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Reading a handful of primary-school-age historical novels in swift succession underlines the commonality of stratagems for encouraging young readers to engage with the past. First, there is the need to find a credible child role to focus on. Then, since adventure in historical times fell largely to the lot of boys, a female interest has to be introduced, or, with some contrivance and loss of credibility, the main role handed over to a girl in disguise.

Since the early 1990s Australians have been infected with ‘affluenza’ – a virus of over-consumption that Clive Hamilton and Richard Denniss characterise as ‘the bloated, sluggish and unfulfilled feeling that results from efforts to keep up with the Joneses’, a growth fetish and an ‘epidemic of stress, overwork, waste and indebtedness caused by dogged pursuit of the Australian dream’.

Albert Thurgood, whose first season playing for Essendon in 1892 was described by the Leader as ‘in every way phenomenal’, was simply the ‘Brighton junior Thurgood’ when Essendon selected him for the first game of that season, though his all-round athletic prowess at Brighton Grammar School had already marked him as a possible ‘prize’ recruit. Though St Kilda was his nearest club, and though, as Lionel Frost recounts, St Kilda actually selected him for a game in 1891 ‘in the hope that he would join them’, he opted for Essendon, a decision which moved several other clubs to wonder if Essendon had organised a financial inducement. Plus ça change.

To start at the beginning (that is, the dust jacket): giving the author’s name as Ingo Petzke is a misnomer. It suggests that he has written a biography of the Australian film-maker Phillip Noyce, when in fact this is neither biography nor autobiography. This indecision about its mode undermines its value. I’ll return to this.

As an eyewitness to the terrorist attack on the World Trade Centre in September 2001, Philippe Roger was sickened when the America-hating Jean Baudrillard announced his ‘prodigious jubilation’ at the event. Sickened, but not surprised. Roger understood that Baudrillard’s crassness was rooted in a long French tradition of anti-American discourse.

At first, many of these forty-eight poems from two decades struck me as almost self-indulgent and mundane: short lyrics about family life, eating, drinking, dreaming of Valparaiso, lemons, the Molonglo River; though there was often an underside of premonition, discontent, and a stillness that made me think I hadn’t really understood. In the first group, ‘One Hundred Nights’ bothered me: ‘When will it end / this waking / while others sleep, / this herding out on the ghost fields? / the flesh / whispering / its impossible desires / the bones / murmuring their Kali mantra / love, emptiness / love, emptiness.’ However, on my next reading, some of the second group struck me with autumnal clarity. From ‘Brown Pigeon’: ‘eyes / plucked out, feathers / scattered, / maggots / when I turn it over / writhing in the black mess near the heart’, where the image of the dead bird is an iconic memento mori.

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.

In Dudley McCarthy’s volume in the Australian official history of World War II, subtitled Kokoda to Wau (1959), there is a wonderfully evocative passage that sets the fighting in Papua New Guinea in context: