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First Post
5 days ago
- Entertainment
- First Post
China probes what China does: Plagiarism scandal shakes Beijing's state-backed literary scene
In recent months, an anonymous Chinese blogger operating under the alias 'Lyrical Forest' has rattled the foundations of China's state-subsidised literary establishment. Known for his meticulous side-by-side text comparisons, he has published a growing archive of cases where notable Chinese authors appear to have closely mirrored the works of international literary figures. From Ian McEwan to Albert Camus and Gabriel García Márquez, the list of foreign authors allegedly plagiarised reads like a syllabus of global literature's greats. STORY CONTINUES BELOW THIS AD According to Sanlian Life Weekly, this digital detective began his journey innocently — reading children's literature to his own child — only to discover passages strikingly similar to those of Japanese author Naoko Yasubo. That discovery quickly led to further investigations and a broader campaign, culminating in widespread exposure of what many are now calling systemic plagiarism within the Chinese literary community. Silence of the literary establishment Despite the mounting evidence, China's literary elite has largely chosen to look the other way. Most of the authors implicated—including highly decorated writers published in leading journals such as Harvest, People's Literature and October — have yet to respond to the accusations. Only one author, Sun Pin, has publicly apologised. The rest remain silent, with some issuing vague denials or sidestepping the issue entirely. 'Lyrical Forest', whose online following surged from 1,000 to over 6,000 within weeks, insists his aim is not personal vindication but rather a moral reckoning within the literary world. He told Sanlian Life Weekly that his work was about justice and protecting originality, not shaming individuals. Still, his revelations have been met with hostility by parts of the publishing community, with at least one editor reportedly pressuring him to delete his findings, framing the overlaps as mere 'coincidence.' A crisis of confidence The scandal comes at a moment when public trust in China's cultural institutions is already fragile. The inaction of major literary journals has struck a nerve with readers, many of whom see their silence as complicity. As iNews pointed out, the only serious institutional response has come from Hong Kong Literature, which issued a rare and commendable statement acknowledging the problem, taking responsibility and pledging reform. In contrast, the mainland's major outlets have either ignored the scandal or subtly mocked the whistleblower. This divergence has only fuelled suspicion that China's literary sphere—long subsidised and shaped by the state — is more concerned with preserving its internal hierarchies than safeguarding artistic integrity. From copycat culture to amateur renaissance China's literary community is no stranger to allegations of copying. The case of Ye Weilin in the 1990s, who plagiarised Russian and Chinese writers before ultimately apologising, serves as a notable precedent. But what sets today's situation apart is both the scale of exposure and the digital tools available to track it. Free plagiarism checkers, online archives and widespread reader engagement have enabled a grassroots accountability movement that couldn't have existed a generation ago. STORY CONTINUES BELOW THIS AD This climate has sparked a resurgence of what some are calling 'amateur writing.' Uncredentialed writers, many without formal literary backgrounds or publishing contracts, are gaining recognition online. According to commentary shared by Sanlian Life Weekly, many of these newcomers see the scandal as a clearing of the deck — an opportunity to write without conforming to the industry's often insular, and now discredited, gatekeeping structures. 'Lyrical Forest' himself is emblematic of this shift. Formerly employed in trend forecasting, he has no literary pedigree or professional ties to publishing. Yet his precise, methodical approach has outclassed the editorial oversight of entire magazines. He maintains that he never labels works as plagiarised outright, merely presenting the evidence and letting the public decide. Moral bankruptcy or institutional rot? For some observers, the scandal lays bare a deeper moral rot. As iNews put it, the literary world has ceased to be a sanctuary for talent, instead becoming a refuge for mediocrity propped up by mutual praise and prestige awards. Well-known authors like Mo Yan and Yu Hua, who have been associated with some of the plagiarists or praised their work, have remained conspicuously silent. The publication noted that the halo effect — where the fame of an author shields them from scrutiny — has created a space where even poorly written or unoriginal works are applauded. One particularly scathing remark described the literary scene as a 'granary covered with green hair,' suggesting that the problem is no longer a few bad actors but a systemic decay. STORY CONTINUES BELOW THIS AD In