It is true of any genuinely creative endeavour – and that is really what publishing a literary journal amounts to – that its aesthetic success has no necessary relation to its commercial viability. This is not to say that these are mutually exclusive categories, merely that their ultimate allegiances are different. Yet the ideal of achieving both remains a tantalising prospect, and perhaps especially so when it comes to the written word, where the ratio of effort to remuneration is so often a cause for either horse-laughs or despair, depending on one’s state of mind. In his final editorial, Indyk writes with good humour about the optimistic vision behind the creation of HEAT, a vision that wandered into ‘extravagant fantasies in which the offices of HEAT were housed in a converted warehouse in Sydney’s inner-west, or a colonial cottage on the Parramatta campus of UWS, or in one of the finger wharfs overlooking the harbour, with banks of computers attended by interns and writers in residence, contributors scurrying in and out, half a dozen full-time editors deep in reading and consultation, and sun-filled meeting rooms in which international collaborations were in the planning’.

This undeniably appealing vision was, alas, not to be. There certainly exists a substantial community of writers and readers who recognise the value of a publication such as HEAT; but, Indyk reflects, as the journal’s reputation grew and grew, its sales figures remained more or less the same. ‘It is a mistake,’ he observes, ‘to think of a community as a market.’

HEAT’s achievement over the past fourteen years has been considerable. Its aesthetic is that of a miscellany; what Indyk describes as a magazine in book form. Its aim has been to combine the variety of the former with the enduring quality of the latter. Its character has emerged over the years from this commitment to no form of writing in particular, this openness to any and every style, so long as the writing is good and interesting. In a recent interview, Indyk described the act of editing the journal as an act of criticism before the fact: a way of arguing for a version of literary value. And not the least of the ironies he relishes in his introduction is the fact that the somewhat problematic nature of HEAT’s generic identity is precisely what gives the publication its dynamism. It is because it is a miscellany that it has been able to reflect the real vitality of Australian writing.

True to form, HEAT 24: That’s it, for now … runs the gamut of styles. There is a strong critical essay from the film critic Adrian Martin, along with two less conventional critical exercises: the first from the Sydney Morning Herald’s chief literary critic, Andrew Riemer, who spins an extended cultural meditation from a brief encounter between Sigmund Freud and Gustav Mahler in 1910; the second by Andreas Campomar, a London-based critic of German-Uruguayan descent, who, rather appealingly, combines a discussion of the work of the Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano with musings on the country’s once-formidable national soccer team.

The fiction ranges from Nicholas Jose’s accomplished realism to a story by Christopher Cyrill, set out in numbered paragraphs, that incorporates elements of ekphrasis and philosophical reflection. Justine Ettler contributes an engaging memoir about her family of inveterate drinkers and gamblers, which includes the story of how her great-grand-uncle built the Wyong racecourse. There is also plenty of notable poetry, including some formally adventurous work by Ania Walwicz and Patrick Jones, although it is hard to go past Alan Wearne’s hilarious burst of doggerel ridiculing the creation of Australian Poetry Ltd., an organisation ‘with a charter to promote and support Australian poets and poetry locally, regionally, nationally and internationally’: ‘Industry Body, Peak Industry Body, / Thou mentoring magus like Big Ears to Noddy ...’

Not for the first time, the best thing in an edition of HEAT has been written by Gillian Mears. Her essay ‘Fairy Deaths’, which is accompanied by a beautiful Vincent Long photograph, is an elegantly written and moving reflection on the way that the multiple sclerosis she has been living with for many years has ravaged her body and reduced her capacity for physical pleasure. It is a brilliant piece of work that alone makes HEAT 24 worth seeking out.

In the memorial essay for the late Peter Porter that closes the volume, Jeffrey Poacher highlights David Malouf’s observation that nationality meant nothing to Porter, whose ‘outlook was always either local or planetary’. The ambition of HEAT has extended, one might say, from the local to the planetary. Its contributors over the past fourteen years have included international writers such as Marina Warner and John Berger, as well as a who’s who of contemporary Australian literature. It has embraced the great multiculture of literature in all its stylistic diversity. It has published many fine poets, including Robert Gray, Jennifer Maiden, and Antigone Kefala, all of whom are represented in this final volume. Perhaps its most significant achievement will come to be seen as its championing of established yet underappreciated authors, such as Brian Castro and Gerald Murnane, at the same time as it has sought to foster the talents of younger writers, such as Tom Cho, Kate Middleton, and Hoa Pham.

The HEAT website displays an endorsement from Malouf that nicely summarises the value of its catholic approach to literary publishing: ‘A lively magazine like HEAT can create the occasion for new writing, a wish on the part of writers to write up to its standard. It makes things happen.’ The lasting cultural influence that comes from making things happen can never really be quantified, but it is safe to say that it is not in the least a reflection of sales figures. ‘I think we have made something, in HEAT,’ Indyk observes, ‘that is significant in itself. But it can also serve as a platform for things to come.’ In one way or another, I am sure that it will.