UNSW Press

For Germaine Greer, the nuns at the Star of the Sea Convent in Melbourne provided ‘a terrific education’. ‘They really loved us,’ said Greer. Not so Amanda Lohrey. Her experience of a working-class convent school in Tasmania so scarred her that still today, visiting a church in Europe, she feels a ‘physical revulsion’ for ‘the naked martyrs, staked out, flayed alive, crumpled, bleeding’. For former Catholic schoolgirls, a reunion is a chance to laugh together over some of the more outrageous things taught to them by nuns. But Lohrey can look back only with bitterness, in particular on the nuns’ ‘intense but evasive’ preoccupation with sex. ‘Boys are after only one thing, girls. They’ll suck you dry like an orange,’ she was told. She cannot laugh.

In earlier works, Russian-born historian Elena Govor has written of changing Russian perceptions of Australia between 1770 and 1919 and – in My Dark Brother (2000) – of a Russian-Aboriginal family. In her latest book, Russian Anzacs in Australian History, the canvas is broader. She investigates the third largest national group (after the British and Irish) to enlist in the First AIF. Her indefatigable and imaginative research has taken her on a ‘quest for the thousand Russian Anzacs’ who comprised ‘a virtual battalion’. More exactly, they amounted to one in every four male Russians who were in Australia at the outbreak of the Great War.

A flurry of books have been produced about the cultural aspects of John Howard’s governments: for example, Andrew Markus’s Race: John Howard and the Remaking of Australia (2001), Stuart Macintyre and Anna Clark’s The History Wars (2003) and Carol Johnson’s Governing Change: From Keating to Howard (2000). Useful edited collections have also been produced on each of the elections of 1996, 1998 and 2001, and on the republic referendum. In 2004 Robert Manne published an edited collection called The Howard Years, which was wider ranging than the cultural agenda, but generally critical in its tenor. But nine years since Howard defeated Paul Keating, there is still not a great deal of analysis.

There are two approaches to public affairs. The first assumes that élites ‘have and have always had the same passions’ (Machiavelli): leaders will do whatever it takes to retain power and to attain their objectives, tempered only by knowing that the popular verdict will depend on success. Success is judged by results: resort to devious or ruthless means will be excused if the people see beneficial outcomes. You can expect leaders to be driven by ambition and self-interest, but trust them to do enough to forestall a popular uprising that might bring them down. Machiavelli was not writing about democracy.

Freud in the antipodes? Who cares? Well, I for one am very pleased that Joy Damousi, a professor of history at the University of Melbourne, cares enough to have assembled this compendium of historical information about the influence of Sigmund Freud’s ideas in Australian circles over the past one hundred years.

This book explores an unprecedented phenomenon: coast-to-coast Labor governments in the states and territories. The peculiarity of the current situation is magnified by Labor’s continuing failure at the national level. Where state politics can boast political ‘stars’ such as Bob Carr and Peter Beattie, federally the cupboard seems bare. Yet this collection reminds us of the unfairness of comparison between Labor’s national failure and sub-national success. Victory is great for your image. It takes considerable historical imagination to appreciate that there was a time when Carr was regarded as ‘a stopgap leader’ – as he was in the aftermath of Labor’s 1988 electoral humiliation. David Clune shows that Carr’s first year or so in office, when the government had a majority of one seat, was no raging success.

Reflecting on the sixty-year history of the United Nations, it seems obvious that this is an organisation created through the slow and tortured process of natural evolution rather than the product of careful, intelligent design.

Years ago, back when the UN had barely escaped its adolescence, the Nobel laureate and eminent diplomat Ralph Bunche observed that ‘the United Nations is a young organisation in the process of developing in response to challenges of all kinds’. He referred to institutional enlargement that typically continued as the global agenda grew. Agencies soon developed to coordinate the work of other agencies. Consequently, the modern UN became a haphazard creature, made up of a bewildering mix of political organs. Each part is intended to serve a different purpose, whether maintaining international security, advancing respect for fundamental human rights, or promoting economic development. And each component comes labelled with an almost impossible array of scientific-sounding designations (EcoSoc, for instance, UNEP, UNESCO, UNICEF and plenty more to make up page after page of abbreviation lists).

Peter Timms is ‘dismayed’ by the state of contemporary art and by the hype that surrounds it and the reality of the experience. He has written a book mired in exasperation and frustration. It is not hard to share Timms’s sentiments. Visit any sizeable biennale-type exhibition and you are engulfed in flickering videos in shrouded rooms, installations of more or less hermetic appeal, large-scale photographs – these often prove to be the most interesting – scratchy ‘anti-drawings’ and a handful of desultory paintings. Noise is ‘in’, too. ‘Biennale art’ is the term frequently used to describe the phenomenon.

Quite who is to blame for this occupies much of the first half of Timms’s book. Artists hell-bent on having careers rather than seeking vocations are part of the problem, and so are curators of contemporary art who nourish the artist’s every need. Art schools are next, where cultural theory has replaced the teaching of art history. The superficialities and the susceptibility to trendiness in the Australia Council are further contributors.

The Age of Sail might be presumed to cover several centuries, beginning, say, as far back as the great age of European exploration in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and continuing until wind-powered sea travel was gradually replaced, in the late nineteenth century, by steamships.

The euphonious title of Robin Haines’s book is therefore a little misleading. She deals only with British assisted emigrants to Australia in the nineteenth century, putting their personal accounts into historical and statistical context, or rather, fleshing out the statistics with the human stories from which they are extrapolated. These emigrants are working-class people for the most part, ambitious and, of course, self-selected by their literacy, with social networks strong enough to encourage them to write their shipboard letters or diaries to keep in touch with those they had left behind in Britain. They are also, as Haines points out, self-selected for success in the new colonies, since the successful were the most likely to have descendants who would preserve the diaries and letters of their fortunate ancestors.

It all seems so obvious. So why is the practice of non-violence, peaceful negotiation and conflict resolution so hard? ‘To realise a vision of peace with justice requires inspiration and commitment,’ writes Stuart Rees, in an affirmation that shapes his inspirational new book, Passion for Peace. Rees explores the complexities and possibilities of peacemaking from varied perspectives: political, sociological, legal, biographical and, not least, literary. Rees’s text is studded with quotations from poets: the great Romantics, Wordsworth and Shelley; Denise Levertov; war poet Wilfred Owen; Australian poets Oodgeroo Noonuccal, Judith Wright and Rosemary Dobson – more than fifty all told.