this context, plagiarism is not an aberration but a symptom of a literary culture that has lost its ethical compass. Institutions that should have served as arbiters of quality and guardians of originality are now seen by many as hollow facades, resistant to criticism and divorced from the very readers they claim to serve. China's broader copying controversy This literary scandal also taps into a long-running narrative about China's developmental model — one often accused of thriving on imitation. From the replication of Western technological designs to military hardware and even cultural practices, the notion of China 'copying the West' has become a trope in international discourse. Yet what makes this particular episode unique is that the accusation is coming from within. The bloggers, readers and amateur critics now challenging the establishment are not foreign observers but Chinese citizens disillusioned with the lack of originality in their national literature. Their frustration reflects a deeper cultural anxiety about authenticity, merit and moral integrity. An industry at a crossroads The fallout from the plagiarism scandal may well shape the future of Chinese literature. Will it provoke genuine reform, with greater accountability and openness to new voices? Or will the establishment continue its defensive crouch, banking on the short memory of the public? For now, 'Lyrical Forest' continues his solitary battle, bolstered by a community of readers who value honesty over pedigree. Whether or not the industry listens, his work has exposed a truth many already suspected, that behind the façade of state-endorsed brilliance lies a fragile ecosystem — one held together not by creativity, but by silence. STORY CONTINUES BELOW THIS AD
Scotsman
08-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Scotsman
Edinburgh Book Festival 2025: Here are 25 past Booker Prize nominees at this year's event
2 . Ian McEwan One of the greatest living writers – and a man who needs no introduction – Ian McEwan will appear during the 2025 Edinburgh International Book Festival ahead of the publication of his new novel, What We Can Know at McEwan Hall on Sunday, August 24. McEwan became a Booker Prize winner in 1998 for his novel Amsterdam and he is one of the few writers to have been nominated on six occasions. | Getty Images
The National
04-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The National
Shadi's take on rising oil prices
Favourite piece of music: Verdi's Requiem. It's awe-inspiring. Biggest inspiration: My father, as I grew up in a house where music was constantly played on a wind-up gramophone. I had amazing music teachers in primary and secondary school who inspired me to take my music further. They encouraged me to take up music as a profession and I follow in their footsteps, encouraging others to do the same. Favourite book: Ian McEwan's Atonement – the ending alone knocked me for six. Favourite holiday destination: Italy - music and opera is so much part of the life there. I love it.
Irish Times
22-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
In 28 Years Later, Brexit Britain runs screaming towards its Apocalypse Now. What took it so long?
'Donald Trump is going to make punk rock great again,' the mouthy musician Amanda Palmer said after that individual was elected president of the United States for the first time. You think? In the same year, 2016, the United Kingdom elected to leave the European Union. Nobody suggested that punk would feast on incoming catastrophe, but there was great wailing from the literati. 'I think it's a self-inflicted wound,' Martin Amis said. 'I don't like the nostalgic utopia.' Ian McEwan described Brexit as 'the most pointless, masochistic ambition ever dreamed of in the history of these islands'. One imagined poets and choreographers collapsing in despair up and down the aisles of north London's classier off-licences. READ MORE Brexit would now reap the artistic whirlwind. Right? The Europhobic voters of Stoke-on-Trent will feel silly when they hear about that ballet concerning lengthened queues for non-EU passport holders at Florence airport. Worthwhile anti-Trump culture proved thin on the ground in that president's opening term. There was even less Brexit-bashing art in the aftermath of 'Britain's fateful decision' (to use the approved cliche). We did get a great many popular – and good – nonfiction books on the mechanics of the referendum, its potential aftermath and its moral implications. Fintan O'Toole, of this jurisdiction, had a big hit with Heroic Failure: Brexit and the Politics of Pain . Tim Shipman's All Out War: The Full Story of How Brexit Sank Britain's Political Class did what the title claimed in exhaustive fashion. There was a lot more where those came from. But few were writing operas or novels on the topic. We are still awaiting the first great anti-Brexit protest song. These thoughts are prompted by the arrival this week of the second sequel to Danny Boyle 's classic zombie flick 28 Days Later. It hardly needs to be said that Alex Garland's script for 28 Years Later does not halt the violence to ponder article 50 of the Treaty on European Union. [ 28 Years Later review: Danny Boyle's rattling zombie epic never lets up in pace or invention Opens in new window ] We are dealing in allegory here – an unmistakable and blackly hilarious allegory. The mindless zombies have been driven back to Britain from the Continent. (I didn't catch if, like the Romans, the rage virus left Ireland uncolonised.) One proud island off the northeast coast has, however, kept the hordes at bay and, in the process, retreated into a class of mid-20th-century patriotic nostalgia. Boyle intercuts a reading of Rudyard Kipling's poem Boots with clips from Laurence Oliver's Henry V. 