Abstract
New Zealand has not only to look at the mother-country, but also, jealously and out of the corner of her eye, at Australia; this has affected her literature, which feels itself to be, and is, smaller than that of its neighbour. New Zealand has as yet produced only one indisputably major prose writer, Frank Sargeson (q.v.), but the quality of its run-of-the-mill writing is higher than that of Australia. Geographically New Zealand presents a contrast to Australia: where the interior of the latter is harsh, hostile and mysterious, New Zealand is greener and more — in geography-book terms — ‘scenic’. Beautiful and mysterious it may be, but it is undoubtedly more welcoming.
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