The Australian Bush
The opening line of “A Rough Shed” is a perfect, but by no means atypical example of the Lawson’s mastery of technique. Often underestimated, he very often reveals himself to be extraordinarily talented in the craft of creating vivid images that bring to life the world of the Australian bush. That location is so crucial to the bulk—though by no means all—of Lawson’s short stories that without the easy ability to imagine in one’s mind exactly what it looks, feels, sounds and smells like, much of the power of the rest of the story would be diminished.
"A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise—the sun having appeared suddenly above the ragged edge of the barren scrub like a great disc of molten steel. No hint of a morning breeze before it, no sign on earth or sky to show that it is morning—save the position of the sun."
Character as Myth
“The Darling River” is a showcase for Lawson’s talent for creating imagery that serves as a foundation for the narrative. Constructed from a series of sketches composed in a non-consecutive manner, imagery in the final composition is perhaps given a greater emphasis. For instance, the section that immediately precedes quote below is written entirely in dialogue and two are not really narratively connected. Despite this, the descriptive prose above becomes a means of enlarging the context of the passages that are not directly related. Character is vital to the stories of Lawson because he certainly does not depend on sophisticated plotting and most of his characters are stereotypes enlarged and elevated to the level of mythic figure.
"There are a good many fishermen on the Darling. They camp along the banks in all sorts of tents, and move about in little box boats that will only float one man. The fisherman is never heavy. He is mostly a withered little old madman, with black claws, dirty rags (which he never changes), unkempt hair and beard, and a “ratty” expression. We cannot say that we ever saw him catch a fish, or even get a bite, and we certainly never saw him offer any for sale."
Colloquial Dialogue
A consequence of placing so much significance upon character than that plot is that the people who figure in what plot there is becomes absolutely essential components within the process of what is one of the overarching intents of Lawson for his stories. Although a naturally gifted storyteller who seems to have been with a keen sense of observation, Lawson’s purpose for his writing was not mere entertainment. Working in the period in which the continent made the transition from colonial holding of the British Empire to the independent nation of Australian, Lawson sought to create a national literature for his country which did not yet exist. One of the tools in accomplishing this was to reference colloquial Australian idiosyncrasies which collectively over the course of his body of work coalesce in one of his powerful uses of imagery. His dialogue almost effortlessly seems to bring even the most mundane of sentence content to life:
“Y’orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. You don’t seem to care. Y’orter to do something.” (Two Larrikins)
“Wotter yer growlin’ about?” asked one. “Wot’s the matter with yer, anyway?” (The Shearing of the Cook’s Dog)
“Carn’t yer answer a civil question? I’d soon knock the sulks out of yer if I was yer father.” (Two Boys at Grinder Brothers’)
Stage Directions
One of the most effective uses of imagery that Lawson relies upon—so effective that he realized the need to limit its use to only a sampling of stories—is a stylistic choice that might best be described as something more akin to something found in the stage directions than a short story. In fact, in this use Lawson almost seems to foretell the coming of screenwriting. The use of terse, factual, present-tense imagery to “set the stage” for the story to come is distinctively different from the way Lawson opens his “yarns” and sketches. When reading a story that opens in this style, one knows things are going to get a bit more dramatic and serious than usual.
One o’clock on Saturday. The unemployed’s one o’clock on Saturday! Nothing more can be done this week, so you drag yourself wearily and despairingly “home,” with the cheerful prospect of a penniless Saturday afternoon and evening and the long horrible Australian-city Sunday to drag through. (Board and Residence)
Saturday afternoon. (The Buck Jumper)
New Year’s Eve! A hot night in midsummer in the drought. It was so dark—with a smothering darkness—that even the low loom of the scrub-covered ridges, close at hand across the creek, was not to be seen. The sky was not clouded for rain, but with drought haze and the smoke of distant bush fires. (A Child in the Dark)
Hungerford Road, February. One hundred and thirty miles of heavy reddish sand, bordered by dry, hot scrubs. Dense cloud of hot dust. (The Lost Soul’s Hotel)
The two-roomed house is built of round timber, slabs, and stringy-bark, and floored with split slabs. A big bark kitchen standing at one end is larger than the house itself, veranda included. (The Drover’s Wife)
