The great New Zealand writer Maurice Gee has died. The literary community pays tribute.

Maurice was one of the most honest and brave men I’ve known. Honest about his craft – because he saw it as craft, equal to any art; there was absolutely no bullshit about Maurice when he spoke or wrote of his job. Brave because he was unflinching in his presentation of human and social imperfections, and in his commitment to the precarious business of being a full time writer. I remember his casual mention of the fact that the year’s PLL payment had been a decent one, so they could afford a decent Christmas. It was said with absolutely no affectation or pretension – just part of his stoicism and modesty.

His contribution to our children’s writing was astonishing. He took on topics which hardly any other author attempted at the time; respected and even honoured his young readers by showing characters and issues in their ambivalent and often disturbing complexity. The ugliness, the evil was never glossed over, but his books were permeated by such a strong moral sense. And he mythologised the NZ landscape, made it emblematic in ways which have inspired New Zealand writers since.

I was lucky enough – hell, privileged enough – to be hosted by Maurice and Margareta at different times. They were warm, natural, interested as well as interesting: all that you could ask of hosts. I want to acknowledge Margareta’s commitment, support and love for Maurice; she was his greatest friend and companion. And I want to mention that once when I was talking to him, Maurice thanked me for writing a small booklet for schools about him. ”It was so good of you to take the trouble.” He thanked ME for writing about him? I’d have crawled on all fours to have the chance to do so. / David Hill

Dear Maurice, I was one of your very first admirers in print. In 1962, I took up the book review page in the Rotorua Daily Post, and one of the very first books to land on my desk was The Big Season by a writer nobody really knew. But of course it was you, and your book fairly sizzled with colour and vibrancy, and an immediacy about a world I had been immersed in in my teens, rugby clubs and the high dramas on and off the field. I didn’t know then that you had lived for some time in Rotorua but it felt as if you did, that we had watched the same games. That book had the total ring of authenticity, a trait that followed through in all your work, even though the subject matter changed, took on an often sombre tone. 

But anyway, a couple of firsts: your first novel, my first book review, repeated on the back of your next, A Special Flower, a book I really really liked too. Here’s what I said: “The Big Season is a splash of colour on the New Zealand literary scene. Maurice Gee is an obviously brilliant young New Zealander, with an unerring eye for detail and a sharp ear for dialogue….it is completely fresh and natural and does more towards the authenticity of his New Zealand scene than anything else.”

Well, I was young and, if it sounded a bit precious, I was trying to convey just how much I admired your work and, perhaps, how much I wanted to write like you. I mean, I wasn’t wrong about your brilliance, was I, although it was something you wouldn’t admit to, being, as I found you a bit retiring, almost shy. You let me through once or twice and let me see the man who blazed behind that mild exterior, I think I knew where the books came from. There were some I liked more than others and I sighed when I was shortlisted for prizes behind your winning novels yet again. I‘m sorry, you would say, in that self-deprecating way, as if you hadn’t quite meant to win, but you did anyway. But there was always the sense of us being part of that company of writers who learned our craft together in those early years, and went on our way, following in each other’s footsteps as friends and colleagues for a long time.

It’s a while since we last met in person, not since you left Wellington. But dear Maurice, I miss you. Thank you for the books, thanks for the friendship, thanks for your own big season. / Dame Fiona Kidman

One of the joys of placing Maurice Gee’s fiction at the centre of my PhD in Creative Writing was reading all 17 of his adult novels in one intense year. Maurice was our master literary archaeologist, scraping away at the patina of Godzone, coming back at it from another angle — and another and another — until its swampy underbelly revealed its petrified secrets. We’ve lost one of our greatest writers; there’ll never be another like him. Go well, Maurice. / Sue Orr

The following is an excerpt from Damien Wilkins’ 2015 launch speech for Rachel Barrowman’s biography of Gee. Reprinted with permission. 

There’s a great photo in Rachel Barrowman’s essential Gee biography. It shows Maurice in a white singlet digging a hole for his septic tank. You don’t have to think for too long before coming up with its symbolic appeal. Yes, this writer has been excavating our waste systems for decades. What’s especially good about the photo is that it captures the process at its dirtiest. I mean Maurice looks buggered, straddling the hole, the sun beating down on his red face and neck, piles of fresh dirt around, broken bits of concrete. It’s been awful out there on the slope beneath the house but you’re going to feel good once it’s done and you know you haven’t paid another man to do it for you. 

