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westerlya quarterlyreviewEDITORIALCOMMITTEEJohn BarnesPeter CowanTom GibbonsPatrick HutchingsADVISORY Professor Mervyn AustinCOMMITTEE Henrietta Drake-BrockmanMary DurackProfessor Allan EdwardsNigel PrescottMANAGEMENT Eric J. Edwards (Chairman)COMMITTEE Keith V. BenwellPeter CowanWesterly is published quarterly by the University of Western .\ustralia Press, withassistance from the Commonwealth Literary Fund. The opinions expressed in Westerlyare those of individual contributors and not of any member of the above Committees.Correspondence should be addressed to the Editorial Committee, Westerly, Departmentof English, University of Western Australia, Nedlands, Western Austraha (telephone86 2481 or 86 5531). Unsolicited manuscripts not accompanied by a stamped selfaddressedenvelope will not be returned. All manuscripts must show the name andaddress of the sender and should be typed (double-spaced) on one side of the paperonly. Whilst every care is taken of manuscripts, the Editorial Committee can take nofinal responsibility for their return; contributors are consequently urged to retain copiesof all work submitted. Payment will be made for all contributions published.Subscriptions: $2.40 per annum, plus postage (Australasia 40c, Overseas 80c per annum).Single copies mailed: 70c. Subscriptions should be made payable to "The University ofWestern Australia", and sent directly to The Bursar, University of Western Australia,Nedlands, Western Australia.Synopses of literary articles published in Westerly appear regularly in Abstracts ofEnglish Studies (published by the American National Council of Teachers of English).University of Western Australia Press

westerlyNo. 1, March, 1968CONTENTSSTORIESTHE ASKING PRICEEVENINGTHANK YOU MRS GREENBERGERA GIRL NAMED CHRISA CHICKEN FROM THE FARM5182.32831G. M. GlaskinB. ChristouJudith ClarkeIrene M. SummyJudy ForsythPOEMSYOUNG MOTHER: LONDONTHE NAVIGATORSFEARCONFESSIONTHERE AND NOT THERETO WAKE, TO FLOWTWO WORLDS12132122263035Rodney HallJohn GoodayJoan MasJoan MasEric IrvinB. A. BreenMargaret IrvinVIEWS AND REVIEWSTHE NOLAN RETROSPECTIVETHE GENIUS OF JUDITH WT^IGHTTHE WORLD'S GREAT TOTAL OF DELIGHTAUSTRALIA'S BOOK OF KINGSTHOMAS HARDYTHE EARTH AROUND US364253575961John ReedJohn K. EwersFelicity HaynesG. C. BoltonJosephine GibbonD. E. HutchisonBLACK & WHITE DRAWINGSCOVER DESIGNMary SzekelyMary SzekelyTom Gibbons

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G. M. GlaskinTHE ASKING PRICEMr Johnson said to Mrs Jonhson: "Somebody'sat last bought the AlUngham place."And Mrs Johnson gave immediate attention.Putting down both knife and fork, she said,"Really?"Mr Johnson went on eating; he could bequite maddening at times. It had given herweeks of speculation ever since Mr AUinghamhad run off with his secretary and Mrs Ailinghamhad gone for a divorce. After all, it wasnot only that there was a house vacant on TheHeights, but also that it should happen to bejust across The Knoll from themselves. Eversince the AUinghams had gone (and so precipitately,too, mind you—she had to hand itto Ted AUingham, nobody had even guessed)and the AUingham house had been put up forsale, she had been in a state of nervous anticipationas to who their new neighbours wouldbe."Well, tell me who," she demanded."Tell you who what?""Who's bought the AUingham place, ofcourse.""Oh. Fellow called Steinberg, I gather."Mrs Johnson's hands fell clean into her lap."Oh, no!"At which' just slightly alarmed, Mr Johnsonlooked up."Oh no what?" he ventured to ask."That name!""What about it?""What about it! Alec, don't be an idiot! It'sJewish, of course.""Oh, I don't know. Could be German. Perhapseven Aryan. I suppose the mountains inGermany are made of stone like anywhereelse."He well knew his wife's prejudices, as wellas her whims."Steinberg!" she said, and it was almost ascreech. "German, my foot!"Mr Johnson sighed. At least, for once, shehadn't referred to some other part of heranatomy."Well, until we're sure, you might give himthe benefit of the doubt," Mr Johnson daredto suggest."There can be no doubt," Mrs Johnson retaliated."Steinberg! Steinberg! My God, whatcould be more Jewish than that?"Mr Johnson could conjure up a suggestionor two, but thought better of it. Besides, hiswife hadn't finished. Dinner perhaps, but certainlynot what she had to say."Did he pay the Allingham's asking price?"she wanted to know."Ah-hah.""What, right to the penny?""Right to the cent, dear. Right to the cent.""Then that settles it.""What settles what?""That's he's a Jew, of course.""How do you make that out?""Well, who else but a Jew could pay a pricelike that!"Mr Johnson had to give her one there. MrsJohnson's hands remained in her lap; they haddiscovered her dinner napkin to toy with. Butfood didn't interest her; only Steinberg did."And how many of them are there?" shewanted to know."How many what?""Oh, Alec! Steinbergs, of course. Dozens ofthem, I suppose! And all with names like Benjaminand Sarah and Rachel and such!""Oh, that. No, only the one."She seemed a little placated."Just Mrs Steinberg, then?""No. Only him.""What! A bachelor! On The Heights!""It has been known, you know.""That was different. He at least was abishop."WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

"WeU, maybe this one is, too.""With a name like Steinberg? Don't be sosilly!""Perhaps there are Jewish bishops," MrJohnson suggested.Mrs Johnson snorted; she positively did."And what does he do, may I ask?""Do?""For a living, of course.""Nothing, I gather.""There, that confirms it."Mr Johnson dared to look a trifle exasperated."Really, Amy," he said. "There are alsosome gentiles who choose to be indolent.""He must definitely be odd," Mrs Johnsonproceeded, but was prepared to acquaint herselfwith her dinner again."How come?""Well, enough money to buy the AUinghamplace, does nothing for a living, unmarried,lives alone, and a Jew into the bargain.""He doesn't exactly live alone," Mr Johnsoninformed her."What!" And food again failed to interest."I said, he doesn't exactly live alone.""I heard you, I heard you! Now tell me hesupports a whole Jewish family! A whole Jewishcommunity!" she was compelled to append."No, only one.""What, one family?""One person.""A mistress!" she shrieked. "I might haveknown! And he thinks he's going to bring herhere, to live on The Heights!""No, not at aU.""What do you mean, *No, not at aU!' Doyou mean to say she'll only come on occasions?""I meant no, it's not a mistress.""What then?""Another man, I'm afraid. Fellow calledHenderson."Unbecoming or not, Mrs Johnson let her jawdrop."You don't mean to say that . . ."But she couldn't bring herself to finish. MrJohnson decided he'd better do so for her, ifonly to get it over."Looks a bit like it, it seems.""Oh, my God!""Now, Amy! I only said 'looks' like it.""Looks like it! Looks like it!"He wondered if she might even break oneof her own dinner plates. But of course, shedid manage to control herself."What age is he?" she said. "Steinberg, Imean.""Around fifty, I'd say. It's not easy to tellwith a well-preserved man.""That's one way of putting it! And the otherone, whatever his name is?""Henderson? StiU in his twenties."Mrs Johnson gaped."And you say it just looks like it!" sheeventually said."Well. I ""Alex Johnson! Do you mean to tell me thata couple of pansies have dared to buy a houseon The Heights and you just sit there and sayit looks like it and you haven't the faintestintention of doing anything about it?""Now really. Amy! Steinberg's bought theplace. What on earth do you expect me to do!Change his sex? Run him out of town?"Mrs Johnson's gape turned to venomousglare. Then she threw down her dinner napkinwith considerable force, though not as a towel."What do I expect you to do?" she retorted."I expect you to do jowething about it, ofcourse!""Amy, I've just said ""Well, if you won't, I most certainly shaU!"And he hadn't the slightest doubt that shemost certainly would.* * %She also didn't doubt that she most certainlywould. She wasn't on so many committees fornothing. If the men wouldn't do something,then it would be up to the women. She couldamass a pretty formidable array, she contended,when it came to committees.It took her forty-five minutes on the phoneand she'd got the best of them behind her:Beryl Adams, Bessie Matthews, Hilda Haley,Elspeth Carruthers. With herself as selfappointedchairman, she considered it the mostformidable committee she'd ever contrived. Ithad taken only a few words to each of themabout having a couple of 'those' on TheHeights and they were immediately agreed thatsomething had to be done. It might not beoften that they agreed, but in a matter likethis there was no question about petty differencesbetween them. They were all agreed ina trice.After that, it was only a matter of an houror two and they had Marian Hudson, MaryWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

Stuart, Barbara Worthington, and even EmilyHodgkiss behind them. It was quite a coup, ofcourse- when Diana Hetherington joined in aswell. They had their first meeting the very nextmorning—coffee and crumpets at her place, ofcourse. The crumpets because this was no timefor cooking.* * *"Now let's face it, girls," she was pleased tohave thought of, "from what I've heard ofthem, they're really basically like us. Feminine,I mean. That means they're social climbers.No, No! Listen to me, please!" she said quicklywhen there was a faint sign of protest fromEmily Hodgkiss, "And it all adds up! Or whyelse would they come here to live on TheHeights? Agreed? Right! So what we do iscut them off from all social activities for astart."They can't join the Knoll Club inside ayear, so that's no drinks of a Sunday unlessthey stay home or go out of town. Alec isseeing to it that they can't join the tennis clubjust in case they do play. And you, Mrs Worthington,can keep them out of what they're somuch more likely to be interested in, the StageClub. Marian, your Ben can keep them out ofthe golf club and we've already fixed FatherO'Brien—just in case, you know, girls; can'ttell with a name like Henderson, whereas wedon't have to worry much about Steinberg.And it's also fixed with the Reverend Baker.So, that's no church functions either."Now then, I think there's no need to mentionthat we don't accept their invitations andwe certainly don't give out any ourselves. Sothat's taken care of them socially, shall we say.Now for the sound effects."Bessie, your Henrietta will practise herpiano scales at six every morning. Yes, I know,dear; a bit wearing on you and Bert. But it'sall in the cause, you know—all in the cause.And Elspeth, evenings you can encourage yourTom on his drums and young Eddie on thetrombone. Then there's your Robert, Beryl,with his stereo-set and his beat music. AndHilda, I think we can rely on your old AuntAudrey to let loose her dogs? Good! Thatshould take care of the noise angle until wecan think up something else."Next is litter. I'm afraid we'll have to dependon our girls for paper-strewing over thefence. In a case like this, as you all know, wecan't have our boys going too near the place.In fact, nowhere near it at aU, may I stress.But of course they could help the girls assemblethe litter in the first place. Yes, no harmin that, surely."And now, let me see. Oh, yes, fire hazard.As you know, we're about half-way throughthe dry season, and though it may seem a pityto spoil a little of our natural beauty on TheKnoll, the Horticultural Society has assuredme that it does benefit the natural species toa considerable extent to have a burn-off nowand then. Well, as the reserve land on TheKnoll, the Horticultural Society has assuredI mean—Alec and I have decided that you canleave that part of it to us, with the help ofthe local fire brigade which has already beenarranged. I do hope that none of you feel thatwe—we Johnsons, I mean again—are takingtoo much of this on to ourselves, both thetennis club and the fire hazard, as well as anyother little contributions we can possibly make,but I think you will agree that we must all dowhat we can. And in any case, we are, unfortunately,their closest neighbours."Now I think you'll all agree that, after afew months of our, er—little organizations,they'll be out of The Heights much quickerthan they came, and the AUingham place willagain be up for sale. But this time, girls, Ihave a feeling that the asking price won't bequite so high as it was the last time. Well, wecan't help that. Business is business and, aseveryone and Jock Carruthers well know, realestate is real business. Now, any more questions?No? Any more crumpets anyone? No?Well then- the meeting is closed . . ."* * *Of course, sooner or later she was bound torun into Steinberg, and it happened in thebutcher's.She had to admit that he was, for fifty, afine figure of a man. His hair might be grey,but at least, unlike Alec's, it was a beautifulcrop. Dressed impeccably, of course. No ringsor those identification bracelets his kind usuallybrandished. But what really disappointed herwas that he had, contrary to her expectation,perhaps the straightest nose in The Heights.Was it too straight, perhaps? Plastic surgery,no doubt. And perhaps also a face-lift. Hewas as least discreet enough not to have hisboy-fr . . . . er, Henderson with him.Yet in a way, this also disappointed her;she was curious to see him and perhaps giveWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

a leer. What really infuriated her was thatwhen she came to give her order, she foundthat Steinberg had taken aU the best meat.Even the ham! WeU, at least he wasn't tiresomelyorthodox. But it was a damned inconveniencewhen she had the Worthingtonscoming for dinner and bridge.Barbara Worthington, that evening, was fullof excitement. She had seen the carriers arriveand my dear, she said, it was just chock ofthe most divine furniture you ever did see.No- not at all modern—all fantastic antiques.There was a china cabinet that was out of thisworld; seventeenth century, she thought. Soheaven alone knew what kind of china he hadto put in it.Barbara, she decided, was more stupid thanshe thought. He probably didnt have suchfurniture to live with; Jews nearly always dealtin antiques. Let him try it in The Heights!He'd soon be told of the community's by-lawsabout conducting business on residential premises.Then he'd have to earn his lucre elsewhere.She was preparing for Andy to come homefrom college when Bessie Matthews burst in."Meissen!" Betty yelped."What? Where? What on earth is it?"Bessie looked at her ox-eyed."His china, of course," she replied. "Thewhole damn shebang. Meissen, mind you! Andnot only that, but all of it antique. Must beworth a fortune, to say the least . . .""What else would you expect!" she had toretort, and couldn't help the tartness that hadgiven it an edge.Next day at the chemist's, Hilda Haley said:"They've got a housekeeper. I ran into her atthe grocer's yesterday afternoon. From the city,of course. But I must say she's charming. Beenwith him for seventeen years, she told me. Anddo you know what? He's got a Rubens and aRaphael and two miniature van Dijks. Lots ofothers, too, the housekeeper told me. But youknow me, dear—simply hopeless at names. Imust say, I'd give anything to see them . . .""Just you dare!"Hilda looked as though she'd been hit withan axe."Oh Amy, how could you! You know Iwouldn't dream of it."But knowing Hilda Haley, she wouldn't putit past her.Bessie Matthews again: "You'd never believeit, but they've got a grand. And a Steinway atthat!""You mean piano?""Of course. What do you think! Henriettafound out. They've invited her to play it sometime.""They?""Henrietta met them both on the bus goingto school. They were going to the city.""You didn't let her, of course.""Let her what?""Try their goddam piano.""It hadn't occurred to me.""Well, it had better occur to you. Good Goddon'ttell me you've forgotten our campaignalready!"Bessie Matthews was indignant."Of course, I haven't. But reaUy, when youthink of it, Henrietta could make quite anuisance of herself. Well, couldn't she? If shewent every day? And even I know the limit ofHenrietta's playing—if she has a limit.""Well," she had to concur, "that could bean idea . . ."But to her amazement, Bessie's face had disintegratedinto something that might have beenrapture."Young Henderson plays," Bessie said."Rather well, I believe. In fact, I hear he hasgiven up engineering to be a concert pianist.Steinberg's his patron.""I'U bet!"Next was the car. Or cars, rather. No lessthan three of them. A Bentley for town, mindyou. A Lincoln station-sedan for the country.And young Henderson had a Porsche. She'dhave to warn at least sixteen families to keeptheir young sons away from that lot.But then came Henderson himself. Tall,blond, blue-eyed and James Dean wasn't in it.It made her, at just the sight of him, suddenlyand acutely uncomfortable with abdominal sensationsshe hadn't experienced in years. Ifshe'd thought her young Andy a good looker,he was an ogre in comparison. Oh the pity ofit!—when there were so many eUgible younggirls on The Heights. But then, of course, shehad to admit that it was probably those verygood looks that had made him what he was.She didn't read The Ladies' Home Journal andReaders' Digest for nothing. And those clothesof his! Even if he did have the body of anathlete, it was almost indecent the way heshowed it off. But you could hardly remarkWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