'Gentlemen in England now a-bed shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here!' And so on. The film-maker confirmed his intentions to El País newspaper. 'We haven't made a political film,' he said . 'But we've used the current world as a reference, how we behave in it, what cultural legacy we're going to leave behind. Brexit has constrained us, locked us in, and that's what 28 Years Later is about.' A stubborn Mancunian of Irish descent, Boyle will care not a whit if the thumping allegory upsets leavers, not least because it in no way impedes the hurtling progress of the core narrative. He can feel proud of showing how the subject can be addressed without dragging your film into po-faced agitprop. Why have so few artists attempted anything similar over the past decade? Have a look at Anish Kapoor's A Brexit, A Broxit, We All Fall Down from 2019. Created for the Guardian newspaper, it works an enormous cleft along the spine of Britain. The meaning is clear – a little too clear for an artist of Kapoor's subtlety. In 2017 the unavoidable, pseudonymous Banksy delivered a mural showing a sculptor chipping away one star from the EU flag. Not his most affecting piece. British novelists proved reluctant to engage so directly with the subject. It remains an oddity that Ali Smith's Autumn , frequently labelled the first post-Brexit novel, was published just four months after the vote. Alex Preston, writing in the Financial Times, marvelled 'that writing this good could have come so fast'. No deluge of Brexit fiction flowed into the succeeding abyss of negotiation. Plenty of films seemed to offer comment on the Brexit mindset. You could see Christopher Nolan's Dunkirk making the case for either side. The triumphant Paddington 2 played as an argument for diversity and inclusivity. But 28 Years Later really does feel like the closest thing to mainstream cinematic engagement with Brexit since the country voted on June 23rd, 2016. Maybe the argument against feels too much an obsession of elite London dinner parties. Maybe the wider subject is too complex to address as allegory or side narrative. Most likely audiences (and creators) just got sick of it long before the documents were finally signed. It's not Vietnam. Nobody was going to make an Apocalypse Now about Brexit. Though Boyle has come closer than seemed possible.
The Advertiser
22-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Advertiser
Australia's enduring love affair with the US is at a critical point
Few stories start in a more compelling way than Ian McEwan's brilliant novel Enduring Love (1997). Several men, strangers to each other, rush across an English field converging on a stricken helium balloon as they try frantically to hold it grounded long enough to free a child cowering in its basket. As the ungainly apparatus is gusted violently aloft during a wind squall, the men suddenly find themselves "treading air", each facing a terrible choice - whether to hang on in the hope their collective weight will bring it down again or let go before rising too high to survive the fall. It might seem rich to describe Australia's umbilical attachment to the United States as an enduring love, but that unanswerable question in the untethered balloon scene feels disturbingly apt. As does the book's title. The bilateral relationship has survived long enough to natural, even definitional. With that "enduring", though, has come less admirable attributes like unbalanced, fawning, and captive. Hence the reckless conservative boast that Australians have fought alongside Americans in every war they've undertaken since 1900. This includes moral, legal, and strategic outrages like Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Like McEwan's disparate characters twisting precariously on guy ropes and slaves to untameable forces of physics, the existential question of whether to cling on or let go, is fast becoming existential. Not that the cheerleaders of the AUKUS caucus are awake to it. While the US talks openly of rehabilitating Russia, invading Greenland and seizing the Panama Canal, they mouth terms like strategic alignment, shared values, cooperation and interoperability. In so many ways, McEwan's exquisitely described dilemma seems like a fitting metaphor for this instant. A temporally reflexive metaphor that works, albeit in different ways, for Australia, for Iran, for Israel, and even for those democracies keeping schtum as another American president