Melbourne University Publishing

Thirteen scholars here have fun changing the course of Australian history, but this diverting exercise has the serious purpose of making the real history fresher, more complex and surprising.

Even the more implausible scenarios can have this effect. Marilyn Lake imagines Prime Minister Alfred Deakin declaring independence from Britain in 1908 and aligning Australia with the United States, which brings to our attention the high place in the Australian imagination accorded to the American republic as exemplar, potential ally and partner in the spreading of a vigorous white manhood across the new world. Ann Curthoys ponders the character and influence of feminism by imagining a men’s movement emerging in the 1970s.

The provenance of The Howard Factor – a collection of essays by senior writers from The Australian newspaper – is not promising. The Australian is after all part of Mark Latham’s ‘Evil Empire’, cheerleader rather than critic of the Howard government. Yet its sympathy for the régime stems not from partisanship but from the newspaper’s philosophy: neo-liberal in domestic matters, neo-conservative in foreign policy. Populist desertion of elements of the neo-liberal agenda has aroused the wrath of the newspaper: witness its condemnation of the government’s policy funk in early 2001, and of its recent surrender to Snowy River romanticism. Discord has been less in foreign policy, where both government and newspaper have been willing recruits to the ‘war on terror’. So slavish has become the newspaper’s adherence to America’s contemporary wars that it has even repudiated its quite heroic stance on the Vietnam War a generation ago.

A couple of years ago I attended the patronal festival at St James’, King Street, Sydney. The preacher was the Dean of Newcastle, who, after the blessing, opened with ‘Greetings from across the Chasuble Belt!’ The large congregation erupted into laughter, then settled in for twelve minutes of civil gospel. This is because Sydney Diocese, alone in the Anglican Communion, requires its clergy to sign an understanding that they will not wear Eucharistic vestments, including the chasuble. The ban is but one outward and visible control mechanism of an inward and enclosed evangelical attitude that typifies the power play within the diocese.

In her essay in this collection, Jenna Mead quotes from the work of a co-contributor, the Australian medievalist David Matthews. He tells a story which is likely to resonate in the memories of many of us who have, by choice or otherwise, studied medieval culture at university in this country. His tutor at the University of Adelaide, in the course of a seminar on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, asked the class about the famous line which describes Bertilak’s castle: ‘Towres telded bytwene, trochet ful [th]ick.’ ‘Where might the nearest example of such an architectural feature be found?’ The class, suspecting some academic trick, fell silent, not making the imaginative connection to the tower of the administration building ‘about two hundred yards away’.

If it is the case that we can no longer avoid the effects of living under conditions of globalisation, then increasingly that spatial dimension governs our lives. Look not, therefore, deep into the history of our individual nations or localities to explain what is going on, but lift your eyes to the horizon, and beyond, where a devastated city may be smouldering. Within minutes, a local politician will be warning us that we may be next.

A decade ago, former Prime Minister Paul Keating made a telling comment on the treatment of speeches in modern politics. ‘If Abraham Lincoln gave the Gettysburg Address in 1992,’ he said, ‘the chances are the journalists wouldn’t report the speech but the “doorstop” that followed it. And the first question they’d ask is, “How come you’re talking about democracy and freedom when there’s a war going on?” And there’d be learned articles at the weekend about whether it had been a lapse of political judgment for Mr Lincoln to deliver the Gettysburg Address in Gettysburg instead of Philadelphia.’

Douglas Mawson died in 1958. Unlike Ernest Shackleton, Mawson was not charismatic, and his descriptions of the Antarctic lack Shackleton’s poetry; unlike Roald Amundsen, he did not reach the South Pole; unlike Robert Scott, he did not perish tragically; but it is no exaggeration to say that the scale and achievements of his Antarctic expeditions dwarf those of his three famous contemporaries.

Mawson was two years old when he arrived in Sydney with his family from England in 1884. As a young man, he studied mining engineering and geology at the University of Sydney. His interest in the glacial geology of South Australia led to his investigation of the highly mineralised Precambrian rocks of the Barrier Range, extending from the northern Flinders Ranges through Broken Hill, work for which Mawson obtained his doctorate from the University of Adelaide in 1909.

When is a suburb not a suburb? When it is an inner-urban locale with a distinctive café culture, its own postcode and football team, but no town all. And here’s another: how did an Old English word meaning ‘churl’s farm’ come to be assigned to a swanky inner suburb of a major city in the southern hemisphere? These and numerous other questions are answered in Carlton: A History. This encyclopedic book tells a fascinating story that resonates way beyond its notional suburban boundaries.

As Melbourne grew, its suburbs became too vast for one local government body to administer, and areas were carved off to form separate municipalities: Richmond, Collingwood, Fitzroy, South Melbourne, North Melbourne. Carlton, however, despite periodic agitation from its residents, has remained within the boundaries of the Melbourne City Council.

The Blue Mountains glimmer on many horizons. For Sydney-siders, they are a blue haze that promises a weekend away among the gums and spooky grand hotels. For visitors from further afield, they offer wilderness supported by tourist kitsch: statues made from chicken wire; bogus Aboriginal legends; 3-D movies; and, best of all, the scenic railway, a sardine can on a high wire that sways across the valley beneath Echo Point.

The mountains are a place of beginnings and endings. In 1813 three white men made what they called, in their blindness and arrogance, The First Crossing of the mountains. Convicts tried to cross them, too, searching for China or for colonies of whites who were free and happy. A century later, the mountains were becoming a place for final steps and breaths. People leapt to their deaths from beauty spots. Descendants of the first inhabitants of this breathtaking place, including the Darug and Gundungurra people, still live there, although in public discourse the Aboriginality of the mountains is more often inscribed in inanimate objects such as The Three Sisters or the Orphan Rock.