"Not any more. It seems that the councilneeds extra revenue, and Steinberg has offeredit.""But they can't seU The KnoU!""They can," Mary said, "and it looks likethey will."* * *She thought there was something fishy whenAlec was so subdued for fully three days. Shetried to find out the cause. A loss on the stockexchange? She even looked at his accounts, butthat wasn't it. She'd never considered herselfa nagger as were most of the girls, but shedid have to keep at him."I've been over-ruled, I'm afraid," he finallyconfessed."What do you mean, over-ruled?""The club, I'm afraid.""What, you mean the tennis club?""That for young Henderson. Steinberg too, Ishould say. And you'd better face it. Amy.They've been put up for The Knoll Club andI think they'U get in."She couldn't believe it. After all her plansand all she had done? After the committee'sunanimous resolution? Where could they havefailed? She'd been certain for years that hergirls had their husbands under incontrovertiblecontrol.She began to wilt when she got more out ofAlec."Well, there's Carruthers to start with, withreal estate the way it is. The tradesmen camenext—Connolly, Ridgeway, and Hobbs. Steinbergcan easily shop somewhere else, and itseems his custom is considerable.""They couldn't!""They already do."It took her quite a minute to get over that.And then"But there are still the councillors, surely,"she said. "Worthington, Horace Haley, JimmyAdams, Ben Hudson, Harry Stuart . . ."What came next did at least come quietly,she had to admit. But never in her life hadshe known Alec to be quite so brutal."Amy," he said, "you've underestimatedhuman nature too much just for once. BertWorthington, remember, is a stockbroker, andhe'd be an idiot to miss the chance of Steinberg'saccount. Horace Haley's a lawyer, soneed I say more? Tim Adams has got threenew cars to be fuelled and serviced, apart fromthe fact that Steinberg changes his modelspretty well every year. Ben Hudson, of course,is doing the renovating.""And Harry Stuart?" she did manage toventure. "What could Harry make out ofsomeone like Steinberg?"But—^"Plenty, I should think," came thecrushing reply. "Steinberg collects rare manuscripts,and he's appointed Stuart his agent.""Then you mean that ""What I mean. Amy, is that it's moneyyou're fighting. And plenty of it. Not onlySteinberg's, but the whole district's as well. Andyou might, if I may say so, have overlookedhuman nature as well—that being what it is."She was crushed and she knew it, but shestill wouldn't give in."Then I for one," she resolved, "will neverhave anything to do with them. I shan't evenspeak to them. Nor will you. Nor will Andy.Don't ever let me catch you, not with eitherof the monsters!"* * *Then the parties began.The Carruthers, of course, were the first toask both Steinberg and Henderson, then theStuarts followed suit. At least it was only cocktails—tillthe Worthingtons had them fordinner and the Haleys did lunch. Of course itwas just a matter of time before Steinberg'sinvitations began to he sent. She tore theirsup immediately and what's more she told Alec.Even if there were forty people for dancingand buffet and champagne the whole night,nothing, but nothing, would induce her to go.The following weekend, there were to beeven more. A garden party round the pool,they all let her know. Such food, catered bythe Waldorf in the city, had never beforereached The Heights. The women were nearlybankrupting their husbands, she'd heard, intrying to outdress each other. Fools, fools thatthey were! For a couple of pansies? . . .And speaking of that, there was talk of somerather weird stag parties at times. Well, they'dexpected it, hadn't they? She'd warned them,hadn't she? The absolutely awful thing aboutit was: it seemed to have drawn a fair numberof participants from the district itself. Peopleno one would have dreamed of. The golf profor one, the Adams boy for another, thathouse-termite sprayer and even the ReverendReggie Baker. She hoped it was only talk. Butone never knew . . .The third invitation was the filthiest of all.10 WESTERLY, No. I, MARCH, 1968

Guest of honour? No less than the Governor!And she'd been trying for years to get intothat circle. The Governor, my God! Didn'teven he care about the company he kept? Or—could that also be possible? One just didn'tknow these days. One just didn't know. Beingmarried didn't mean a fig any more, nor theirposition. In fact, it now seemed that the thingwas not to wonder who was, but to be certainof who wasn't. All that silly secrecy in theMasons . . .Alec would have to be away on some businessappointment. Should she ring him longdistance to consult him about it? After all, theGovernor . . .Then the full horror of her hesitation suddenlyswept over her. What on earth was shethinking of! How low could she stoop?She couldn't believe it, but it was Steinberghimself on the phone."Mrs Johnson," he said, in those nauseatingtones, "I wonder if I have your address correctly?I'm sure I've sent you invitations, butI've had no reply. I was particularly wantingyou this Saturday. I'm sure you and MaisieHarris will have so much in common . . ."Maisie Harris! A snob if there ever was one!But the wife of the Governor. Quite literally.the first lady . . . and Steinberg's emphasis onthe word 'common'?"I'm giving a formal dinner party," Steinbergwas saying, "if you didn't get my httlenote. And I'll be most disappointed if youand Mr Johnson can't come."There, that was the answer."I'm afraid Mr Johnson's away," she replied.There was hardly a pause."Oh what a pity! Must keep the numbers,you know. But I believe your son is home onholidays from college. If you bring him alongwith you, then the invitation still stands . . ."Her Andy! Nineteen, good-looking, and notexactly demented over girls. The sheer evil ofit! Alec away and no doubt Steinberg wellaware of it. That Jew! That—that thing! Heexpected her to eat in his house and take herAndy as well. The devil!—to have found outher one weakness. He must know how muchshe wanted to be one of the first hundred.Perhaps even the upper ten? But what an askingprice! And after this, what other invitationsmight Steinberg contrive?It took her three seconds to make up hermind."This Saturday, you say? I'd be delighted,"she said.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 11

YOUNG MOTHER: LONDONThe birth accomplished, can such strangenesshave been the familiarity she loved so long?Could she have known a negroid headwas grinding stubble inside her?Confronted now with the living factthe blonde wife's tears betray how little she suspectedher husband's thrust of greater impactthan her own persistent nourishment and blood.That alien body violates the lawof mother's dominance, her deeper rightto likeness in the child, her primitiveidentifying with the fleshfor which her own flesh parted then unfurled.Yet the skin tightens on her breast,she feels the milk flood up inside,the baby's hunger stabs, and they join in love.RODNEYHALL12 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

THE NAVIGATORS(To Albert Tucker)Being a contortionist myself,or at least an awkward gymnast—poised on the lip,forever stammering at the abyssof never-surrendered wishes—I take time now to praise true heroes,who chart real courses andarrive at real places,those landfall-making men: the Navigators.For when you think of it,the unknown is an impossible journey . . .The silence between one heartbeat and the next.(Pour we now Ubations unto each the dead)First comes ODYSSEUS,that many-troubled man . . .(tho' who would have thought it?)Raw salt in his beard,brown head thrown back—laughing, wicked eyes . . .Such an accomplished liar!Remembering of his voyagesonlythe seathe lonelinessand the bitter cold:the inhospitable ports.Forgetting (for Penelope) Calypso's generous thighs.Knowing too, when he recalled her,(Circe of the purple couch)that she expended small metamorphic power,used no enchantments of noteto turn men into swine . . .The silence between one heartbeat and the next.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 13

Then . . .HawkfacedAcquisitivePHOENICIANS, by the score.Perceptive menSubtle talkersGlib traders on the shore . . .Civilization's gulls!Through the Pillars of Hercules,hinged on the pole-star;spicesperfumesincensecargoes of Egypt, Babylon, Tyre:speared on the pole-star—silver from Iberiaamber from the icy seastin from the rainy islands . . .Teaching savages on sparse, savage coaststhe ordinary laws of barter.Finding no ATLANTIS,city of gold.Though they sailed beyond everything . . .O my Captains, my Navigators, my Mariners—dying therewithout sight of it, dazzling in sunlight,(the towers are honey and milk,the breasts of a good woman are the towers:gold in the morning, pearl at evening)though you sailed beyond everything . . .But where is the beginning of culture, IF NOT HERE—with cardsharp,three-shell-manand Semetic trinket-pedlaroperating on a hostile beach?The silence between one1 "^ WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

Mother of navigators.Beater of men.Melancholy sea.To have known you at all was enough . . .Ask them.Bartholomew Diaz.Da GamaMagellan.Columbus.Cross-staff and astrolabe,but saihng to the moon for all they knew—eating brine, chewingon it.Swallowing,unslakedever:salt ingraineddeepin the bone,in the marrowof the bone.Cushioning the brain.(creak of blocksslack and strain of halyardsstinging smack of wet canvas .flap slap of bare, horny feet)Portuguese.Spaniards.Slick GenoeseSea-hunger,sea-thirst and sea-madness.Hallucinations,prayers andhysterias.Worminfestedtubs,leakingblood and dreamsall over the New World.(looting empiresthat pious Isabellamight go to heaven)WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 15

Oh Incas of memoryWe have come to get gold, not till soil like peasants,said the young Cortes.(pest-ridden illiteratestrampUng effete,decadent, dying—who said?—cultures)Incas of memory, dearer by far than rooms of goldSanta Maria . . .Pinta . . .Nina . . .Flashing meteors.Compass all awry . . .The vast plains of the Sargasso: mutiny.Thensweetness of morning, like Andalusian April—sea-birds,low-lying cloud,temperate breezes andonly the nightingale wanting . . .Compass bewitched,monsters above and below—thendog-roses, sodden in the sea—but living . . .Oh lost and found.Oh damned and reprieved.Goblin sailors ransomed on the rim of the world.America not discovered,but recovered:China?Who the hell saidanything about China?To have cut the line and ventured forth was more than enoughThe silence between,6 ^^^^E^LY, No. 1, MARCH. 1968

Horizon-haunted men.Looters and Pirates.Buccaneers who never came but to rape and pillage:(so greedy for lifeyou must allhave been artistsor poetsof some sort)though Geography pardons and History winks an eyeMy unknown,your unknown—what difference now?. . . Though you do have the best of it- you know—your boneswhitening beaches,or lyingin quiet reachesof tidal waterundisturbed.Mine,as I write,beingreservedfor the savage coastsof Identity,whose fateful ebb and flowwastes and corrodesthe inviolatespirit—where to love, to dare greatly, is counted a kind of greed.(But no whining: the course is set.)A little wine for the journey, Captains . . .No?How stupid! I forget—like the rest, you drink blood only . . .BACK FROM THE STINKING FOSSE then,I await Teiresias,who knows what happensin that silenceJOHNGOODAYWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 17

B. ChristouEVENINGSoula was very late. The still, burning sunhad already crimsoned in the summer hazeover the sea. The dusty trestles, deep in cabbageleaves, were bare except for a heap ofbananas here and there, blackening and swarmingwith ants. The cobbles running throughthe fish market glinted, a muddy trickle. Onlya wizened little Chinaman was still there, dozingagainst a pillar with his mouth agape."E, kyria Soula!" bellowed a Greek voicefrom the street door. Old Petro, fat buttocksshaking, was waving a parcel imperiously ather. His balding head was scarlet, his goldcross jiggled among the sweat-spangled hairsthat sprouted above his singlet. Panting, hepeered through the gloom at her face."You are so late I was just going! I thoughtyou forgot all about your fish. Here." Hisgums glistened through the fringe of hisstained, grey moustache. "Too hot today! Nogood for the fish. And back home in Greecethey are having snow! You better not fry themnow, eh?—make a nice plaki. Give my regardsto Taki." He thrust the sodden parcel into herhands and waddled out into the twilight street.The streetlamps were flaring red as shetrudged across the softened asphalt of the roadto the footpath by the sea wall. Cars growledpast in a glitter of light. As she approached,a cat with wild opal eyes leapt off the waU onto seaweed-swathed rocks below.Doctor, she had forced out in the coldsurgery, I think I waitink baby . . . Taki hadnot known about it. She had taken time offfrom the factory to go. Soon she would startto bulge- and would have to stop working.There had been no dowry. Now they wouldnever get back to Greece . . . Tonight shewould have to tell him. Soula's eyes werebloodshot and swollen.Her mother had screamed aU night, themidwife crouching over her: a wart on thewithered neck glowed, bulbous, by the kerosenelamp. A pot boiUng, its lid hopping andclattering. Her father had squatted by thehearth, drawing in the ashes with the poker,then wiping them smooth. It had been hoursbefore its httle bald head had poked out. Themidwife had smacked the baby then, until itchoked and squalled, and Manna had lainback, wan and drowsy, as the little toothlessmouth milked her. Manna had never been tohospital.In six months, Soula would be exactly eighteen,and this would be happening to her.Ahead, the pier lamps were glowing andwrinkling in the black bay. Taki would still bethere, dripping sea water, lolling on the hot,weathered planks, a cigarette glowing and disappearingin the dark. Every summer eveninghe was there fishing under the lamp, hisshadow afloat on the water. He never caughtanything, but he loved the sea. He loved thethrob and jangle of music, the aromatic oilgildedfoods of Greece, retsina drunk sittingon a barrel, the grave abandon of the zeimbekikodance in dark night clubs. Akeady hewas desperate to go home, away from thosedrab, sprawling suburbs, and from drudgery inthose dusty factories.At last she saw the row of peeling woodenhouses. Old kyria Eleni next door, scarvedand robed in black as always, was shelling peason her front porch by the orange glow of thestreetlamp, pods heaped in her broad lap. Sheslapped at a mosquito on her sagging throatand shrilled a delighted greeting at Soula. Shewaved, pushed open the rusty gate, unlockedthe blue door and plodded barefoot along thematting to the kitchen.The dingy, narrow room, yellow-coated bythe naked light bulb, was hot and smelled ofhnoleum and stale oil and of the onions withbrown-paper skms hanging plaited on the wall18 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