contemplates a Middle Eastern war. And as Israel reveals its bottomless reserves of military power and lawless vengeance. In short order, Iran must decide if it is to surrender its nuclear enrichment capacities - even for exclusively peaceful domestic purposes like medical isotopes - or face a US aerial bombardment of unimaginable ferocity. Israel must decide, in the same compressed timeframe, if it is to accommodate such assurances - should Donald Trump insist(?) - or fight on condemning Israelis to further carnage and the state itself to perennial insecurity in its region. It is a choice between an unlikely peace and the guarantee of endless war and an ever-enduring hate. The oafish Trump has no plan. He has bought himself a mere fortnight to decide between backing off or pursuing a path he expressly campaigned against. McEwan's well-meaning strangers who've sprinted towards the flailing balloon exhibit some characteristics of the international community. In the nine days since Israel's far-right Netanyahu government began bombing Iran's nuclear sites without warning, a kind of uncoordinated helplessness has taken hold. Those gathered in Canada for the G7 caved instantly to US and Israeli pressure, citing the Jewish state's limitless "right to defend itself". The group called Iran the "principal source of regional instability". While the criticism of Iran is justified, one might have expected the top liberal states to weigh more heavily the authoritative opinions of international legal scholars such as Professor Ben Saul, Challis chair of international law at the University of Sydney and UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights and Counter Terrorism. Saul says Israel's claimed legal impunity simply does not apply here. "Israel claims that its attack is necessary to prevent Iran acquiring nuclear weapons and using them in the future. The problem is that under international law, a country may only defend itself from an actual or imminent armed attack by another country," wrote Saul in the Guardian. As the rules break down, such facts have become ethereal, prone to dissipating, like so much helium. READ MORE KENNY: It is worth remembering that the trend to American unreliability now so blatant, started more than two decades ago, when fragmentary intelligence was deliberately "sexed up" to look like solid intel ahead of the Iraq invasion. America's "forever wars" in Iraq and Afghanistan, with the attendant abuses of Abu Ghraib and the eventual surrender to the very Taliban it had expelled - signalled a loss of prestige internationally. But they also sparked a crisis at the moral and institutional core of America. The nativist, protectionist, anti-establishment Trump is its indignant progeny. A vulgar up-yours to the compromises of democracy and the checks on executive power by laws, courts, multilateral bodies and international norms. As Hugh White notes in his latest insightful Quarterly Essay, "Hard New World: Our Post-American Future", the nation which had saved democracy, then created and policed a post-war rules-based international order, has gone and is not coming back. Now, an avowed America First isolationist scoffs at such an order (globally and domestically) and ridicules the haughty ethics that had underpinned it. Even last week, Trump arrived at the G7 only to complain that Vladimir Putin should be there too. To bend McEwan's balloon dilemma further, Australia might ask itself a further question: are we the poor sods clinging white-knuckled to guy ropes? Or are we perhaps the panicked child cowering in the basket, too frightened to determine our own survival as a sovereign nation? Few stories start in a more compelling way than Ian McEwan's brilliant novel Enduring Love (1997). Several men, strangers to each other, rush across an English field converging on a stricken helium balloon as they try frantically to hold it grounded long enough to free a child cowering in its basket. As the ungainly apparatus is gusted violently aloft during a wind squall, the men suddenly find themselves "treading air", each facing a terrible choice - whether to hang on in the hope their collective weight will bring it down again or let go before rising too high to survive the fall. It might seem rich to describe Australia's umbilical attachment to the United States as an enduring love, but that unanswerable question in the untethered balloon scene feels disturbingly apt. As does the book's title. The bilateral relationship has survived long enough to natural, even definitional. With that "enduring", though, has come less admirable attributes like unbalanced, fawning, and captive. Hence the reckless conservative boast that Australians have fought alongside Americans in every war they've undertaken since 1900. This includes moral, legal, and strategic outrages like Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Like McEwan's disparate characters twisting precariously on guy ropes and slaves to untameable forces of physics, the existential question of whether to cling on or let go, is fast becoming existential. Not that the cheerleaders of the AUKUS caucus are