Haere rā, Keri Hulme

Always loved the story of Keri Hulme.  

She was the most badass of the underdogs, icon to any writer - or anyone at all - who wasn't believed in, not even by themselves.  

I loved that The Bone People was picked up by a tiny feminist publisher, after twelve years of effort, because no one else much cared; and it rose up to seize the Man Booker on behalf of Aotearoa, a colonial nation the esteemed judges maybe struggled to point to on a map. 

I loved that this quirky, introspective, unpretending wahine Māori muscled us onto the world stage, without setting out to, then retreated to her odd home on the West Coast, with its forests older than creation stories, sandflies, long stretches between towns.

I read The Bone People, aged twenty or so, and I didn't always understand it, but that's why it was beautiful.  It was OK to not understand, without feeling foolish.  After all, understanding everything in this life would be boring, would sap all the mystery away. 

The news mispronounced her name.  Icon or not, you shouldn't die between Christmas and new year, when there's only skeleton staff rostered on.  People don't write like they used to, I guess. 

Haere rā, Keri Hulme.  Your legacy is better, is truer, for the fact you never really gave a damn about it.