It’s an image then we can savour not only for its tempting literary meaningfulness but also for its suggestion of graft, labour, commitment and self-reliance. We use the phrase “a work of art” fairly loosely and unthinkingly, hurrying to the created thing. One of the contributions high quality literary biography can make is to remind us of how an art form such as the novel is work  – a matter of showing up each morning, putting in the hours, being dissatisfied, getting it right – as right as it’ll come – and signing off on it before moving on to the next job. You might even get paid. Luckily for his readers, though not always easily for Maurice Gee, the job of novelist seems to have been the only thing he was good at. Although I’m sure he did a fine job with the septic tank.

Of course everyone is interested in money and writers are interested in what other writers earn. So the question is: How do you go about constructing your income stream if all you really want to do is make up stories? Read in one way this book is a sort of instruction manual for anyone with an interest in following suit or simply following how one writer did it. And I value intensely Rachel’s dedication to such details. She’s down in that hole with Gee, getting dirt on her shoes and working up a sweat. But of course the story is much more than royalty statements, grant applications, the odd windfall, the many setbacks . . .

For a start there are all those books to read and consider in the light of the life being revealed. This biography is thoroughly engaged with Gee’s fiction and Rachel’s expert delineation of the family tree, the family Gee, which sets out how one book is connected to another, this is tremendously valuable. And it’s never done in the niggardly way which aims to shrink everything to a neat template of correspondences – here’s the real creek and here’s the invented one. When Rachel tests the life against the work she wants to amplify and enrich and suggest. And I especially like one aspect of Rachel’s account of the writing – that is, she always leaves in place the author’s own avowals of ignorance (“I don’t really know what I’m doing”), of uncertainty (“I tried to get close to that experience but who knows”), of fear (“I seem to have come to an end”). These are recurring notes. Partly, of course, they’re a form of self-defence. The aw gee-shucks of Gee. But Rachel understands too that these moments communicate something about writing itself; that it always takes in the possibility of not writing, of not turning up for work. Gee may present as an unpretentious carpenter – look at the cover shot, sleeves rolled as if thinking how to tackle the skirting board – but his life story is remarkably chancy and non-compliant, made from unlikely leaps as much as from dogged toil. From the outside we discern steady progress, books written as regularly as eggs laid, but finally we see inside the life and understand something of its costs, its crises, its victories too. A small example: It’s amazing to me that Gee struggled so much with Meg, a novel I think of as kind of perfect. It’s amazing that Prowlers was originally called Papps.

Let me finish by saying one more thing about the scope of this book. Anyone’s life becomes on closer inspection a group portrait and although Maurice Gee’s career must do without creative writing courses, Rachel convincingly recreates the friendships and relationships that in many ways mimic the kind of support structure available now. There’s a lovely evolving set of insights into how people such as Maurice Shadbolt, Kevin Ireland, Robin Dudding, Ray Grover, Nigel Cook and others interacted with our man. Gee’s friends are Rachel’s friends too and therefore ours, helping us see her subject from different angles. When Gee was doing scriptwriting for television and earning better money, Shadbolt reports back to Ireland that at the Gee house there are “hints of prosperity” – “hard booze in the cupboard now instead of home brew.”

I think Rachel’s feel for the telling remark, the revelatory incident, from what must have been a large archive of letters, interviews, essays, reviews, as well as the fiction itself, lends her text not only its narrative drive but also its tone. The book sounds like Maurice Gee without being his mouthpiece. It’s intimate but also pitched at a crucial remove. This poise allows the book to be fundamentally sympathetic to its subject without sacrificing loyalty to facts which emerge that the hagiographer or even simply the fan might baulk at. I mentioned at the start this business of secrets, new things about Gee’s life that will alter how he’s read. I’m sorry but I’m not telling. Rachel’s biography needs to be read to learn these things. 

Obviously you’ll want to read it to know how the Plumb trilogy came to be written. Or Prowlers. Or Going West. That would be enough. But such is Rachel’s achievement that gradually you feel something else going on. Through scrupulously attending to this remarkable individual, the biography’s single focus starts to do that wonderful thing: it expands, it blossoms, and somehow captures the broad view of a society in motion; it lets us see not just how he lived but how we lived too. That also feels fully in tune with the working art of Maurice Gee. / Damien Wilkins, 2015

I interviewed Maurice in 1976 for the Nelson College literary magazine. I was 16 and we talked in my bedroom (!) next door to Trafalgar Park in Nelson. He was so gracious and patient even though I’m sure my questions were fairly predictable. I remember his advice to young writers was simply to keep doing it. I’ve read almost all his books and, in them, I always hear his quiet careful voice. And I still dream of being able to write with his elegance and power. / Darryl Carey

There are some artists whose work gives you a way to look at your ordinary life and see something deeper, wider, richer than what you might think is there if you’re only glancing; work that is mind-altering really. If we’re lucky, these artists can do this over a long career. As a child, Maurice Gee’s Under the Mountain and Halfmen of O series opened up a space in my imagination that I’m still trying to extend into as an adult, and I thank him for that. / Kirsten McDougall

I feel a huge sadness to hear of the death of Maurice. He has always had a very special place in my heart. I loved his books, especially Meg. I recognised bits of us in some of the books!!

Maurice came into my life when he met my half-sister Margareta in 1967, and married a few years later.

He had a huge influence on my (part-time) writing life, and I write a bit about him in my new memoir My Father’s Suitcase.

I’ll never forget how he and Margareta supported me with my first book The Serpent Rising (published in 1988), when the rest of my family had turned against me, or were disinterested. I’ve still got the long letter they wrote after they read the draft manuscript. An excerpt:

“Maurice says it must be published because there is so little written about your experiences. He found it gripping, interesting, very moving and beautifully written in parts. That’s high praise from him. We both ‒ at separate times ‒ flew from page to page, chapter to chapter.”

I had huge doubts about my writing and could have easily burnt my work, but their validation meant everything to me.

I’ll always appreciate his help and enthusiasm during all the long years I worked on the biography of my father, his father-in-law. In 2007, he wrote a glowing letter to support a grant for a research tour of the South Island, said this book must be written and I needed all the help I could get.

Here is an excerpt from the Author’s Note of my book Sundowner of the Skies, the story of Oscar Garden, the forgotten aviator (2019).

“When he [Dad] was alive the idea that someone might write a book about him came up in conversations. He seemed quite keen on the idea, although he was adamant that his son-in-law, Maurice Gee, should not write it. Maurice, an acclaimed New Zealand author, is married to Margareta, my father’s daughter from his first marriage. My father reckoned there was too much sex in his books. Not that Maurice could write much about the sex in my father’s life. According to Mum, they only had sex a few times and after she became pregnant with my younger sister, Anna, that was it.”

Also, a snippet of Maurice’s long review, part of which ended up as an endorsement in the book

“An important piece of aviation history and a courageous personal story, vividly told. I found it enjoyable in every way. Beautifully told and bravely too, the width of research is astonishing. Sundowner of the Skies should find enthusiastic readers, grateful readers in the aviation world, and thoroughly engaged ones in the wider one. The way the personal story has been woven into the public one works without a hitch and provides a dimension that any other approach would have missed. I read it like a novel – a what-happens-next story, in both the aviation and the family parts. The sad and tortured final years must have been hard to write. Thank God for the bits of humour, “Where’s the ink?” What a great comic line, in its context. Standing further off I can laugh, but Oscar, in a much smaller way, is part of my life too. The little bit I’ve written about him comes nowhere near the real man that Mary has put down here. Many years ago, I stole one of Garden’s flying adventures and gave it to an invented character in a novel I was writing, Emerson in Plumb.”

Again, his validation was important as some family members were not happy about me writing about Dad’s flaws. Maurice loved that I told it all.