awake to it. While the US talks openly of rehabilitating Russia, invading Greenland and seizing the Panama Canal, they mouth terms like strategic alignment, shared values, cooperation and interoperability. In so many ways, McEwan's exquisitely described dilemma seems like a fitting metaphor for this instant. A temporally reflexive metaphor that works, albeit in different ways, for Australia, for Iran, for Israel, and even for those democracies keeping schtum as another American president contemplates a Middle Eastern war. And as Israel reveals its bottomless reserves of military power and lawless vengeance. In short order, Iran must decide if it is to surrender its nuclear enrichment capacities - even for exclusively peaceful domestic purposes like medical isotopes - or face a US aerial bombardment of unimaginable ferocity. Israel must decide, in the same compressed timeframe, if it is to accommodate such assurances - should Donald Trump insist(?) - or fight on condemning Israelis to further carnage and the state itself to perennial insecurity in its region. It is a choice between an unlikely peace and the guarantee of endless war and an ever-enduring hate. The oafish Trump has no plan. He has bought himself a mere fortnight to decide between backing off or pursuing a path he expressly campaigned against. McEwan's well-meaning strangers who've sprinted towards the flailing balloon exhibit some characteristics of the international community. In the nine days since Israel's far-right Netanyahu government began bombing Iran's nuclear sites without warning, a kind of uncoordinated helplessness has taken hold. Those gathered in Canada for the G7 caved instantly to US and Israeli pressure, citing the Jewish state's limitless "right to defend itself". The group called Iran the "principal source of regional instability". While the criticism of Iran is justified, one might have expected the top liberal states to weigh more heavily the authoritative opinions of international legal scholars such as Professor Ben Saul, Challis chair of international law at the University of Sydney and UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights and Counter Terrorism. Saul says Israel's claimed legal impunity simply does not apply here. "Israel claims that its attack is necessary to prevent Iran acquiring nuclear weapons and using them in the future. The problem is that under international law, a country may only defend itself from an actual or imminent armed attack by another country," wrote Saul in the Guardian. As the rules break down, such facts have become ethereal, prone to dissipating, like so much helium. READ MORE KENNY: It is worth remembering that the trend to American unreliability now so blatant, started more than two decades ago, when fragmentary intelligence was deliberately "sexed up" to look like solid intel ahead of the Iraq invasion. America's "forever wars" in Iraq and Afghanistan, with the attendant abuses of Abu Ghraib and the eventual surrender to the very Taliban it had expelled - signalled a loss of prestige internationally. But they also sparked a crisis at the moral and institutional core of America. The nativist, protectionist, anti-establishment Trump is its indignant progeny. A vulgar up-yours to the compromises of democracy and the checks on executive power by laws, courts, multilateral bodies and international norms. As Hugh White notes in his latest insightful Quarterly Essay, "Hard New World: Our Post-American Future", the nation which had saved democracy, then created and policed a post-war rules-based international order, has gone and is not coming back. Now, an avowed America First isolationist scoffs at such an order (globally and domestically) and ridicules the haughty ethics that had underpinned it. Even last week, Trump arrived at the G7 only to complain that Vladimir Putin should be there too. To bend McEwan's balloon dilemma further, Australia might ask itself a further question: are we the poor sods clinging white-knuckled to guy ropes? Or are we perhaps the panicked child cowering in the basket, too frightened to determine our own survival as a sovereign nation? Few stories start in a more compelling way than Ian McEwan's brilliant novel Enduring Love (1997). Several men, strangers to each other, rush across an English field converging on a stricken helium balloon as they try frantically to hold it grounded long enough to free a child cowering in its basket. As the ungainly apparatus is gusted violently aloft during a wind squall, the men suddenly find themselves "treading air", each facing a terrible choice - whether to hang on in the hope their collective weight will bring it down again or let go before rising too high to survive the fall. It might seem rich to describe Australia's umbilical attachment to the United States as an enduring love, but that unanswerable question in the untethered balloon scene feels disturbingly apt. As does the book's title. The bilateral relationship has survived long enough to natural, even definitional. With that "enduring", though, has come less admirable attributes like unbalanced, fawning, and