On the table Taki had left a crumpled Greeknewspaper, second- or third-hand; a glass hadleft a wet ring round a gaunt-faced politician.Moths had begun to thud against the ceiling.She peeled off the damp papers swaddling thefish, and dropped them into the sink—two greymullet with quivering, gold-plated eyes and tinyclamped teeth. They smelled faintly of rankblood.Through the open window the nasal sobsof Yannoula's favourite singer had begun todrift in from next door. Yannoula alwaysturned the radio full on, although the Australianson the other side were always complaining.Sometimes she sang, too, her voicehoarse and nostalgic. Yannoula had been inAustralia for ten years. A gust of laughterinterrupted the song. Soula wandered into thedark bedroom. It was still too hot to startcooking. The kitchen light- shining on themirror, rimmed her short, plump body andcoarse, curly black hair. No one could possiblytell yet. It was a secret. Pleased, she smiledsuddenly at her golden shadow, and danced afew steps to Yannoula's music, now a Kalamatiano.The bed gave a slow creak. Soula, startled,leapt for the light switch. In its yellow flashTaki yawned, his dazzled eyes squeezed shut.He was still in his wet bathers, and his brownface and woolly black hair were rimmed withsalt. Curled up beside him, the cat arched herblack belly. Stretching, Taki hung his sandyfeet carefully over the end of the bed."Agapoula mou, you're very pretty tonight,"he mumbled. "Turn the light off and comehere.""I didn't know you were home." She gropedin the sudden dark until her hands found thehomespun blanket. "I thought you were stillon the pier. Aren't you feeling well?""Of course I am. I was just hungry, so Icame back early. But that's all right, I wassleepy too." He rubbed the cat's purring throat."I'm sorry, Taki. I was held up. I'm not avery good wife.""Don't worry, you'll do." He smiled in thedarkness. "Did Petro give you the fish?""Yes, two mullet. Taki?" Hot blood wasthudding in her forehead. "I want to ask yousomething.""If you want to know if I caught any myself—no."He made a wry face. "If I had, I'dthrow old Petro's back into the sea.""No, I know. Would you like a beer?" . . .In the kitchen, Soula took a frosty brownbottle from the refrigerator and levered off themetal cap. Foam spurted over the crackedfloral oilcloth. She poured a frothy glass, andtook the glass and the bottle back into thebedroom."Come on, Soula," Taki said. "You have alittle bit with me, just this once?" From behindhe put his arms around her, pressing his mouthagainst her rough black hair, his breath warmon her nape. He tilted the bright beer to herlips. Grimacing at the acrid taste, she sipped alittle. He hugged her, gulped the rest, andpressed her shoulders down on to the pillow."Taki, when I'm pregnant, I'll be fat andbulging," she whispered. "You won't love meat aU.""Silly girl. You'll be fat and beautiful, likea ripe pear. Darling, turn round." Soula turnedand pressed his head against the gold cross ather throat, then, lifting his face, kissed his darklips. He closed his eyes. Soula sat up."Taki, what would you like our first childto be, a boy or a girl?""What the hell does that matter? I want itto be Greek. I mean- born in Greece, when wego home.""Taki," she whispered, twisting sweaty hands,"it's already on the way. July, the doctor said.That's why I'm late home."The kitchen light, caught in the mirror, glimmeredin his black-olive eyes. An aeroplanerumbled over the bay. Faintly she could stillhear the metallic twanging of bouzoukis."Oh, no. How did it happen?"Soula did not answer."Soula?""/ don't know!""You know we can't keep it. How would weever get home? Even if I got another job atnight . . .""I want to go home, too." Soula's voicequavered."Well, then! And you can have a dozenwhen we get back.""But this one's already here!""Oh, heU!""Don't you dare blame me!" Soula shoutedat his back. Her eyes swilled. "I didn't wantit. Perhaps you'll be lucky and it will die. Perhapswe both wiU! Then you'll be free again!"Crimson, she rushed out into the sudden yellowWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 19

glare of the kitchen. The cat pattered after her,strutting and bUnking. There was no sound.The limp mullet were still shimmering in thesink. Soula held a shaking match in the ovenuntil blue flames spurted. Hacking off the bonyheads, she chopped an onion and cut up somelimp tomatoes which sagged and squirted juiceand yellow seeds. Impatiently she scoopedthem up, tossed them over the fish, sprinkledolive oil on top, and slid the dish into theflickering oven. The grotesque heads shedropped for the yowhng cat.The house was dark, hot and still. She satdown heavily, and twisted in her fingers theheavy hair at her nape, sodden with sweat. Shewondered if Taki would come out of the bedroom.He was probably wishing he had neversent for her and married her. Katina's husbandleft her as soon as he found out that she waspregnant, Soula remembered. Perhaps he wasthinking of doing that. If only Manna werethere! She slid open the zipp of her dress andstroked, with her reddened hands, the warmsmooth white belly in which the baby washidden. Cigarette smoke was drifting in heavytrails out of the dark bedroom. The lace curtainsbegan to flicker in a dank sea breeze.From the silent, lamplit street came the hissof the sea.The front door opened, then banged shut.His footsteps faded. Her arms sticking on thewarm oilcloth, Soula hid her face, and wept.DRUG HOUSES OFAUSTRALIA LIMITEDANAX DIVISIONSuppliers of Scientific and IndustrialApparatus, Laboratory Equipmentand Chemicals.Australian Agents for:Gallenkamp & Co., London—Laboratory Equipment and ScientificApparatusJarrell-Ash Company Massachusetts—Scientific Instruments for Research AnalysisControl.Olympus Optical Co., Japan—Microscopes and Optical Equipment.Berthold Hermie, Germany—Centrifuges.Remember the name:DRUG HOUSES OF AUSTRALIA LIMITED(Incorporated in Victoria)ANAX DIVISION71 TROY TERRACE, SUBIACOTelephone 8 8231SANDS a McDOUGALLPTY. ITD.CENTRAL HAY STREET PERTHFOR A COMPLETE RANGE OF:• Artist Materials• Drawing Equipment• Slide Rules• Art Papers• Felt Markers• Draking Inks• Loose Leaf Covers• Writing Materials• Brief Cases• Paper Punches• Invicta Sorter Cards20 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

FEARA thousand, thousand stars and I, walking under them; sometimeslooking up,But not with ecstasy—not any more.O, what has happened to me? All day, I am sad . . . sad . . . sad. Andfrightened.For the image of her has become sharp now—clearly defined in mymind's eye, so that I keep seeing herEverywhere—a Nemesis—cold, sure and relentless, which I feel partof him wants just as relentlessly, to follow him.Why, because I love, must I walk naked among briar-roses; feel myfleshTorn, festooned at the same time?Why must my body be bared day and night, compelled to move throughthorns because it desires the touch of roses?Why do I love like this—half in happiness, half in pain, becauseshe does not become to himA little, clouded memory—a dream that he wakes with in the morningsgrown very, very far away and dim?IITo be bound with chains, with flowers.To know scent on my skin and scars,because I love. Because this is he.And he can be no one else, ever again.I'm scared (I thought) because now I amnot free. Because now I must be as he is,go where he goes. Because like Ruth,I must follow him as she followed Naomiinto Canaan . . .JOANMASWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 21

CONFESSIONThe love I have for you,is as many-coloured and multiformas these flowers growingin the garden . . .yet single and whiteas its one rose.JOAN MASWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

Judith ClarkeTHANK YOU MRS. GREENBERGERLai Chandra walked along home by the river.The tide was out. He watched the seagullspicking their way sadly over the mud-flats insearch of scraps.Lai Chandra was worried. His scholarshipcheque, he knew, would not have come, andat home Mrs Greenberger would be waiting.What would he say? Of course she would pretendnot to mind, just as she always pretended,when he had the rent, that there was nothingfurther from her mind than money. He wouldplace it delicately on the edge of the sideboardwhile Mrs Greenberger pretended not to noticewhat he was doing. Some quarter of an hourlater, wandering back out through the kitchen,he would observe that it was gone. His mindedged away from the picture of Mrs Greenberger'slittle white hands closing over themoney.It was very cold. Lai Chandra walked bravelyinto the wind, his head thrown back, his armsfolded tightly across the front of his brownjacket. He never wore an overcoat. After all,there was really no need. If it rained, or evensnowed, he could wear his grey raincoat—thatwould keep him dry—much drier, in fact, thana heavy coat which would only absorb moisture.And to keep him warm, there was alwaysthe striped scarf which his little sister Indirahad knitted and sent over for his birthday.This he wore beneath his jacket. Thoughwrapped several times about his neck, it wasso long that the fringed ends trailed downbeneath his jacket, all the way to the back ofhis knees. Lai Chandra turned away from theriver and walked up the street to the PostOffice. Perhaps, after all, his cheque had comein the afternoon post. He walked up the stepsand into the dark little room.Mabel Higgs, the S.E.3 postmistress, sat firmas a rock behind her counter, stamping thedates on the letters for the five fifteen mail.Whap whap-whap, whap, went her littlemachine. She was in no mood for nonsense.She pursed her Ups and looked each lettergrimly in the face before the stamp descended.Lai Chandra stood there patiently. Therewas no-one else in the Post Office.Whap whap-whap, whap.He watched the red second hand on thewall clock go round and round and round.He shuffled his feet.Whap whap-whap, whap. Whap whap-whap,whap.Lai Chandra coughed.Whap whap-whap, whap.What should he do? She must know he wasthere. He almost fancied he could see a sinistergleam in the woman's eye, as if, indeed' shewas enjoying the whole situation. Finally heventured.'Excuse me,' began Lai Chandra.'Do you want something?' growled the postmistress,lifting her head, her little bright eyes,Hke an adder's, darting at Lai Chandra. Shetook him all in, from head to foot, her eyesresting a moment on the fringe of his scarf,dangling beneath his jacket. A smile of greatsatisfaction passed across the face of MabelHiggs. Lai Chandra mistook it for a softening.Ts my cheque here?' he asked.'Cheque?' demanded Mabel Higgs, in tonesof outrage. 'Cheque? This isn't the Bank. Thesign outside says Post Office. P, O, S, T, post,O, F, F, L C, E, office—Post Office,' shespelled, and sank back down behind hercounter.Whap, whap-whap, whap.'I meant, is there a letter for me?'Whap whap-whap, whap.Lai Chandra stood there.'Name,' said Mabel Higgs, very very softly.'What?' enquired Lai Chandra.'NAME!' roared Mabel, at the top of herWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968 23

voice. The letters on the counter quivered. Thepostmistress's face wore an expression of reUsh.Lai Chandra could not understand thewoman.'Oh my name,' he began, 'you want myname—''I don't want your number, that's for sure,'cried Mabel smartly.'Chandulal Chandra.'The postmistress looked at him, silent.'Chandulal Chandra. That's my name.'The eyes were glinting. 'If you say so, Ibelieve you,' she said.Whap whap-whap, whap.Lai Chandra was desperate.'Is my letter here then, please?'No whap letters here whap-whap, for anyoneof that name, whap.''Thank you.'He marched out very straight and stiff' thefringe of his scarf flapping behind him, vowingthat he would change his postal addressthe very next day.When Mrs Greenberger got back from AuntyElla's with Dora that evening, she found herlodger waiting on the front step. 'Por fing,' saidMrs Greenberger, 'standing out here in thecold, wifout even an overcoat to keep youwarm.''I never wear an overcoat,' said Lai Chandrahastily, looking vaguely across at the rooftopson the other side of the street.Mrs Greenberger decided to be kind. 'Look,'she said, 'I will show you where we keep thespare key, so fat you will be able to get in ifwe are not home.' She bent down and scrabbledamong the flower-pots beside the door.'Here,' she said, 'underneath the fyme, in thefird pot from the end.''I thought you said you weren't going toshow him where the key was,' Dora cried, witha glance at Lai Chandra. He went hot and coldall over. Gods! What did they think he was?A bandit?Mrs Greenberger pretended not to hear. Shefelt around in her purse for her own key.'Do you have a tail?' Dora asked Lai Chandra.'What?''Do you have a tail? There.' She pulled atthe end of his scarf.'Dora, don't pull Lai's ta— scarf.'Dora looked at her mother, and gave thefringed edges another little flick.'Leave it alone!' shrieked Mrs Greenberger.'Gods!' thought Lai Chandra. They werealways screaming.'Thank you Mrs Greenberger,' he saidquietly.'Poor fing, I don't like to see you beingtormented,' she repUed- as they went into thebright little haU.« * *Lai Chandra took off his jacket, unwoundhis scarf, and switched on one bar of the radiator.Two he didn't dare, just in case MrsGreenberger should come in, as she did nowand then, just to see if he was keeping theplace clean. She would not have said anything,of course, and would keep her eyes carefuUyaverted from the radiator. But later, he knew,she would just happen to mention to him, inthe way of conversation, how heavy the electricitybiU had been that month. He sank downinto a chair and put his head in his hands. Hewould have to tell her that his cheque was lateagain and he wouldn't be able to pay his rentyet. O Gods!It was not, of course, that she would makea fuss, or throw him out of the house. No,thought Lai Chandra gloomily, she would notdo that. It was just the way she had, the, yes,sinister- way of being nice that made himquiver to his very marrow; that made him wisheven, that he boarded with the S.E.3 postmistressin her dark burrow rather than in thepoHshed room of Mrs Greenberger. He leanedback and felt himself slide over the cold shinysurface of the armchair. Through the wall hecould hear Dora screaming with laughter. 'Iwouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole,' sheshrieked. Mrs Greenberger's voice was lower,he could not make out what she was saying.What were they talking about? What did theyhave out there?'Lai,' called Mrs Greenberger. 'Lally. Comeout here. I have a surprise for you.'Very very cautiously, Lai Chandra made hisway out into the kitchen. Mrs Greenberger washolding something up in front of her. It wasan overcoat.'Come here,' she said, 'let me see how itlooks on you.''But I never wear an overcoat,' he protested.'Yes, you never wear an overcoat—and whathappens? You freeze. Come here.'24 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