Maurice and Margareta represented, for me, a healthier branch of the very dysfunctional Garden tree. I’d visit them when I was in New Zealand and spent time with them in 2022. I’ve got a box of letters and emails and memories that I will treasure. Thank you Maurice for everything: your extraordinary gift of writing, your kindness and gentleness. / Mary Garden

When I was 16 I discovered worn Penguin paperbacks of the Plumb trilogy on my parents’ bookshelf and since then have carried them with me like talismans across rentals and oceans. For me, Maurice Gee is Peacehaven – his work a place of nostalgic, pastoral New Zealandness that feels like home and which I’ll return to again and again. / Holly Hunter

It was summer 1977 when my family (me, husband Gareth and our daughters – a toddler and newborn) moved into a packing crate hut tethered to a builder’s pole. The Maitai Valley had captured us with the sweet smell of gorse, its yellow glow and the din of ratcheting cicada. The Maitai River was bliss and, as with life itself, we lived its rhythm of crispness turning to stagnancy then cleared by torrents. The shape of our house slowly emerged, alongside our small herd of goats, on a cleared patch of hill.

The Gees lived further down the Valley at the start of town. The gorse and bracken-clad hills had given way to grasses that swayed in the breezes. Their house perched in a cluster of others above the River, neighbours gathering below in the hot dusty days and children learning to swim.

The Valley and River shaped and fed many of our lives and echoes through Maurice’s stories. When it and its environs became threatened “by progress”, shared passion fed community action. With Perrine Moncrieff its patron, a Friends of the Maitai committee was formed with Maurice and Margareta, the Shallcrasses, Gibbs and Wilkies to campaign for its health and future. It was a challenging time with heartfelt conversations and actions.

But again, in 1981, the Valley inspired stories – though never in a way we could have imagined. Following a wet spring, the once lush vegetation and the growing pine plantations were now desiccated and tossed about in strong equinox gales. Up the Valley a fire took hold with stunning intensity over five days. The clouds of smoke and snows of ash and burnt bracken drifted down the Valley towards the town, its houses now vulnerable above the River. My family’s home smelted in minutes by a fireball, most of the goats having fled down the hill to the sanctuary of the river.

One doe and her two kids were missing. In the week that followed, Maurice – caught up by the tragedy and loss we all experienced – set off over the still-smouldering earth in hunt of them. “I’ll write about this one day” he said.

Dear Maurice you have left us all such a legacy. Thank you Margareta for all you did to support this. /Diana Bastion

Just two weeks ago, as we finished our bedtime book, my ten-year-old daughter and I had the challenge of picking our next book.  A bit fatigued by Harry Potter … I went to my bookshelf and took down an old, dusty book, with a green hardback cover, and said “What about this one?”

My ten-year-old opened my ancient copy of The Halfmen of O and was suitably impressed with the school award certificate glued to the inside front cover, which I received in 1984 for being “most improved”.  I told her that while I couldn’t remember how I had improved, I did remember visiting the Dorothy Butler Children’s Bookshop in Ponsonby and to choose a book to be presented to me at school prize giving.

I also can’t remember why I read chose The Halfmen of O. Did I like the cover? Had I watched Under the Mountain and recognised the name of the author? It doesn’t really matter why: I loved that book, and the sequels, desperately.

We agreed to try one chapter, and by the end of the second chapter I overheard her telling her sister how great this book is.  Somehow Maurice Gee’s writing has bridged the 40 years from my childhood to hers and is still drawing in primary school kids to the world of O. I’m a bit nervous of introducing her to Under the Mountain next, which still scares me as an adult!

I was very sad last week to hear that Maurice Gee passed away. He was a wonderful writer who touched the lives of many school kids in the 1980’s and onwards. I’m pleased I’ve been able to pass his magic on to my kids. / Grace Campbell

Maurice was something of a mentor to me, and an exemplar of how you can be an effective man without manifesting the testosterone of my type A father. Was this why my father announced to me that he’d refused Maurice a casual job, knowing Maurice was my friend and us both realising he could have easily done otherwise?

See, I’m more powerful than him. No dad. I was a struggling writer myself at the time and gave up for several decades but Maurice didn’t. Yes, he was the gentle and generous man so many people experienced, quiet almost to the point of shyness, but a core of strength and determination. You don’t write that many great books without it. Despite health challenges, him and Margareta walked most days up until a couple of weeks ago and were always up for a wave if they were across the road or a warm chat if we intersected.

So he lived a good life to the end. A nice man, in the best sense. An exemplar. / Peter Butler

This page will be updated as tributes flow in. If you would like to contribute you can email clairemabey@thespinoff.co.nz