captive. Hence the reckless conservative boast that Australians have fought alongside Americans in every war they've undertaken since 1900. This includes moral, legal, and strategic outrages like Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Like McEwan's disparate characters twisting precariously on guy ropes and slaves to untameable forces of physics, the existential question of whether to cling on or let go, is fast becoming existential. Not that the cheerleaders of the AUKUS caucus are awake to it. While the US talks openly of rehabilitating Russia, invading Greenland and seizing the Panama Canal, they mouth terms like strategic alignment, shared values, cooperation and interoperability. In so many ways, McEwan's exquisitely described dilemma seems like a fitting metaphor for this instant. A temporally reflexive metaphor that works, albeit in different ways, for Australia, for Iran, for Israel, and even for those democracies keeping schtum as another American president contemplates a Middle Eastern war. And as Israel reveals its bottomless reserves of military power and lawless vengeance. In short order, Iran must decide if it is to surrender its nuclear enrichment capacities - even for exclusively peaceful domestic purposes like medical isotopes - or face a US aerial bombardment of unimaginable ferocity. Israel must decide, in the same compressed timeframe, if it is to accommodate such assurances - should Donald Trump insist(?) - or fight on condemning Israelis to further carnage and the state itself to perennial insecurity in its region. It is a choice between an unlikely peace and the guarantee of endless war and an ever-enduring hate. The oafish Trump has no plan. He has bought himself a mere fortnight to decide between backing off or pursuing a path he expressly campaigned against. McEwan's well-meaning strangers who've sprinted towards the flailing balloon exhibit some characteristics of the international community. In the nine days since Israel's far-right Netanyahu government began bombing Iran's nuclear sites without warning, a kind of uncoordinated helplessness has taken hold. Those gathered in Canada for the G7 caved instantly to US and Israeli pressure, citing the Jewish state's limitless "right to defend itself". The group called Iran the "principal source of regional instability". While the criticism of Iran is justified, one might have expected the top liberal states to weigh more heavily the authoritative opinions of international legal scholars such as Professor Ben Saul, Challis chair of international law at the University of Sydney and UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights and Counter Terrorism. Saul says Israel's claimed legal impunity simply does not apply here. "Israel claims that its attack is necessary to prevent Iran acquiring nuclear weapons and using them in the future. The problem is that under international law, a country may only defend itself from an actual or imminent armed attack by another country," wrote Saul in the Guardian. As the rules break down, such facts have become ethereal, prone to dissipating, like so much helium. READ MORE KENNY: It is worth remembering that the trend to American unreliability now so blatant, started more than two decades ago, when fragmentary intelligence was deliberately "sexed up" to look like solid intel ahead of the Iraq invasion. America's "forever wars" in Iraq and Afghanistan, with the attendant abuses of Abu Ghraib and the eventual surrender to the very Taliban it had expelled - signalled a loss of prestige internationally. But they also sparked a crisis at the moral and institutional core of America. The nativist, protectionist, anti-establishment Trump is its indignant progeny. A vulgar up-yours to the compromises of democracy and the checks on executive power by laws, courts, multilateral bodies and international norms. As Hugh White notes in his latest insightful Quarterly Essay, "Hard New World: Our Post-American Future", the nation which had saved democracy, then created and policed a post-war rules-based international order, has gone and is not coming back. Now, an avowed America First isolationist scoffs at such an order (globally and domestically) and ridicules the haughty ethics that had underpinned it. Even last week, Trump arrived at the G7 only to complain that Vladimir Putin should be there too. To bend McEwan's balloon dilemma further, Australia might ask itself a further question: are we the poor sods clinging white-knuckled to guy ropes? Or are we perhaps the panicked child cowering in the basket, too frightened to determine our own survival as a sovereign nation? Few stories start in a more compelling way than Ian McEwan's brilliant novel Enduring Love (1997). Several men, strangers to each other, rush across an English field converging on a stricken helium balloon as they try frantically to hold it grounded long enough to free a child cowering in its basket. As the ungainly apparatus is gusted violently aloft during a wind squall, the men suddenly find themselves "treading air", each facing a terrible choice - whether to hang on in the hope their