Oh no, thought Lai Chandra, oh no. Gods!No.It was made of a checkered woollen material,a very loud check. And round the neck therewas a collar made of some kind of long, limpwhite fur, Hke a feather boa. Gods! it was afeather boa, surely, stitched onto the neck. Heturned pale with anguish. The soft httle strandstickled his neck as Mrs Greenberger helped todo the buttons up. Lai Chandra's fingers hadbecome very stiff.'But it is surely—' he began. Should he mentionto Mrs Greenberger that it looked like awoman's coat?Mrs Greenberger seemed to anticipate him.'It belonged to Gus—fat is, Gustave, mybruffer, who—is no more. He came fromFrance to join us and died as soon as he gothere. He was never healfy. But always veryparticular about the way he looked. Alwaysvery smart. Fere now' she said, patting thecoat—'it suits you.'It was very long. It came almost down tohis ankles.'By bruffer Gus was very tall,' said MrsGreenberger. 'Such a tall man! You are not sotall. Still, it will keep your legs warm.'Lai Chandra flushed. He unbuttoned themonster and laid it carefully over a chair. Outof the corner of his eye he could see Dora, herhand over her mouth, squirming in the doorway.'Thank you Mrs Greenberger,' he said, 'thankyou.'Mrs Greenberger gave a broad smile. 'Ah—it is nuffing. I wouldn't want you should freeze,poor fing. Now, even when you go out in thesnow, it will keep you warm. It is a good coat,I tell you.''Yes,' said Lai Chandra glumly. 'Yes MrsGreenberger.'* * *As he stared down at the long red frankfurton his plate, and its companion piece, a singleround, red tomato, Lai Chandra rememberedthat there was something he had not done.'Mrs Greenberger,' he said, looking up, 'Iam sorry to have to tell you this—but mycheque is late again. I shall not be able to payyou the rent yet.'For a moment, Mrs Greenberger lookedblank. Then she gave a big smile.'Don't worry about it- Lally. I trust you. Itisn't as if I didn't know you. I am sure youwill pay as soon as your cheque comes. Don'tworry yourself now.' She gave him a searchinglook. 'You can't pay if you haven't got it.''Poor fing,' she added.Leaning her elbows on the table, her chincupped in her hand, Mrs Greenberger staredacross at the dark head bent over the plate.Early next morning, Lai Chandra decided togo out for a walk. He wound Indira's scarfcarefully round his neck, smoothed the endsdown, and put on his old brown jacket. Hewas just going out the gate when Mrs Greenberger'shead appeared round the door.'Lally,' she called, 'where is your coat? It'sfreezing out fere. Come back here, you sillyboy.'He padded up the path and stood there whileshe brought the coat and helped him put it on.'Thank you, Mrs Greenberger,' Lai Chandrasaid. Then he walked slowly down the street.He was not cold; he burned with shame. Hefelt awful. He felt like—a fur monkey on astick. Everyone must be looking at him. Hehung his head and shuffled forward. Snowbegan to fall. A flake lodged in the boa-collarand trickled slowly down his neck.Lai Chandra walked along by the river. Thetide was in. Little waves sucked dismally at thestones. Poor fing. Poor fing. He heard Dora'svoice in his ears. 'I wouldn't touch it with aten foot pole.''Scree,' called a seagull, flapping over hishead. 'Scree.' He watched it fly away down thecold grey river to the sea.No, he thought, no, I will not.He took the coat off, bundled it into a ball,and flung it as far as he could into the river.It swelled up like a balloon and sailed in adark hump, for a little way; then it began tosink. Last of all he saw the white collar, itsthin strands waving on the tide, slide beneaththe water.What would Mrs Greenberger say? he wondered.Let her say what she liked. WrappingIndira's scarf tightly round him, Lai Chandrawalked bravely into the snow.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

THERE AND NOT THERE"Gules vert," she said, and "sable or."The herald angels soar,for the music is playing, the willows are swayingand I am a mouse on the floor.Did you eversee a floor on a mouse,a house on a roof,or similar proofof the singular stanceof romance?"Take x," he said, "and multiply,"but I was feeUng shy,for the sum of x is the quotient sexand hope is a buzzing fly.Can you severa fly from its buzz,the fuzz from a peach;or formulate eachof the separate gyreof desire?"Sing doh," she said, and then "sing me."My song burst itself free,and the music ran for a joyous spanup and down the lignum tree.Can such musicput a doh on a me,lift us both to the sky,or nearly as highas the ultimate bentof content?"Take Bligh," he said, "now, who was he?"He was a sailor brave,for the nine-tails were swishing while he went a-fishingsome agony deep in a cave.Did you listento the cave in the scream,the echoing fishthat threw back the wishon the quivering mastof the past?26 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

"Nuance," she said- and "poetry,"and I was before the fall;saw gulls in their gUding, the world darkward sliding,and life in a glass on the wall.Can you neversee a glass in a room,a world in a word,without you have heardall the wonder of timein a rhyme?"Bellum, bella," he said, "et post,"and three-part Gaul was won,for the legions were striding to Rome's shrewd dividing,and death was a tree in the sun.Can you gatherfrom the corners of timethe words that have failed;the nailed and impaledfrom the ravening heatof defeat?"Design," she said, and "simple form."I drew my simile.For the still-life fruit was a basket of loot,and I was an amorous bee.Shall we fashiona conceit from a fig;or agamous nudesfor sensitive prudeswith their aberrant quailat the male?The red and green, they said, and x,and Bligh, and conquered Gaul;and the music went climbing to poetry's timingas I sorted and graded my haul.Did they wonderhow a boy in a classcould float in the air,be there and not thereas he fished from the poolthey called school?ERIC IRVINWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 27

love? No, none of these. What then, I wonderedand spoke to her gruffly, yet even somy tenderness came through.She sat in a chair with a towel around herhair to dry it and in my housecoat lookedalmost like a boy. Alternately shy and aggressive,sad and funny, hostile and defenceless shemolded my moods like figures in clay. Outsidethe rain kept pouring down and now and thena clap of thunder shook the house- whilestreaks of lightning slashed the velvet sky andbriefly brightened the room. We sat in darkness,our voices becoming more and more intimate,our thoughts meeting and blending,only to separate again, reluctantly, before becomingone."Can I stay for the night and sleep on thefloor?" she suddenly asked, and my heartpicked up a httle speed. "Because of the rain,"she added. "I mean you can't chase me outin that rain, can you? You couldn't. Youwouldn't."My lips were uncomfortably dry, whichmade it difficult to speak. "All right." I foundsome blankets and put them on the floor nextto my bed. Why there? Because I liked her tobe close? Her or just another human being?How does one ever know? I felt like someonein a dream, as if whatever I did could be erasedby the light of day or the heat of the sun.We lay there breathing in the dark. Just thesound of our breathing, the steady drip offalling rain upon the roof, the ticking of aclock and my own heart beating.Suddenly her head without the towel wasat the level with my eyes."Aren't you asleep yet?" I asked, as if I'dbeen running or smoking too much."Are you?"I lifted myself on one elbow pretending tobe looking through the window and felt herbreath upon my cheek—a warm little windcoming closer and then growing damp, as ifthe rain was coming in. Her mouth was cooland innocent, clean like that of a young boy.I felt confused, uncertain of what part to play,unable to be what I wasn't. Blindly, guidedby primitive instincts beyond my control, myhands began to undo buttons and for the firsttime ever uncovered a woman's breast—a smallwhite hill, firm yet soft, that rose and fellwithin the prison of hand. I mounted it withmy lips, lingered briefly at its peak, then buriedmy face in the hollow of her throat and filledit with tears."Don't cry," said Chn., above my head. "It'snot your fault. You can't help being what youare. You want a man, and I'm not a man." Alittle later, lifting my face she kissed my eyesand said again: "I'm not a man," in a voiceof infinite despair.No man, I thought, can know a woman'sloneliness, and then because my own despairhad found release in tears, I went to sleep, stillresting my head upon her peaceful hills, contentlike a child at its mother's breast.In the morning, when I woke, Chris had left.Pinned to my pillow was a little note whichread: "Do not be sad. It stopped raining, soI went home."Soon afterwards she left the hostel and Inever saw her again. But often, when it rains, Ithink about her and how much we might havegiven each other, if only she had been a man—or I a different woman.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968 29

TO WAKE, TO FLOWfor my wifeFor me that was a surge, an ebbing, but did youfeel waking in the deep-flow of your lifea ripple fluttering from us, newas melting snowflake, sure as a surgeon's knife?From our closed arc, a breaking through.And when you swelled and 'Look' you said, I pressed with slowblind fingers finding out the curling lines:'He's there perhaps. His head!' And noand yes! a heartbeat, tenuous, leaf-fine.Together we would feel him grow.You wore him proudly then, and I would take your arm,afraid of angles' threats, afraid for two.'He jumped,' you'd say, and 'Oh the warmshape of him here.' In bed at night you knewhis curve and mine, Mandala's form.And then a spiral from that point, a widening arcto walls white-hard, a cavern hung with steel;blurred nurse-shapes move, the Uquid darkbehind your eyes bursts through my grasp. I feelthe circle rive. Then wait, apart.Mirrored within the ripples of your eyes, he'll turn—look now!—your own gaze on you, or he'll speakmy voice to make this circle runaround our lives more surely. Ours to waketo flow to this, our growing son.B. A. BREEN30 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

Judy ForsythA CHICKEN FROM THE FARMWhen Lola's domsetic servant Mina left forher annual fortnight's holiday she promisedoutof the goodness of her heart, to bring backa chicken from the farm. On her return shebrought the chicken, and her little son Alpheus,and not to be outdone, out of the goodness ofher heart, Lola accepted both. The boy was thetenderer offering, a plump three-year-old witha charming smile and eyes that cushioned trustin brown velvet. He was forever disappearing,like a cockroach into beading, around a cornerof one of the outbuildings when Lola went outinto the yard. His mother had obviously threatenedhim with some rural ogre's anger, to bedispensed by her own obedient palm, to keephis place there. Lola was a kindly woman andshe assured Mina that the child was welcometo play in the house with her own children,who were willing enough for an occasionalgame with the little piccanin but, unable tospeak his language and being rather older, theyhad their own interests; or else, Lola said, hecould remain in the kitchen with his mother.But Mina didn't want him in there, gettingunder her skirts, and she treated her mistress'schildren's toys, and indeed all her employer'sbelongings, with an astute reverence that forbadeher own child to touch them.So the little boy kept to the yard during theday time and at night he and Mina slept togetherin peace on her narrow bed, andsqueezed up tight under her breast- his kneesindenting her big belly, she comforted him forthat day's separation and strengthened him forthe next.In fact, in the daytime he was not quitealone, for had he not the other temporarylodger of the yard, the fowl, to play with? Attimes he could be heard chuckUng as he chasedit around and around, he himself an ogre nowafter the errant bird, until it protested andscreeched, annoying the neighbours and delightingthe servants. Mina, laughing, would atlast yell out, "Hey, shut up there, you two,"and they would both disappear in an instant.Then a subdued "pock, pock" would tell wherethe boy and his accomplice were hidden, theone trembling, bright-eyed, and the otherbeady-eyed and ruffled, both alert, waiting tobe discovered, though in fact no one wouldever bother and, at last, the fowl would strutout from under the child's constraining elbowand go pecking and picking away amongst thegranadilla vines.Lola secretly hoped that it would be bittenthere by one of those snakes which weavethemselves unnoticed, like tendrils, through thesupporting wire netting, waiting for an innocentEve's-hand to come and pluck one of thehard oval fruits, with their tough, thin skinfaintly purple and mottled, erect as a nipple.How apt, she thought, that in some countriesthey are called passion fruits, and how thecontents of the taut skins are indeed succulentand delicious when the fruit is ripest. Thosewho are ignorant frequently leave the granadillauntil it is too late, until the skin becomesdark and wizened like an old African's faceand the pips turn into little black grits coveredwith tart blebs of orange skin, and, like passionunspent, go sour within the flesh.As the fowl scratched querulously amongstthe leaves Lola watched it and thought that itslegs and feet were the ugliest part of its body.She looked at the toes splayed out, horny andgrasping, trampling and tearing at the leavesand grass. Their white skin was coarse andcracked, and further up, the legs darkened incolour and resembled the decaying granadillas.The fowl moved with its spindly- black-cladprops wide apart- bony and sexless like the oldbird it was. Its body was scrawny and it seemedthat those glands responsible for the sheen of abird's feathers had long since ceased to function,leaving them lustreless and flaccid as anold black umbrella.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 31

