‘A literary magazine is a personal creation,’ wrote Clive James. It is one of the medium’s strengths and one of its limitations. Because literary magazines (like the one I edit) are typically small, much influence is vested in the person heading it. Such a concentration of autonomy in one intellect, one sensibility, has its benefits and its dangers.

Clive James knew a thing or two about literary magazines, having written for some of the best. When I became editor of Australian Book Review (ABR) in 2001, I knew that it should add new poetry to its repertoire – not because I am a poet (though I am), but because any literary review worth its salt includes poetry. So I wrote to Clive, who duly appeared in my first issue, and many thereafter. Clive remained a polarising figure in Oz. Some sniffed at his television specials; others pooh-poohed his politics. I always found him reflective and confiding. On one occasion, we met at the Mildura Writers Festival, where he received the Philip Hodgins Memorial Medal – a rather extraordinary local sculpture, which Clive managed to leave behind. Perhaps he was travelling light. At the ceremony, the legendary chef Stefano de Pieri served