collective weight will bring it down again or let go before rising too high to survive the fall. It might seem rich to describe Australia's umbilical attachment to the United States as an enduring love, but that unanswerable question in the untethered balloon scene feels disturbingly apt. As does the book's title. The bilateral relationship has survived long enough to natural, even definitional. With that "enduring", though, has come less admirable attributes like unbalanced, fawning, and captive. Hence the reckless conservative boast that Australians have fought alongside Americans in every war they've undertaken since 1900. This includes moral, legal, and strategic outrages like Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Like McEwan's disparate characters twisting precariously on guy ropes and slaves to untameable forces of physics, the existential question of whether to cling on or let go, is fast becoming existential. Not that the cheerleaders of the AUKUS caucus are awake to it. While the US talks openly of rehabilitating Russia, invading Greenland and seizing the Panama Canal, they mouth terms like strategic alignment, shared values, cooperation and interoperability. In so many ways, McEwan's exquisitely described dilemma seems like a fitting metaphor for this instant. A temporally reflexive metaphor that works, albeit in different ways, for Australia, for Iran, for Israel, and even for those democracies keeping schtum as another American president contemplates a Middle Eastern war. And as Israel reveals its bottomless reserves of military power and lawless vengeance. In short order, Iran must decide if it is to surrender its nuclear enrichment capacities - even for exclusively peaceful domestic purposes like medical isotopes - or face a US aerial bombardment of unimaginable ferocity. Israel must decide, in the same compressed timeframe, if it is to accommodate such assurances - should Donald Trump insist(?) - or fight on condemning Israelis to further carnage and the state itself to perennial insecurity in its region. It is a choice between an unlikely peace and the guarantee of endless war and an ever-enduring hate. The oafish Trump has no plan. He has bought himself a mere fortnight to decide between backing off or pursuing a path he expressly campaigned against. McEwan's well-meaning strangers who've sprinted towards the flailing balloon exhibit some characteristics of the international community. In the nine days since Israel's far-right Netanyahu government began bombing Iran's nuclear sites without warning, a kind of uncoordinated helplessness has taken hold. Those gathered in Canada for the G7 caved instantly to US and Israeli pressure, citing the Jewish state's limitless "right to defend itself". The group called Iran the "principal source of regional instability". While the criticism of Iran is justified, one might have expected the top liberal states to weigh more heavily the authoritative opinions of international legal scholars such as Professor Ben Saul, Challis chair of international law at the University of Sydney and UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights and Counter Terrorism. Saul says Israel's claimed legal impunity simply does not apply here. "Israel claims that its attack is necessary to prevent Iran acquiring nuclear weapons and using them in the future. The problem is that under international law, a country may only defend itself from an actual or imminent armed attack by another country," wrote Saul in the Guardian. As the rules break down, such facts have become ethereal, prone to dissipating, like so much helium. READ MORE KENNY: It is worth remembering that the trend to American unreliability now so blatant, started more than two decades ago, when fragmentary intelligence was deliberately "sexed up" to look like solid intel ahead of the Iraq invasion. America's "forever wars" in Iraq and Afghanistan, with the attendant abuses of Abu Ghraib and the eventual surrender to the very Taliban it had expelled - signalled a loss of prestige internationally. But they also sparked a crisis at the moral and institutional core of America. The nativist, protectionist, anti-establishment Trump is its indignant progeny. A vulgar up-yours to the compromises of democracy and the checks on executive power by laws, courts, multilateral bodies and international norms. As Hugh White notes in his latest insightful Quarterly Essay, "Hard New World: Our Post-American Future", the nation which had saved democracy, then created and policed a post-war rules-based international order, has gone and is not coming back. Now, an avowed America First isolationist scoffs at such an order (globally and domestically) and ridicules the haughty ethics that had underpinned it. Even last week, Trump arrived at the G7 only to complain that Vladimir Putin should be there too. To bend McEwan's balloon dilemma further, Australia might ask itself a further question: are we the poor sods clinging white-knuckled to guy ropes? Or are we perhaps the panicked child cowering in the basket, too frightened to determine our own survival as a sovereign nation?