With apparent indulgence Lola encouragedthe child's continued visit, and it was obviousto all, as Lola was ever so fond of teUingMina and every visitor to the house, that thechild and the bird were charmingly inseparable.One market day, however, a network of Mina'srelatives from the farm descended on the yardand amidst much good-humoured talk, noiseand laughter, Alpheus was carried off homeagain to comfort a pining grandmother.The next morning Mina announced that thepleasures of the table need no longer be sacrificedto sentiment and, in the face of thisrenewed generosity and pressing goodwill, Sundaywas appointed the festal day. Lola acceptedwith grace, for she was a naturally politeperson, but she was upset. It was not that shehad even minded, after the first awkwardoccasions, entertaining educated natives todinner for her husband's sake; he lectured inNative Administration and sometimes he hadto, before all those laws came in, bring themhome when they arrived as visiting lecturersfrom other places. It was his job, and anywayhe was a Hberal, and he liked it. Sometimesshe wondered during the meal, whether theyused cutlery at home, as she had often seenMina and her relatives eating with their hands;they were nimble enough the way they screwedthe thumb and forefingers around a slice ofbread and sopped the gravy clean off the dish.It was of course unpleasant when her guestsbent right forward over their plates andsmacked their lips together wetly when theyate, but then, as she had said to her mother,not all natives did that, did they?What she definitely disliked was having toeat their food. You never really knew whereit came from or what it had been raised on.She understood that they couldn't help beingpoor and therefore dirty, but it was a fact thatthey were dirty and that their food was dirtytoo. It was just one of those facts you couldn'tget away from.She thought of a train journey she had oftentaken from Durban to Johannesburg. At everysmall siding on the line there seemed to bethose tin shanties which sprawled away downthe slopes into smoky valleys below. She heardagain the barking of their thin black dogs andthe subdued murmur of many people hiddenfrom sight under the corrugated iron roofs.Occasionally she would glimpse the nativesmoving about amongst the flapping washing.their dark figures offset by the ripple of abright cotton garment blown in the wind, butalways on some dirty rubbish heaps, or in oneof those sUmy cesspools which seeped downthe hillside, their scraggy fowls could be seenscrabbling about. How could she tell if Mina'sfarm was any cleaner than those slums? Shehad never been there.And she knew that natives ate those partsof the animal, parts like the squashed entrailsof people after an accident, that you werenever meant to see. She had to walk throughtheir butcher shops when she went for cheapfish down to the Indian market, for a goodhousewife must often put up with inconveniencefor the sake of economy. Above thesweaty, jostling black people shouting and bargainingtogether she had seen, for the first time,hung on hooks for display, those hideousopaque hosepipes of intestine, sometimes witha spatter of urmientionable yellowing decaystill on them, the bright orange pancreates,decorated with red trelliswork, and the bulginghearts and ripe livers.And below, on the shuffling dirt of themarket floor, she could sometimes not avoidtrampling in, so that she almost felt it underthe sole of her foot and her stomach squirmedwhile she squeezed up her toes and rubbed hershoe hard on the ground to remove it, a splatof slow-popping grey spittle, like a section ofjellyfish washed up on the shore, separatedfrom the living organism, yet still pulsating,bristling, with those T.B. germs which it explodedinto the air. How different a visit to heruncrowded butcher's shop where well-dressedhousewives stood in front of the gleamingrefrigeration counter, waiting to be served bythe affable butcher in his clean blue-stripedapron. From the recognisable but abstractoblongs of meat he would cut the joints sheordered and wrap them first in white and thenin brown paper.Set in the windows the trussed chickenswould be pink and plump, haunched on theirtender coccyges as neat as schoolgirls in assembly.Sometimes there might be brains, or kidneys,or even tripe on display but they would bechilled and bloodless, wrapped in hygienicplastic bags and stacked together on a whiteenamel dish in a cunning and even aestheticpatchwork of colour.There was never the faintest murmur here32 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

John ReedTHE NOLAN RETROSPECTIVESidney Nolan is easily the most publicised ofall Australian painters, and, if for this reasonalone, it is logical that he should have a retrospectiveexhibition throughout the country; butof course the very fact of his popularity, aswell as the sheer weight of the exhibition makeit difficult to approach it objectively. Themajority tend to follow automatically theimage that has been created for them, and,inevitably others react against this. In eithercase the true value of the paintings is liableto elude the observer, and, in fact, we mustremember that this 'true value' may elude themost perceptive contemporary observer, andits assessment must wait for a later generation.In the meantime one does as well as one can,remembering that in selecting and presentingthis exhibition, Nolan has taken the risk ofexposing his weaknesses as well as his power,and that one must approach it equally exposedand with one's perceptive faculties fully alert.In reviewing (I think in the Bulletin) ElwynLynn's recent book 'Sydney Nolan. Myth andImagery', Dr Bernard Smith laid the groundopen for a much more complete research intoNolan's work and its sources and implicationsthan has ever previously been undertaken. Itprovides a powerful and important challengewhich deserves to be taken up by someonehaving the necessary scholarship and insight;but my own concern in this article is with thepaintings themselves as they present themselvesto my eyes. I am concerned far more in knowing// they succeed—which involves an aestheticvalue-judgment—than in tracing theirsource in Nolan's philosophy, their symbolicsignificance, their link with tradition, their interrelationshipbetween themselves, or anyother of their aspects which, to me, are moreessentially the province of the research studentor the historian than they are of the contemporaryobserver reacting to the pictorial imagepresented to him.Quite clearly this is a personal and subjectiveapproach; but I believe that, with some explanations,it is the best approach available tothe contemporary viewer of works of art. Heis in a particular position: he is part of theworld of today (as the artist is), and, as such,the art which is being created now is, in asense, being created out of him. It is not possiblefor him to judge it 'objectively' in the wayhe can be objective in relation to a work ofart created 200 years ago; but he can respondto it out of an instinctive awareness of itssources and its particular message to him, andas part of an audience with its roots in thosesources. This does not imply that every man ishis own art authority; but, on the contrary,presupposes a specific involvement in the contemporarycreative process and a developedsensibility, which, one imagines, comes fromthis involvement.In thinking about one's responses to an exhibitionof this size—143 paintings—one probablyfinds oneself doing so on two levels, firstmaking an overall assessment, and then consideringindividual paintings or groups ofpaintings. This is a big exhibition by our standardsand must be judged as such—in otherwords it would not justify itself if it only containeda few very good paintings, and one mustnot be unduly impressed with its size as such.After all it represents only 5 paintings a yearfor the period covered, and the main problemsinvolved would seem to have been, not thefinding of 143 paintings, but the decision onwhich to choose and the organisation involvedin getting them together and transporting themfrom one place to another.Seeing the exhibition as a whole was certainly,for me, a definitive experience. Foryears we had heard a great deal more aboutNolan's work than we had seen of it; onlyoccasional paintings or relatively small exhibitionshad been haphazardly shown in one state36 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968

or another, and some of the paintings in hisbig Thames and Hudson book had left afeeling of uneasiness in many of his earlieradmirers. More significantly, the younger artists,for some of whom Nolan was somethingof a minor deity, were beginning to expressdoubts. These were artists who had alwaysrefused to accept the other two big 'names',Dobell and Drysdale, but had felt a realkinship with Nolan.It has, therefore, been very important for usto have this exhibition, and, for me, it hasindeed confirmed Nolan's unique quality as apainter, even if I now make some qualifications.One should remember, of course, thathe is only 50, and there is still plenty of timefor even greater achievements.In this connection- I can remember that,many years ago, I talked with Nolan aboutwhat seemed to me a remarkable phenomenonof the Heidelberg school of painters—the extraordinaryway in which they flashed to brilliantcreative achievement and then, almost asquickly died to insignificance and banality.Streeton was, in fact, only about 20 when hepainted his beautiful early landscapes. Itseemed that the revelation of Australia whichthey had experienced and been able to translateinto paint, had burnt itself out, perhapsbecause they had had to rely almost entirelyon their own individual strength without thebacking of the sort of tradition against whicha European artist is always able to work.The obvious question was whether Nolanand his fellow artists of the 40's could breakthis barrier, and Nolan's retrospective nowanswers this question so far as he is concerned.To me it is not only impressive, but is impressiveto a degree and in a way that putsNolan into a special category among Australianartists.This is a broad generalisation, and is onewhich I will have to qualify to some extent.Perhaps one of the clearest impressions I gotfrom the exhibition was a sense of Nolan'sinfallibility in all his earlier work; by whichI mean his paintings up to the first Kelly series(1947). I do not want to be taken as sayingthey are necessarily 'great' paintings, no matterhow powerfully they appeal to me, and nodoubt some of them carry too clearly the evidenceof Nolan's youth; but it seems to menow—as indeed it did at the time they werepainted—that they bear the unmistakable authenticityof a man who is inevitably an artist,a man with a 'vision', who sees the world asit were with the outer skin removed, exposedand revealed with all its inner subtleties andinner meanings, and who has the gift to disclosesomething of this vision to us throughhis chosen medium. In thinking of these paintingsI find that the word 'magic' comes spontaneouslyinto my mind, and indeed this seemsthe appropriate word, because a phenomenonis involved, a miracle performed, which isoutside normal mundane experience.It is with this feeling of magic in mind andsenses that one continues to move through theexhibition, and instinctively it becomes thetouch-stone against which one measures theother paintings. We must surely ask, is thismagic carried right through the 30 years; isit as powerful now as it was in the early days;is Nolan a better, a more profound artist thanhe was then?Nolan used to say that it embarrassed himto hear talk of a man being a 'greater' or a'lesser' artist: he was either an artist or not anartist, and there was no more to be said. Thereis an obvious truth and purity in this attitude;but it is unavoidable that one should want toprobe further, and I think an overall survey ofthis exhibition does hold its disappointments,and even shocks, as well as its pure delights.One has to be careful in one's criticism of anartist such as Nolan to make it clear that oneis in fact speaking of an exceptional artist, andso exceptional demands are made. He has setthe pace, and we then rather ruthlessly insistthat he keeps improving it, or at least that itdoes not lessen.Looking back at the exhibition, and seeing itin the perspective of some six weeks, I am surprisedto find that I am conscious of a considerablenumber of years during which thispace does seem to lessen. I first sense thishappening as early as 1948, and it could wellbe typified by 'Agricultural Hotel' (illustratedin the catalogue in black and white).Unfortunately, the critically important earlyWimmera landscapes (few though they are)and the first Kelly series, are poorly representedin the exhibition—so much so that, inmy opinion it is impossible to regard theexhibition as a really satisfactory coverage ofNolan's work. Even so a comparison of thequality of the thing seen and its translationinto a painting in 'Wimmera', 1943, and 'Kelly',WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968 37

1946 (both reproduced in Art & Australia,Sept. 1967), with 'Agricultural Hotel', appearsto me to make it clear that there has been aconsiderable diminution in the intensity of perceptionand the actual handling of the paintitself. On the one hand we have illumination,and on the other something which relates, atleast in part, to illustration. It had not occurredto me before, but in seeing these 1948 paintingsas a group, I felt that at that time Nolan couldwell have been influenced by some of Drysdale'searly outback paintings. There is certainlya remarkable common denominatorbetween them, though it is rather as if Nolanhad treated somewhat lightly and with a senseof humour what Drysdale had painstakinglyrepresented. In any event, the paint surfacehas become suave rather than felt, and onesenses a loss of creative involvement- which is,in fact, carried through into the Central Australianpaintings. It is difficult not to be impressedwith these latter paintings, specially ifthey are seen massed together as they were intheir original showing at David Jones Galleryin Sydney in 1950. It is not that they are bigin size—though big enough for the time whenthey were painted—but, being painted from abirdseye view (actually, I believe, from photostaken in a plane) they present such a vastimage of the inland that one almost feels thatthe paintings themselves are vast. Once again,however, one senses a lack of commitment inthe artist: it is as though he is painting brilliantlyand rather coldly what the outer eye seesso clearly on the surface; but his inner eye,which reveals meaning, remains closed.Without a very much more complete acquaintancewith his work than even this exhibitiongives, it would be dangerous to generalisetoo far; but it seems to me that it was not tillthe Leda and the Swan paintings of about 1958that Nolan's particular magic began to comeout again from beneath the surface of thepaintings. This was even more in evidence inhis 1962 series of inland paintings, such as'Deserted Township, Dawn', and 'Explorer andTownship', both of which are painted with atenderness and an understanding which is quitebreathtaking.It is rather silly to talk of an artist's 'best'paintings—he probably paints all sorts of different'best' paintings—but in an assessment ofNolan's work we must at least note his Africanpaintings as being among his most remarkable.When I first saw them at Kym Bonython'sgallery in Adelaide in 1964 I had a tremendoussense of Nolan's beautiful vision (so aptlynoted by James Gleeson in his review of thisshow); how he had seen some astoundingphenomenon, the phenomenon of wild Africa,for the first time, and had apprehended itwithin himself perfectly, and as no one hadever done before; but then I felt, that in realisingthis in his paintings, it had somehow justeluded him: you could sense the urgency withwhich they had been painted and their completeintegrity, but you wondered whether therewas still something more to be said in orderto make them quite complete paintings. Now,with the passage of time, and seeing themagain, I am not so sure, and it seems to methat in paintings such as 'Elephant and Mountain'(reproduced in colour in the catalogue)and 'Elephant and Tree', he has achieved analmost perfect realisation of his vision. Thisis not just brilliance—in fact, if there is afailure it is in the area where brilliance operates—itis something much more fundamental:it is the same thing which one finds in the firstKelly series, and in this sense it is interestingto compare them. To me the Kellys still seemmore fully reaUsed as a series than the Africanpaintings; but I am ready to admit that thismay be because I have lived with them for20 years, and it is more than possible that Ihave not yet caught up with Nolan's achievementin these later ones.Again, in the Antarctic paintings we see thissame quality; but, after the African paintingsit is only a glimpse and not the full blaze ofillumination which they reveal to us. We see itmost clearly in 'Mt. Erebus' and in 'AntarcticExplorer', with its amazing patch of green onthe horse and figure.The finale of the exhibition is the series of3 panels, each 60" x 432", 'Riverbend', 'Glenrowan'and 'Inferno'. 'Riverbend' (reproducedin colour on the cover) presents an endlessstretch of river, an endless wall of river gumsbehind it and some small figures (includingKelly) in the shallows. As a subject, even aphilosophy, this seems to present great potentialitiesfor Nolan; but- as far as I am concerned,it is something I apprehended intellectually,not pictorially. For me, the paintingdoes not yield up its secrets, and I am leftwith thoughts of what might have been. Ihave faith in the truth of Nolan's vision, but38 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

