Review

Knitting, the first novel from ghostwriter and former professional knitter Anne Bartlett, tells the story of a newly widowed academic and her unexpected friendship with a gifted knitter that enables her to move on with her life. Bartlett’s rich (and uncredited) experience of writing other people’s stories puts this intimate exploration of women’s friendships in a different category from your average ‘chick lit’. Age journalist Graham Reilly is another writer who transcends his genre in Five Oranges, a crime novel about the ragtag adventures of a tight-knit circle of working-class Glaswegian friends and their on–off tangles with the Saigon mob. Part of the reason that these two novels are so much better than many in their respective genres could be that they go beyond formula and caricature.

‘There is no Australian city other than Melbourne which could have produced Keith Dunstan,’ writes Barry Humphries in his foreword to this collection. Indeed, Dunstan, journalist and writer, has long been a Melbourne institution, particularly remembered for his daily column in the Sun News-Pictorial, ‘A Place in the Sun’. While working as a journalist, he was also busy as a writer of popular history: among his many works is that splendid trilogy, Wowsers (1968), Knockers (1972) and Ratbags (1979), the juxtaposition of those titles telling us so much about the character of Australian culture.

In the winter of 1968–69 the buildings of the Institute for Social Research at the University of Frankfurt – the symbolically resonant home of what had come to be known as the Frankfurt School – were occupied by students. The police were called in, and Theodor W. Adorno, one of the great radical theorists of the twentieth century, pressed charges against a young man whose doctoral work he was supervising. Two months later, a group of women forced their way into Adorno’s lecture, handed out leaflets proclaiming that ‘Adorno as an institution is dead’, and ‘surrounded him, strewing flowers, performing a dumb show and … baring their breasts’. In action after action, the contempt of the students for the radical theorists of an older generation was made clear.

In 1964 the Australian television show Bandstand set up an annual talent contest called Bandstand Starflight International. In its first year, one of the national finalists was a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl called Robyn Smith, who later changed her surname to Archer. The following year, the contest was won by a 24-year-old professional singer called Helen Reddy.

After rain at cooler times of the year, the bush is full of fungi. Fruit-bodies of mushrooms, truffles, puffballs, morels, slime moulds and other larger fungi spring forth in a great variety of shapes and colours. For select Australian fauna and flora, such as birds, reptiles or orchids, there are comprehensive and richly illustrated field guides, which have sufficient text to assist the user in putting names to species encountered. However, existing guides to Australian fungi cover a rather limited number of species, or lack text. Putting names to the multitude of fungi is therefore rather difficult.

First, the good news or the bad news about this novel? Perhaps the bad. Presenting the worst face of a character to the world is not in itself fresh or especially amusing any more. We are overrun with sitcoms reflecting us, warts and all. Bridget Jones was among the first of these types of characters in popular fiction, and I was variously amused and pained by her hapless and heart-warming antics. More recently, the anonymous Bride Stripped Bare startled me for the statutory fifteen minutes, and left me wondering where all the attractive taxi drivers were hiding. In Alison Says, a conflation of the above, I found the central character, Maggs, to be a bit tiresome – and tired. Maggs is a 24-year-old drama teacher who has recently been dumped. Two months later, Jamie, the ex-inamorato, becomes engaged to Lorelei, aka ‘the Rhine slut’. In the wake of these events, Maggs is emotionally vulnerable, but it’s all rather in the manner of someone in an arrested state of adolescence. Suzanne Hawley’s Maggs is a stock characterisation based on the humour of self-absorption and victimhood, narcissism and obsession. Hawley’s novel does not fully realise the key ingredient of chick lit: a central character that the reader either loves or loves to hate.

Is ‘genocide’ a useful concept for understanding colonialism and, in particular, the destruction of Aboriginal communities during the settlement of Australia? Dirk Moses, the editor of this stimulating collection of essays on Genocide and Settler Society, thinks so, but with qualifications. Many of his contributors agree, but tend to be more comfortable using the concept in its adjectival form: there were genocidal ‘moments’, ‘plans’, ‘processes’, ‘relationships’, ‘tendencies’ and ‘thoughts’ in Australian history, but ‘genocide’ – the crime of deliberately exterminating a people – is another matter. The charge of ‘genocide’ tout court gives historians pause, for it is essential to prove intent and state sanction on the part of the perpetrators.

Butterflies are perhaps the most agreeable of insects: harmless, highly visible, diurnal, brightly coloured and almost whimsical in their movements. Because of these qualities, they have attracted considerable attention from naturalists and artists throughout recorded history. Since Victorian times, their diversity and natural history have been documented in great detail – more than for any other group of invertebrate animals. Butterfly collecting was a popular pastime until recent decades; many a colonial home contained a wood cabinet with neat rows of carefully pinned butterfly specimens. More recently, butterflies were the subject of the first nationwide biological atlas scheme: the Atlas of British Butterflies conducted through the 1970s by the British Biological Records Centre. This project drew upon the energy of 2000 butterfly enthusiasts across the British Isles to record the presence of species in ten-kilometre grid cells. The biological atlasing concept has subsequently been applied to other groups, particularly birds and flowering plants.

Early in 1900, bubonic plague travelled by ship to Sydney, then erratically made its way up the coast. Ian Townsend’s accomplished first novel, Affection, traces the arrival of the plague in Townsville during the autumn of 1900. His story is factually based and is particularly concerned with three of the doctors who treated the outbreak: Linford Row, recently settled in the town as its municipal medical officer; long-term resident Ernest Humphry; and the English bacteriologist and butterfly collector Alfred Jefferis Turner. How they cope, not only with horrible and random deaths, but with politics and prejudice in North Queensland, is the dramatic core of the book.