What do you drink? Vodka? Whiskey? Rum? Gin?”

I’m freaking out – I should just drink whatever she’s drinking, I don’t know why when faced with Julia Roberts I’m becoming such a puritan. I tell her I’m not much of a drinker, which is a lie.

“OK fine then, Aperol Spritz.”

Julia throws a quick look to her assistant in black who races off to pour the drinks. Julia then turns to me and looks directly into my eyes. I’m looking right into those Academy Award-winning eyes, those eyes that stole the hearts of the world, those eyes that can only be topped by that smile.

“Come join me outside, Chris.”

I can’t believe she knows my name. She takes me outside to her large fire pit, a big bowl with an open flame and low bench seating all the way around. Gorgeous, but in all honesty just not my taste.

We talk all night, blankets delicately laid over our laps, drinking back Aperol Spritz after Aperol Spritz. I’m telling her stories, she’s throwing her head back in laughter. That laugh, the laugh that won her the title of America’s sweetheart.

It’s getting late, the sun has set and Julia and I are left alone in the dark, the fire is the only thing keeping us lit, that and the light within Julia’s eye. She turns to me, grabbing my arm. There’s a glimmer in her eye. A devilish glint that makes me nervous. Even though there’s no one around, she whispers to me.

“Would you like to see the original printed screenplay of Pretty Woman?”

Now I’m freaking out. It’s the first time tonight that she really acknowledges who she is, who she is to me. Julia Roberts.

I’m trying to play it cool but there is a ringing in my ears.

“Excuse me?” I gasp, feeling my stomach turn inside out.

“I’ve got the original printed copy of Pretty Woman, would you like to see it?”

Before I can answer, because she knows the answer, she grabs my arm and leads me into her house, up the wide staircase with random terracotta pots casually placed on them, as if to say, “Whoops I forgot I left my terracotta pots on the stairs, but funny how nice they look there.”

We now stand in her giant but not excessive wardrobe. I can’t recognise any of the dresses hanging up, she must have them in storage somewhere else. It’s just casual cashmere sweats and the odd coat that she wears around the house. How reserved and humble of her. She opens a drawer and pulls out a distressed white box. In black vivid on the box she’s written “Pretty Woman Script”.

She opens the box and inside is the script. I touch it with my shaking hands.

She looks at me with that same devilish glint. “Shall we burn it?”

“No. Julia.”

“C’mon don’t be weak, let’s burn it. Fuck it you know it’s just a script, it doesn’t define me!”

I feel sick to my stomach but I cannot say no to those eyes, that smile, the greatest smile in Hollywood. Surely this is just a game, a weird joke she plays on all her soon-to-be-best-friends to test them. I try to call her out on her bluff.

“OK then.”

We race back down the stairs and out to the fire pit which now violently roars. She holds the script over the open fire pit. She laughs manically, but it’s Julia Roberts so it’s still beautiful.

“Fuck it,” she says and throws it into the flames. It catches light immediately, the fire grows in intensity. The paper curls, ignites and then turns to ash.

Then she stops laughing. Something has changed within her.

She turns to me, grabs my arm firmly, looks me dead in the eyes and says in a cold tone, “Why did you make me do that?”

And that’s when I wake up.

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Here for a Good Time: Organised Thoughts From a Disorganised Mind by Chris Parker (Allen & Unwin NZ, $36.99) can be ordered from Unity Books Auckland and Wellington.