The New Zealand writer Margaret Mahy

alone. Mahy’s clearest heir, I have always thought, is Elizabeth Knox – and maybe the true inheritance there is sheer singularity. Just as there is no one else like Knox in New Zealand writing, Mahy, too, has ventured into imaginative territory unknown to other local writers. So it was with great pleasure that I visited Mahy recently at her Governor’s Bay home to talk about her new book. As with all journalists, she is generous to a fault with her time and attention; and, as always – despite her careful consideration of questions and thoughtful answers – I’m reminded she isn’t truly comfortable making herself or her life the heart of any conversation. Certainly, any consideration of the style of Mahy’s novels and picture books throws up some irresistible theories. As a writer committed to supporting herself through her art, she has seldom had time for formal research. Rather, it has been a matter of going out and finding inspiration from her immediate environment: the writing on the side of a bus; a spelling mistake in a note to herself; the similarity between a cat and a fur hat. But despite these sometimes mundane origins, the settings for her stories are delightfully varied, as these books celebrate the dramatic plot…