I do not think it has been fulfilled, and thepainting presents only its surface to me, withoutany feeling of being involved in it. I amtold that when 'Riverbend' was first shown(in David Jones Gallery) it was not hungflat against a wall, but on stands, which enabledit to be seen as a 'riverbend', and I canwell imagine that this might have had quitea definite effect on one's response to the painting.'Glenrowan' has much in common with'Riverbend', but it has been brought to life bythe giant prone figure of Kelly and the headof his horse: it engages you in a way 'Riverbend'fails to do, but tends to fade out wherepure landscape takes over from KeUy.'Inferno' (also on the cover) is somethingquite different. Goodness knows what you callit: a sketch for a painting, an unfinished painting,a sort of a mock-up of a painting, or, justa painting. It does not much matter what youcall it, what it has achieved is the importantthing, and its achievement is definitely somethingdisturbing. With vague recollections ofDante, I see the floating, disembodied souls ofandrogynous beings, armless, sexless except foran occasional swelling breast, and for the mostpart expressionless too, their heads painted in,but their bodies just blank white forms, thoughsometimes strangely flecked with patches ofred, or red and blue. I confess their precise significanceevades me, but the total effect is disturbingand haunting: it stirs some hiddenmemories and cannot be ignored.If 'Inferno' is the climax of the exhibition,then without doubt the 1966 Wimmera (andallied) paintings are the anti-climax. Nolanused to say he believed in showing everythinghe did, and if a painting was 'bad', well, somuch the worse for him, but just the same itwas part of him and of creative activity. I canonly hope that this group of paintings—as wellas the Eureka panel in the Reserve Bank inMelbourne—was made public in this spkit. Itis a pity in my mind that an exhibition whichdoes so much to confirm one's strongest convictionsabout Nolan should end on this note,and it must not be allowed to distract ourthoughts and responses from the rare andbeautiful experiences he has given us.Though we have other fine painters—I thinkparticularly of the sustained intensity andpassion of Arthur Boyd's work—the range ofNolan's vision, its penetrating quality, itsrevelation of inner meaning in the world aboutus, and the lyric intimacy with which hepresents it to us, place him in a special position,which enables him to seize our imaginationwith particular vividness, and at the sametime, to appeal to a much wider audience thanis the case with other major contemporarypainters.An interesting footnote to this article suggestsitself to me. Nolan as a young man wasessentially a 'modern'. Not only does his earlypainting show this—as at least one critic hasnoted—but his very active and imaginativemind was always occupied with the modernworld- and even with the world of the future.For instance, he was exercised with the idea ofa city of glass, and was already projectinghimself to the moon. Yet, today we find little,if any- evidence in his paintings of this kindof imaginative process, and though he mustbe fully aware of what is happening in theworld of art and science, the images in hispaintings give us no sign that he is himselfinvolved in this area. It is perhaps this factorwhich now tends to make him somewhat remotefrom our younger painters.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 39

John K. EwersTHE GENIUS OF JUDITH WRIGHTBefore attempting to come to terms withJudith Wright's latest volume. The Other Half(Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1966, $1.95), Ipropose, first to take a brief sampling of whatcritics and reviewers had to say about herearlier work as it appeared, and then to examineit in more detail as a whole. This willenable us to estabhsh her poetic background,to mark some common factors to be found inall her poetry and the differences that emergefrom time to time.Much credit is due to C. B. Christesen, editorof Meanjin in which a number of her poemshad already appeared, for publishing her firstbook. The Moving Image (1946). This broughtnothing but praise from the critics. ProfessorS. Musgrove said: "This book confirms whatwe have for some time suspected from JudithWright's periodical pieces, that she is the onlypoet among the younger Australians who canchallenge the stature of R. D. FitzGerald.''^Nan McDonald, herself a poet, wrote: "Afterwading through many books of verse whereonly a faint glimmer of poetry haunts the bogof words, the reader can ask nothing betterthan to be dealt the old famihar blow thatsays, beyond all shadow of doubt, 'This ispoetry'. Judith Wright's first book. The MovingImage, does that."- Woman to Man (1949)was no less enthusiastically received. By thetime H. M. Green had published the secondedition of his anthology. Modern AustralianPoetry, in 1952, he was prepared on the evidenceof these two volumes alone to place her"among the principal poets writing in Englishtoday".^ Still confining himself to these twobooks. Green amplified this further in his AHistory of Australian Literature, Vol. 2, 1923-1950: "A couple of lines that certainly andseveral whole poems that probably belong toworld literature; half a dozen poems that areamong the best of their kind in the presentday: it is an amazing production for a womanof thirty-five, and it fixes Judith Wright's position,alongside those of FitzGerald and Slessor,among the first of Uving poets, in Australia orelsewhere."*There was less enthusiasm for the thirdvolume. The Gateway (1953). Elyne MitcheUregretted that the language and the imagerywere "similar to those recording the spiritualjourneys of other poets",^ and T. Inglis Moorefound "a relaxing of the high tension, a recurringsense of uncertainty, a feeling that thepoet has stopped on her path to look around,unsure of her way".^ About the fourth volume.The Two Fires (1955) the critics themselveswere divided. Someone writing inSoutherly, No. 2, 1956, with the initials of J.T.declared that many poems "lend colour to asuspicion that the author is forcing her art".He even went so far as to suggest that "halfbakedcritics or importunate publishers mayhave hurried this fine poet into putting out afourth book before she was ready to do so".^But Robert D. FitzGerald (who is certainlyno "half-baked critic") after commenting onthe changing direction shown in this new volume,said "the earUer impressions return ofpoetry that has almost everything we could askof it", adding later that "one is continuouslyconscious of a power of vision beyond theordinary sight of mankind".* In the finalchapter of his History already referred to—achapter bringing the record up to 1960—H.M. Green amended his previously expressedopinion that Judith Wright was "essentiallylyrist rather than intellectual".^ This- he said,no longer held, for her third and fourth booksshowed her "moving inward, less often makingher vision concrete and lyrical with picturesand lovely images and more often realizingsome inner experience". He conceded that thisshowed "her poetic attitude is not static, an42 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

important thing for a writer who has alreadymade so high a place for herself''.^"Judith Wright's fifth volume was Birds(1962). F. H. Mares in The Australian BookReview said: "These are beautifully wroughtsmaU poems: I had hoped for a great dealmore, and I fear a withdrawal here.''^' Thereis a tendency, it seems, for the contemporaryreviewer to anticipate what the writer may donext and to be disappointed when his ownanticipation is not fulfilled. It was timely thereforethat these five volumes should be followedby two selections, each made by the poet herself,so that we could get the flavour of herwork as a whole up to that point. The first ofthese was in Angus & Robertson's AustralianPoets series and appeared in 1963, to be followedby a rather fuller selection, Five Senses, in1964. Both contained some poems under theheading of "The Forest" not previously publishedin book form, of which more will besaid presently.This then was the position as far as somecritics and reviewers saw it up to the publicationof her latest volume of new work. TheOther Half. It was clear that all were agreedthat Judith Wright was a poet of considerablestature, but not all were prepared to concedethat her genius had not sometimes faltered inher six published volumes (seven, if we count"The Forest" poems which occur for the firsttime in the two volumes of selections).I have now spent some weeks reading atleisure Judith Wright's entire published poemsin an attempt to distil from them some unifyingessence. When met again after many years,a number of poems in her early volumesassumed, for me, the classic quality of memorableness.What I wish to convey by this is thatapparently these poems had at earlier readingsentered into my subconscious to a degree Ihad not realized. Others familiar with thisauthor's work, attempting a similar exercisein re-acquaintance, would no doubt share thisexperience and be prepared to name furtherpoems which produced a similar effect onthem. Among those which came to me in there-reading with the force and familiarity ofold and well-tried companions were "Nigger'sLeap: New England", "BuUocky" and "Southof my Days" from the first volume, "Womanto Man", "Woman's Song", "Woman to Child"and "Lost Child" from the second, "Birds"and "Old House" from the third, and the titlepoem from the fourth. There were others wherethe impact of familiarity was also present butto a lesser degree. This is a very subjective approachand mere memorableness for any individualis not necessarily a virtue. When it iscoupled with the undoubted quality which suchpoems possess and when it is shared with agreat number of other readers—as I believe istrue of Judith Wright's work—it means a greatdeal.One of the strongest impressions I receivedwas the relationship much of her work bearsto the time it was written. This can be a disadvantage;it can make for ephemeral workif the poet is too closely a victim of her time.But Judith Wright manages to transcend theephemeral where many a lesser poet has beenengulfed by it. This is well illustrated by themood of most of the poems in The MovingImage. This was published in 1946, but allthe poems except one are grouped under theheading: Poems, 1940-1944; that is, they werewritten during World War II. The title poemis undated, but it could be regarded as a warpoemwith its overtones of destruction, althoughit is much more than that in its fullimplications.World War II was a time when Australia'ssurvival as a nation in the Pacific received itsfirst full challenge and this evoked a great dealof inward-looking. We might not last long, thetime seemed to say. What are we? How farhave we come? The year before the outbreakof war had seen the announcement of theJindyworobak manifesto by Rex Ingamellswho gathered around him a group of nationalisticpoets whose talents (many of themlimited) drew also upon this inward-lookingfostered by the threat to survival. Writers inthis group over-stressed background and localcolour, and aroused a good deal of hostilityin certain quarters. Judith Wright was neverclose to the movement, but when asked by itsfounder to contribute to a review of its achievementsat the end of 10 years she offered acomment that was untouched by the rancourthat coloured the criticisms of many others."The Russian, the English, the Norwegianwriter can concentrate his attention on thesocial or psychological problem in hand; hisbackground is already filled in, taken forgranted" she wrote in an article called Perspective."But the Australian background,WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 43

important as it is to the Australian psychology,has never thus been assimilated. So akind of spHt in the writer's consciousness isoften manifest; he cannot solve his immediateproblem, he cannot keep attentionconcentrated on his foreground, while hisbackground keeps intruding. Perhaps thisduality, this unsolved problem, is partly thecause of the gaps in Australian literature,and the curious lack of writers with anythinglike a 'body of work' to their credit.Only the single-minded with a track of theirown to follow, or the genuinely great writer,can by-pass that boulder in the road.(Henry Handel Richardson managed it inthe Mahony trilogy, Slessor and FitzGeraldmanaged it, though neither of them can becalled prolific writers; Hugh McCrae andhis circle managed it by simply detachingthemselves completely from the ground andflying over it, but nevertheless their work asa whole was seriously weakened by the evasion.)"It seems to me that the Jindy movementwas essentially an effort to get the probleminto perspective. I don't necessarily meanthat the Jindy writers themselves have donethat, but rather that in the ensuing argumentthe issues found some kind of clarification;and in fact the work of the outstandingJindy writers has to some extent alreadybroken the problem down. To emphasizeour regionalism instead of trying to elude it—this has had a value in itself, and it hasperformed the further function of leadingto a reaction against itself. That is to say,that having found out what happens whenone tries to treat the problem as an end initself, it is now possible to apply the knowledge.The regional, the national outlook hasa value, and no doubt some writers do theirbest work within such a closed circuit. Butthere are other jobs to do; and Jindyworobakhas probably contributed somethingtowards finding the means to do them. Itmay be that because of the Jindy movement,even those most fiercely opposed ormost indifferent to it know themselves alittle better."^^The italics at the end are mine. Whether, infact, Judith Wright herself was opposed or indifferentto the Jindyworobak attitude is notclear, but her poetry in this first volume standsin sharp contrast to that of the bulk of Jindyworobakverse in that, while sometimes sayingthe same thing, it says it from much greaterdepth. Reg Ingamells had written in his firstbook of verse published ten years earlier:Where now uninterrupted sunIs shrivelling the sheaves.Black children leap and laugh and runBeneath a sky of leaves;And where the farmer thrashes wheatWith steel machinery.Go ghmmerings of their little feet.If we could only see.It's a pleasant enough concept and here putforward probably for the first time, but it isshallow and poetically not distinguished. JudithWright in "Nigger's Leap: New England" putsa similar thought into much richer language:Did we not know their blood channelled ourrivers,and the black dust our crops ate was the-rdust?She follows this with an extension of thoughtto the one-ness of man, an extension, it maybe added, which seldom if ever entered intothe verse of the Jindyworobaks:O all men are one man at last. We shouldhave knownthe night that tided up the cliffs and hidthemhad the same question on its tongue for us.And there they lie that were ourselves writstrange.Her main preoccupation in this first volumeis with what we have grown out of; it derivesfrom the inward-looking that was part of thetime in which she was writing. It occurs overand over again. In "Country Town" she says:This is no longer the landscape that theyknew,the sad green enemy country of their exile,those branded men whose songs were of rebelUon.This is a landscape that the town creepsover;a landscape safe with bitumen and banks.The hostile hills are netted in with fencesand the roads lead to houses and the pictures.Thunderbolt was killed by Constable Walkerlong ago; the bones are buried, the storyprinted.And yet in the night of the sleeping town,the voices:This is not ours, not ours the flowering tree.What is it we have lost and left behind?Where the Jindyworobaks were accusing earlysettlers of despoiling the countryside, thunderingimprecations about "the rape of the land",Judith Wright was enquiring into the sources44 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

from which she herself had sprung. The poemconcludes with a call toRemember Thunderbolt, buried under theair-raid trenches.Remember the bearded men singing of exile.Remember the shepherds under their strangestars.That this call for remembrance is, for her,very personal is shown in many places andnowhere better than in "South of my Days"which begins:South of my days' circle, part of my blood'scountry,rises the tableland, high delicate outlineof bony slopes wincing under the winter,low trees blue-leaved and olive, outcroppinggranite—clean, lean, hungry country ....and ends:South of my days' circleI know it against the stars, the high leancountryfull of old stories that still go walking in mysleep.If there has been despoilment, this seems toimply, then we are all touched with some guiltand out of the original hate-love relationshipbetween our forebears and this alien earth hascome the fulfilment of love.Her poem, "BuUocky", expressed in a balladlikeform she was not often to use again, becameat once a favourite anthology piece. Thefirst three stanzas suffice to show its mood:Beside his heavy-shouldered team,thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,he weathered all the striding yearstill they ran widdershins in his brain:Till the long solitary tracksetched deeper with each lurching loadwere populous before his eyes,and fiends and angels used his road.All the long straining journey grewa mad apocalyptic dream,and he old Moses, and the slaveshis suffering and stubborn team.This is landscape poetry, but it is a landscapewith people. In "South of my Days" there wasold Dan:Seventy years of stories he clutches roundhis bones.Seventy summers are hived in him like oldhoney.In "Brother and Sisters" there are Millie, Lucyand John struggling against time and lack offulfilment on a no-good farm:The road turned out to be a cul-de-sac;stopped like a lost intention at the gateand never crossed the mountains to thecoast.But they stayed on."Half-caste Girl" is pure Jindyworobak, butwritten with much deeper insight:Little Josie buried under the bright moonis tired of being dead, death lasts too long.She would like to push death aside, andstand on the hilland beat with a waddy on the bright moonlike a gong.Across the hills, the hills that belong to nopeopleand so to none are foreign,once she climbed high to find the nativecherry;the lithe darkhearted lubrawho in her beads like blooddressed delicately for lovemoves her long hands among the strings ofthe wind,singing the songs of women,the songs of love and dying.Most of the poetry in The Moving Image isessentially regional; its appeal could be largelyto those who, however vicariously, have sharedthe emotions which regionalism of any sortcalls up. We are reminded of her words in theJindyworobak review: "The regional, thenational outlook has a value, and no doubtsome writers do their best work within such aclosed circuit. But there are other jobs to do.""Judith Wright worked magnificently withinthat closed circuit, but did not confine herselfto it. Even in this early volume "The Companyof Lovers" entirely forsakes regionalism.It does, however, remain a poem of its time,the time of a world at war:We meet and part now over all the world:we, the lost company,take hands together in the night, forgetthe night in our brief happiness, silently.We, who sought many things, throw allawayfor this one thing, one only,remembering that in the narrow gravewe shall be lonely.Death marshals up his armies round usnow.Their footsteps crowd too near.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 45

