Andrew Mason

The 1980s was probably the Listener’s last golden age. At
the end of that decade it shrank to its present size, and
then it was sold to Wilson & Horton and ceased to be a
subsidiary of state broadcasting; now it’s just one of many
horses in Tony O’Reilly’s global media stable and, given
the current state of his finances, it’ll probably be flicked on
to a new owner soon. But the 80s… the magazine lost its
monopoly on advance TV program information in 1982
and inexorably the circulation, which had averaged a
freakish 380,000 for a while, began to slide. Even so, for
most of the rest of the 80s it was around 250,000; and
what you can’t get over, looking back at old copies, is how
big the magazine was—A3 size, no less. Everything in it was
literally writ large; photos and cartoons seem enormous by
today's standards. There’s a prodigality about it that
probably reflects only too well the big-spending ethos of the
era. Trace Hodgson’s stunning political cartoons splatter
the pages like graffiti daubed on the nation’s wall.

There was a great flowering of feature-writing too, with
writers like Murray McLaughlin, Sue McTagget, Bruce
Ansley, Helen Paske and Gordon Campbell given seemingly
unlimited room to move. But the true glory of the magazine
then was the Books section, which under, first, Vincent
O’Sullivan and then Andrew Mason attained an authority
unmatched before or since. In the late 80s, as the front of
the magazine began to lose shape, the Books pages kept
theirs—and that was entirely due to Andrew, whose literary
judgment and exquisite editing eye gave the book reviews
unimpeachable integrity. They were never showy or flashy;
the layouts were models of restraint. The sole merit of the
reviews lay in their content, which Andrew had supervised
down to the last comma. I remember his precisely
pencilled subediting marks on the copy that went to the
printer (no screens then). They showed absolute attention
to every line of every review—the editing often so deftly
done that the writer didn’t even realise how much had been
scalpelled out. Sick copy was healed in Andrew’s hands.

He was a man in whom reticence spoke volumes. He edited,
severely, his own emotions. Yet he was no pale aesthete; I
remember him coming back to the office from the Thorndon
Pool at lunchtimes, sleek as a seal, togs and towel rolled up
under his arm. I remember his fostering of Maori literature
and history, and the way he supported Bub Bridger’s poetry
and gave her her chance in the Listener. I remember hearing
in later years how he had bought Bub a house to live in on
the West Coast. I’ve been remembering these things, as
others will have been, because of Andrew's death two weeks
ago. He was only 58. About 150 of us gathered at Turnbull
House in Wellington last Friday to celebrate his life. I heard
there what I hadn’t known, that he’d supported other
writers too, out of his own pocket; and that he left money to
set up a fund for young writers. Typically, he insisted it be
named after his father, but his brother Tim has quite rightly
overridden that. Andrew was so self-effacing that he didn’t
want any kind of occasion after his death, but I’m glad that
wish was overridden as well.

Andrew’s the finest editor I’ve ever known. After leaving the
Listener he edited many books, most notably, perhaps,
Judith Binney’s Redemption Songs and Michael King’s
Penguin History of New Zealand, but it's his time on the
Listener that naturally stays with me. He was a troubled
soul then; what a joy it was to see his happiness flower over
the past 10 or 11 years, ever since he met Lukacs, the man
who was to become his partner till death did them part.
Such was the love between these two that it's hard to
believe that Andrew's life has come to a full stop; I prefer to
think the story of it will go on being written in the hearts of
those who knew him.With, of course, judicious placement
of the semi-colon.