Bernard Beckett tells Graham Reid about writing for the savvy teens of today.

Charlotte Randall is an award-winning New Zealand author whose novels reflect someone utterly in love with the potential of language.

British author Joanna Trollope, who is in Auckland next week, talks to Stephen Jewell about her new book and the trouble with raising boys.

Scarlett Thomas has penned a chatty, delightful easy read about friendship, love, and making those hard, life-defining choices.

Childhood memories and an inspiration from the past are part of the rich tapestry of themes woven into Kim Edwards' novel.

If you are looking for a show that is funny and uplifting, it is unlikely that you would settle on something that has interminable and suicide in its title.

Paula Green reviews three new volumes of poetry from New Zealand writers.

After creating a sensation at the previous Auckland Arts Festival, the creators of The Arrival have returned with an exquisitely crafted rhapsody of image and movement-based theatre.

What went wrong at Whitcoulls?

It is a truism in the publishing industry that very few Kiwis get rich by writing a book.

Programme of tasty morsels served with wonderful flair

Though Sue Orr's new collection of short stories, From Under The Overcoat, references short stories by literary greats such as Nikolay Gogol (The Over Coat) and James Joyce (The Dead), don't hold that against it.

One of the pleasures of reading an essayist as eclectic as Geoff Dyer is that one can go within a few pages from regarding him as a fount of wisdom (when his opinions match yours) to thinking he's a pretentious phoney (when they don't).

For women of a certain (or uncertain) age, remembering nothing is not difficult. Remembering something is more problematic. Thus, women of a certain age will be enchanted by Nora Ephron's take on memory, or lack of it.

It's been six months since the last Joyce Carol Oates, so it's not surprising to find she has another book out. Her productivity is astonishing, she's Barbara Cartland in black instead of pink.

Confession time: I'd never read anything by Anne Rice before this. For a while, I thought she was another name for Stephenie Meyer. She's not (of course), but she could be.

I began this book when a William Lobb rose was in its first flowering in my garden. Every time I went out to get the mail the perfume hung in the air and I breathed it in and felt good about being alive.

Lynch fans will delight in her latest offering of love and heartache in the Italian hills. Sarah-Kate Lynch even helped smooth the reviewer's own path to love.