Lock your warm hands above the chillingheartand for a time I live without my fear.Grope in the night to find me and embracefor the dark preludes of the drums begin,and round us, round the company of lovers,death draws his cordons in.This poem serves to introduce us to the prevailingmood of her second volume. Womanto Man. Love is a recurring theme in these andlater poems. At first it begins as the love betweenman and woman; later it takes on amore transcendental quality—love, the movingforce of all life. Just as the landscape poems,wherever they occur in the flow of her poetry,are peopled with personal memories or derivations,so her love poems have a deeply personalquality. It is doubtful whether any aspectof what she says in the title-poem of thisvolume has ever been better said and a greatdeal would be lost were it not quoted in full:The eyeless labourer in the night,the selfless, shapeless seed I hold,builds for its resurrection day—silent and swift and deep from sightforesees the unimagined light.This is no child with a child's face;this has no name to name it by:yet you and I have known it well.This is our hunter and our chase,the third who lay in our embrace.This is the strength that your arm knows,the arc of flesh that is my breast,the precise crystals of our eyes.This is the blood's wild tree that growsthe intricate and folded rose.This is the maker and the made;this is the question and reply;the blind head butting in the dark,the blaze of light along the blade.Oh hold me, for I am afraid.The tv/o poems which follow this, "Woman'sSong" and "Woman to Child", and anotherlater in the book, "The Unborn", are complementarypieces. They serve to estabhsh thefact that the physical "love" of which shewrites here, distinct from the more transcendental"love" to be found in many otherpoems, is always that of the woman. It is thelove for the child she is to bear; it is neverthe passionate love that men feel and write of,never the pursuit and the capture. Nor is itromantic love which is the subject of manypoems, most of them by men and some bywomen aping men. In this respect her attitudetowards love is similar to that of Mary Gilmore,although its expression is usually moreintense, more poetic. There are other similaritiesbetween these two women poets, notablyan emotional drawing from the well of thepast, an awareness of the significance in ourhistory of the displaced people, the aborigines(although here Mary Gilmore's poetry is farmore emotive) and a strong sense of commonhumanity. But there are sharp differences, too.Both are feminine, but Mary Gilmore is sometimesalso feminist, a characteristic never tobe found in Judith Wright's work or her personalattitudes. Nor does she espouse causes orchampion the underdog. And nothing could bemore out of character than to imagine MissWright rushing off to join a socialist colonyin Paraguay or anywhere else!Many poems in this second volume makereference to children: "Child in Wattle Tree',"The Child", "The World and the Child","Night and the Child". All these are to somedegree the result of an intense awareness ofthe impingement of age upon youth, part ofthe duality which is stressed in many otherways in other poems: light and dark, real andunreal, life and death. In "Lost Child", a sectionof the closing sequence of poems in thisbook, she gives a hint of the metaphysicalrealms she is to explore more frequently andat considerable depth in later volumes:Is the boy lost? Then I know where he isgone.He has gone climbing the terrible crags ofthe Sun.The searchers go through the green valley,shouting his name;the dogs are moaning on the hill for thescent of his track;but the men wiU all be hoarse and the dogslamebefore the Hamilton's boy is found orcomes back.Through the smouldering ice of the moonhe is stumbling alone.I shall rise from my dark and followwhere he is gone.I heard from my bed his bugle breath go byand the drum of his heart in the measure ofan old song.I shall travel into silence, and in that fiercecountryWhen we meet he will know he has beenaway too long.46 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

They are looking for him now in the vinescrubover the hill,but I think he is alone in a place that Iknow well.Is the boy lost? Then I know where he isgone.He is climbing to Paradise up a river ofstars and stone.It may have been because the contemporarycritics expected some blending of the regionalismof her first volume and the various interpretationsof love that coloured her secondthat they paused uncertainly before the third.Its significance seems to be crystallized in fourlines from the title-poem, which is placed rightat the very end of the book:In the land of oblivionamong the black-mouthed ghosts,I knew my Selfthe sole reality.Henceforth and in many different ways, thepoet is to embark upon a voyage of discoveryin Self, a Self that is not merely of this timebut in all time. There are hints of a growingwonder at the miracle of life and of the lifegivingforce, love. This is the theme of theopening poem, "Dark Gift", in which the poetmarvels at the growth of a flower that "beginsin the dark where life is not" until with thecalyx folded she cries:Open, green hand, and givethe dark gift you hold.Oh wild mysterious gold!Oh act of passionate love!There is also a growing preoccupation herewith the receding of youth, with the approachof age, although she is still only in her latethirties. Often she re-states with no less forceand vision the regionalism of the best poems inThe Moving Image. Thus we have "ErodedHills", "Drought", "Unknown Water", "TheAncestors" and most memorably "Old House",which begins:Where now outside the weary house thepepperina,that great broken tree, gropes with its blindhandsand sings a moment in the magpie's voice,there he stood once,that redhaired man my great-great-grandfather,his long face amiable as an animal's,and thought of vines and horses.He moved in that mindless country like ared ant,running tireless in the summer heat amongthe trees—the nameless trees, the sleeping soil, theoriginal river—and said that the eastern slope would dofor a vineyard.It was no doubt the diversity of subjectsdealt with in this third volume which arousedsome misgivings in the minds of contemporarycritics, which caused T. Inglis Moore to feelthat "the poet has stopped on her path to lookaround, unsure of her way".'* But one cannotshare Elyne Mitchell's regret that often herlanguage and imagery were "similar to thoserecording the spiritual journeys of otherpoets''.'^ What different language or imagerycould possibly be desirable for "Birds", one ofher most profound poems?Whatever the bird is, is perfect for the bird.Weapon kestrel hard as a blade's curve,thrush round as a mother or a full drop ofwaterfruit-green parrot wise in his shriekingswerve—all are what bird is and do not reach beyondbird.Must we deny the validity of "weapon kestrel","blade's curve", "round as a mother or a fulldrop of water?" One wonders whether thispoem arose out of the fragmentary thought inR. D. FitzGerald's Essay on Memory: thatsometimes one sees "the bird's flight as thebird". Judith Wright is here emphasizing theapparent simplicity of motives guiding the livesof the "cruel kestrel", the "thrush in thetrembling dew beginning to sing", the "parrotclinging and quarrelling and veiling his queereye". This is contrasted with the complexityof human motives:But I am torn and beleaguered by my ownpeople.The blood that feeds my heart is the bloodthey gave meandmy heart is the house where they gatherand fight for dominion—all different, all with a wish and a will tosave me,to turn me into the ways of other people.The poem concludes with a yearning to.... melt the past, the present and thefuture in oneand find the words that lie behind all theselanguages.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 47

Then I could fuse my passions into oneclear stoneand be simple to myself as the bird is to thebird.If the imagery lacks the sharp Australianismthat characterized her more regional poetry, itis because she has moved out of regionalisminto the universal. Her future work is to movemore and more in that direction, yet in a subtleway its universal aspects are involved in the regional.Thus in her fourth book, The TwoFires, we have "The Wattle Tree" with itsopening hnes:The tree knows four truths—earth, water, air, and fire of the sun.The tree holds four truths in one.Root, limb and leaf unfoldout of the seed, and these rejoicetill the tree dreams it has a voiceto join four truths in one great word ofgold.It could be any tree—oak, elm, cedar or whatyou will. But it is a wattle tree; the last linetells us that. Here, too, is emerging a themethat is to recur more and more frequently inher work—the kinship with nature, yet anapartness, a separateness from it. Under thebark of a "Scribbly-gum" she finds:the written trackof a fife I could not read.However, The Two Fires is once again abook arising out of its time. The poet is verypersonally concerned with the threat of man'sdestruction through the possible use of theatom bomb. The title-poem shows this concernin a magnificent poetic conception of theearth born out of fire and returning to fire:My father rock, do you forget the kingdomof the fire?The aeons grind you into bread—into the soil that feeds the living and transformsthe dead;and have we eaten in the heart of the yellowwheatthe sullen unforgetting seed of fire?48And now- set free by the climate of man'shate,that seed sets time ablaze.The leaves of fallen years, the forest ofliving days,have caught like matchwood. Look, thewhole world burns.The ancient kingdom of the fire returns.And the world, that flower that housed thebridegroom and the bride.burns on the breast of night.The world's denied.Other poems like "The Precipice", "WestWind", "Two Generations", and "SearchlightPractice" also develop this concept. They containlines that stamp her as a poet of the highestpossible artistry and sensitivity, lines thatcause the reader to pause and marvel when hecomes upon them. Has the dilemma of ourtimes ever been better stated than in thesefrom "West Wind"?for to love in a time of hate and to live ina time of deathis lonely and dangerous as the last leaf onthe treeand wrenches the stem of the blood andtwists the words from truth.Her kinship with nature persists in the muchslighter poems of her fifth volume. Birds, whichwere written for her teenage daughter and aretherefore less adult in their approach, but arenot quite, as Max Harris has said, merely thework of a poet who is "keeping her hand in".'^A lesser poet would have written a very differentset of verses for a teenage daughter! Hereare some delightful vignettes which, apart fromtheir poetic quality, can only have come fromone who has lived close to nature and who hasdrawn some of her strength from it. Whetherit be "that old clever Noah's Ark, the wellturned,well-carved pelican with his wise comiceye" or the magpies who "walk with hands inpockets, left and right" and whose song thanks"God with every note" or the chatteringApostle Birds ("How they talked about us!")—there is a great deal of shrewd observationhere and- more than that, a quality of mysticinterpretation which, if the single audience forwhich they were meant were extended to othersof that age, might well awaken an interest inthose aspects of the Australian environmentwhich have so moved and influenced the poetherself.Those who are unfamiliar with the poetry ofJudith Wright could not do better than makean approach to her work through Five Senses,published in 1964 in Angus & Robertson'sSirius paperback series. Here are most of hertruly memorable poems and it is interesting tonote that, as if to challenge some of the contemporarycritics, she has chosen heavily fromThe Gateway and The Two Fires—the thirdand fourth volumes which caused some concernat the time because of their apparentWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

departure from what had come to be acceptedas typical of this writer. It is particularly interestingbecause it contains twenty-eight poemshitherto unpublished, under the collective titleof The Forest. These take us a step furtheralong the very personal road of Judith Wright'spoetry. They are distinguished by the same certaintyof language and techniques we havecome to expect. The title-poem of this series,although there are many excellent and diversepoems here, seems to me to crystallize simplyand unpretentiously the nature of her quest. Iquote it in full:When first I knew this forestits flowers were strange.Their different forms and faceschanged with the seasons' change—white violets smudged with purple,the wild-ginger spray,ground-orchids small and singlehaunted my day.the thick-fleshed Murray-lily,flame-tree's bright blood,and where the creek runs shallow,the cunjevoi's green hood.When first I knew this forest,time was to spend,and time's renewing harvestcould never reach an end.Now that its vines and flowersare named and known,like long-fulfilled desiresthose first strange joys are gone.My search is further.There's still to name and knowbeyond the flowers I gatherthat one that does not wither—the truth from which they grow.It is a remarkable poem, less complex thanmany she has written, yet summarizing, Iwould suggest, her whole poetic endeavour.The vines and flowers, the familiar things oflife whether of nature or of man, are namedand known. From time to time she will returnto them, but not merely to identify or describe.Henceforth the search is further: to "the truthfrom which they grow". In this single poem wesee her moving, as the whole of her poeticwork has moved, from the regional to theuniversal.And now, at last, having attempted to distilthe essence of her writing, let us now look ather latest collection, The Other Half (1966).The concluding piece, "Turning Fifty", remindsus that the poet is now no longer young,no longer the "woman of thirty-five" whosework, on the evidence of two pubUshed volumes,H. M. Green found "amazing"." Atfifty she reviews the times through which shehas lived:Though we've pollutedeven this air I breatheand spoiled green earth;though, granted fife or death,death's what we're choosing,and though these years we fivescar flesh and mind,still, as the sun comes up,bearing my birthday,having met time and loveI raise my cup—dark, bitter, neutral, clean,sober as morning—to all I've seen and known—to this new sun.Poems written to celebrate one's own birthdayare seldom memorable and this is no exception.It is nevertheless impressive in itshomely sincerity. This is a coffee cup she israising, not a convivial glass, and it is clearthat she is still possessed by the doubts andfears which were the main theme of The TwoFires. So much profound writing, so muchword magic and control, so much that hasbeen accepted as the best of contemporaryAustralian poetry—all this stems from awoman, now turned fifty, greeting "the newsun" with courage undimmed and, as oneknows from what she has already produced,equipped while strength remains with her tocontinue her quest of ultimate truth.The themes she has chosen for this latestvolume are varied, but there is this recurringnote of age, accompanied by a somewhat wistfulnote of the inevitability of change that agebrings. Among the poems in The Forest serieswas one, "For My Daughter", which reviewedthe problem of the woman who is also amother, her child grown up and going herseparate way:My body gave you thenwhat was ordained to give,and did not need my will.But now we learn to liveapart, what must I do?"The Curtain", describing the homecomingof a grown child, continues this thought:WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 49

So grown you looked, in the same unalteredroom,so much of your childhood you were alreadyforgetting,while I remembered. Yet in the unforgettingdreamyou will come here all your life for renewaland meeting.It was your breath, so softly rising andfaUing,that kept me silent. With your lids hke budsunbrokenyou watched on their curtain of your life, astream of shadows moving.When I touched your shoulder, I too had alittle dreamed and woken.It may be said that Judith Wright, howeverdeeply she feels, however much she is movedby the transience of life or the eternal questfor its underlying truths, will never and cannever be dogmatic in her statement. A briefpoem, "Wishes"- gives her answers to the questions:What do I wish to be? What do I wishto do? To the first she replies, "I wish to bewise". To the second, "I wish to love". Thefinal couplet admits the contradiction:To love and to be wise?Down, fool, and lower your eyes.There are several remarkable poems in thisvolume. The title-poem is yet another attemptto bring about some reconciliation of oppositeswhich we have noted before. This time theopposites are "the self that night undrownswhen I'm asleep" and "my daylight self", thesubconscious and the conscious. She bringsthem tentatively together again in a finalcouplet:So we may meet at last, and meeting bless.And turn into one truth in singleness.We should perhaps have noted earlier thisrecurring practice of summing up in a coupletthe ideas that the poem has been exploring.In this she is not uniformly successful. Thereare times when one feels that in her desire toround off a poem as neatly as possible she hasyielded a little to rhetoric, a little to emotion.In this couplet I have quoted, one may wellwonder whether these two opposites can bereconciled in singleness.The outstanding poems in The Other Halfare "To Hafiz of Shiraz", "Naked Girl andMirror" and the New Guinea sequence, "TheFinding of the Moon". I name these threebecause of certain intrinsic differences aboutthem, but would not suggest that any othersin the volume fall short of the high standardof thought and expression that characterize allJudith Wright's verse. She is, it seems, too finean artist ever to write a bad poem; if somereach greater heights than others it is becauseinitially they are aimed at greater heights."To Hafiz and Shiraz" is prefaced by thestatement- "the rose has come into the garden,from Nothingness to Being", which reminds ussomewhat of an earher poem, "Dark Gift". Itsphilosophical theme is the inevitability of fruition,so that it is no longer "any poem" thatmight follow her pen, but the certainty that inpoetry, as in living:Every path and life leads one way only,out of continual miracle, through creation'sfable,over and over repeated, but never yetunderstood,as every word leads back to the blindingoriginal Word."Naked Girl and Mirror" must take its placeamongst Judith Wright's finest poems. It is areflective essay on the problem facing an adolescentgirl whose body once served only theelemental needs of childhood, but is nowawakening to the fuller needs of maturity andlove. This she sees at first as a betrayal andis afraid. She longs to return to what she was,but finally realizes that she cannot do this, althoughshe still hopes to retain something ofher original self:Let me go—let me be goneYou are half of some other who may nevercome.Why should I tend you? You are not myown;you seek that other—he will be your home.Yet I pity your eyes in the mirror, mistedwith tears;I lean to your kiss. I must serve you: I wiUobey.Some day we may love. I may miss yourgoing, some day,though I shall always resent your dumb andfruitful years.Your lovers shall learn better, and bitterlytoo,if their arrogance dares to think I am partof you.In the New Guinea sequence, "The Findingof the Moon", she captures to an extraordin-50 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

ary degree the atmosphere of a tribal village inwhich a young man, Aruako, turns his backEndymion-like on sensual love in his pursuitof the Moon. It is notable that Miss Wrightshould depart from her familiar Australianbackground and that she should with her ownpoetic vision so successfully enter into this newworld. There are some poems here with aquaintly domestic atmosphere that perhaps donot quite do justice to her talents—poems like"To Another Housewife", "Cleaning Day" and"Portrait", but others, although comparativelyslight- like "The Trap", "A Document" andSnakeskin on a Gate", show that she has lostnothing of her technical skill or sensitivity.In short. The Other Half is a worthy successorto the volumes that have preceded it. No doubtit will be followed by others if we are to judgefrom her supplication in the final stanza of"Prayer":And you, who speak in me when I speakwell,withdraw not now your grace, leave me notdry and cold.I have praised you in the pain of love, Iwould praise you stillin the slowing of the blood, the time whenI grow old.What then is the real nature of the genius ofJudith Wright? Always she has worked withincertain specified limits. Most of her poems arequite short. She has never attempted the epicand has touched only incidentally, through therecalled past, on the heroic. Once or twice shehas been tempted towards the slightly satirical("Eve to her Daughter" in this latest volumeis an example), but not very successfully perhapsbecause this is not fundamentally part ofher nature. In the main she has blended theemotions and the intellect, and throughout hasdeveloped technical skills which, in spite ofattempts by some critics to find influences ofBlake and Yeats and T. S. Eliot, have remainedpecuharly her own. Not the least of her skillslies in the felicity of her choice of word andphrase and the ability to say a great deal invery few words. Let any who doubt this comparethe examples I have given with the languagein most other contemporary volumes ofAustralian poetry.We have seen how her first two books causedH. M. Green to classify her as a lyricist andhow her next two caused him to amend thatclassification. We have seen how early criticsapplauded her regional poetry and how somelater ones regretted her partial abandonmentof the regional for the universal. Throughouta now considerable number of volumes she hasestablished for herself an identity which doesnot easily fit into any category, but it is clearthat she is fundamentally a mystic, seekingthrough her own personal experiences to findthe true significance in all creation of Loveand the Word, which in the last analysis aresynonymous. That she gives no final answeris not the least of her virtues, since this carrieswith her a company of readers prepared to goalong with her in her quest. There are alsomany, no doubt, who are less concerned withthe quest, but equally prepared to accompanyher because of the unique quality of the poetrywhich she uses to pursue it.References:1 Meanjin, Vol. 5, No. 3, 1946, p. 249.2 Southerly, Vol. 8, No. 3, 1947, pp. 182-3.3 Modern Australian Poetry, ed. by H. M. Green.Introduction to 2nd edition, p. vi.4 A History of Australian Literature, by H. M. Green(1961), Vol. 2, 1923-1950, p. 943.5 Southerly, Vol. 16, No. 1, 1955, p. 35.6 Meanjin, Vol. 17, No. 3, 1958, p. 247.7 Southerly, Vol. 17, No. 2, 1956, p. 99.8 Meanjin, Vol. 15, No. 2, 1956, pp. 202-3.9 A History of Australian Literature, by H. M. Green(1961), Vol. 2, 1923-1950, p. 937.10 Ibid. p. 1402.11 The Australian Book Review, Vol. 2, No. 6, p. 90.i2 Jindyworobak Review (1948), pp. 72-3.13 Ibid. p. 73.14 See note 6, above.15 See note 5, above.16 The Literature of Australia, ed. by Geoflfrey Dutton(1964), p. 361.17 See note 4, above.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 51

Felicity HaynesTHE WORLD'S GREAT TOTALOF DELIGHTCollected Poems 1936 -1967- Douglas Stewart,Angus and Robertson, Sydney, 1966, $6.25.Douglas Alexander Stewart, born in 1913 inNew Zealand and domiciled in Australia since1939, has, from nine books of verse and somerecent poems, pubHshed after five years ofsilence, a sizeable volume of his collected verse.There is little doubt that he is an "unfashionable"poet. His interest lies in the larger formsof epic, and in this cynical age his trust inheroic action is considered by many to benaive. It could simply be that his poetry isnot as susceptible to poetic criticism as thatof some other poets, and that he has thereforebeen disregarded by important literary critics.R. D. FitzGerald has called Stewart a masterof technique who "understands rhyme todaybetter than anyone else living", but this is notapparent at first reading. His techniques andawareness do not seem to have changed radicallysince his earlier poems, and while a closeinspection reveals a subtle skill that prefersclarity of meaning to startling technical innovation,lovers of modern poetry may be offendedthat he chooses to ignore the innovations ofPound and Eliot. In fact, while it is not intendedas a criticism on my part, one of thereasons for his not being currently recognisedmay be that he seems to be writing "outsidehis time".A more serious charge, in my opinion, isthat Stewart's background as a journalist seemsoften to lead him to verbosity, to a facile style.Whole poems are made to bear the weight ofone image, such as grasshoppers resemblinghopping red stones, and often they collapseunder the strain. The fault is seen in "Waterlily",a delightful fancy perhaps, but a trivialone:Look, look, there is an angel in the fishpond.It wakes its yellow wings above the water;Or say the naked moon came down to bathehereAnd dipped her toe in weeds and so wecaught her;Or say the sun fell in and sprang up yellow.Or say that mud's in flower today—nomatter:All images and fancies coalesce and cancelIn mystery at last; it is an angel.And moves its yellow wings above thewater.Often the poem is interesting at a superficiallevel only, like the occasional poem "With aWringer for Rosemary Dobson", and lacks thedepth and lasting interest that poetry demands.In the same way, although the central point iswitty enough, I find "Four-Letter Words", sixpages about lifting the censorship of certainwords in Lady Chatterley's Lover, both prolbcand too discursive.On the more positive side, this book showsa robust, vigorous faith in man, a vitalismthat Vincent Buckley sees as an inheritancefrom Norman Lindsay. While occasionally thisleads to loose poems, substituting sensationand romantic fancy for intellect and moralimagination, it is this quality that gives mostof his nature poetry its vivid life and presentsthroughout the book a positive ideaUsm summedup not very poetically in these lines from"Easter Island":Oh sparkUng runs the river of life and joyFrom that high source whose ecstasy iscreation.And dark is the fate of men who dare destroyWith doubt, with despair, with hate, itsradiant peace.Even to the massacre of a nation.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968 53

Blessed is the mother with her children, thegirl with her boy.The husband sowing in the field, all thosewho increaseTo yet more life in that world's great totalof delight.In his introduction to Ned Kelly, Stewarthad written:We must find some story of legendarystature and of deep national significance orwe will lose that "elevation", that "excellenceof action" which Matthew Arnoldand Aristotle are united in thinking essentialto poetic drama.To Stewart, man is at his highest peak whenhe is acting as hero, so that it is not surprisingto see such superhuman figures as Rata,Mungo Park, Commander Worsley, CaptainQuiros or the scientific explorers Rutherfordand Professor Piccard striding towards theirideals throughout the book. "Sombrero" illustratesthis search for elevation and identity,this transformation of an aboriginal stockmaninto a rollicking archetypal bushman:Oh he was dark as the gibber stonesAnd took things just as easyAnd a white smile danced on his purple lipsLike an everlasting daisy.The horses strayed on the salt-bush plainAnd he went galloping after.The green shirt flew through the coolabahtreesLike budgerigars to water.And then what need had he to sighFor old men under the gibbersWhen he was as free as the winds that blowAlong the old dry rivers?He had the lubras' hot wild eyes,His green shirt and sombrero.He rode the plains on a piebald horseAnd he was his own hero.Besides illustrating Stewart's vivid use of imagery,this poem is a good example of his useof the ballad form, a favourite of his- especiallyafter the volume, Glencoe, written in 1946. Heis fond of the light refrain, and has managedto vary the tone considerably within the frameworkof the ballad form. In contrast to thebrightness of "Sombrero" is the stark, beautifulsimplicity of the elegy in Glencoe, which concludes:Oh, life is fierce and wildAnd the heart of the earth is stone,And the hand of a murdered childWill not bear thinking on.Sigh, wind in the pine,Cover it over with snow;But terrible things were doneLong, long ago.Stewart, however, does not limit himself tothe ballad. His versatility is shown in his handlingof sonnets, narratives, love-poems, gentlesatires, occasional sketches or nature lyrics.While this variety makes him diflScult to sumup, one is inclined to categorize him as anature poet, for his chief delight seems to bethe observant sketches of the small things inthe Australian and New Zealand bush—light,detailed portraits of wombats, mules, spidergums,the desert. They can be tender or whimsicalor as boisterously evocative as this one:"Sunshower"If he had sung a song for every whitefeatherThat wicked old magpie had sinned forevery blackBut clear he carolled on the gumtrees behindthe shackFor it was a mad season of black-and-whiteweatherWhen sunshowers swept the mountains indazzling wavesAnd shadow and shine seemed mixed in onetower of joy;And loud he sang, then like some larrikinboyMagpie and sunshower, splashing on the wetbright leaves.Tobogganed down the old green tree together.Stewart has a gift for the picturesque, forstartling imagery. His earliest published poemsshow a fondness for swooning whites ("0whiten poem for her sake/Whose whitenesslocks the note I seek") which changes to adark sensuous beauty:Leave it alone! For white hke the egg of asnakeIn its shell beside it another begins to breakAnd under those crimson tentacles, downthat throat.Secret and black still gurgles the oldestocean ....("The Fungus")He can range from the strangely eerie portraitof Shackleton's stranded ship in "Worslev Enchanted"—54 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

I do not know the name of the spider ofcoldThat searches the whole of heaven for shipsand menBut the timbers cracked and the sea walkedinto the holdWhen the weaver of that white web hadceased to spin ....to the sardonic humour ofNever since the stringy barks stiffened totelegraph polesAnd froze their flowers in porcelain has acrow been knownTo nest in a tree at Crow's Nest ....Stewart's poems about people are not asconvincing to me. They are either about legendaryheroes, unreal, like the fiery missionaryFather Vogelsang, or the legendary man fromAdaminaby, or creamy mysterious moon-likewomen. On the more mundane level, theybecome closely identified with nature, animallike,whether in the dingo-like figure of thehermit-like dosser, or in the sonnet "Familiars",where Stewart half-humorously sees the spiritof his friend David Campbell as a fox and hisown as an anteater, nose to the ground, or inthe light sketch about the adolescent who buysleopard-skin underpants to prove his own daring.The people are transformed into ideals orforced into postural attitudes—with the exceptionof bottle-nosed Jock in Glencoe, they remainunconvincing as people.While there are poems in this book thatstand out as being far superior in thought, careand depth of meaning (my favourites are"Silkworms", "Glencoe" and "Rutherford"),and others that remain simply light verse, thewhole book is full of the excellent qualities ofhumour, clarity, vivid lyricism and a joyouspositive delight in grandeur. I would quibbleonly over the arrangement of the poems inreverse chronological order—it seems illogicalto me to have to work backwards to trace thedevelopment of the poet. Yet the book is attractivelypresented and its two hundred andforty poems a mass of enjoyable readingmaterial. For those who wish to understandDouglas Stewart the book is invaluable."Property is the fruit of labour.Property is desirable.It is a positive Rood in the world."Alirabam Lincoln,25 March 1864.REMPTON, MORRILL & CO.REAL ESTATE AGENTSBefore efFecting any new, or renewingany existing INSURANCE,you should consultFBI INSURANCES(W.A.) PTY. LTD.INSURANCE BROKERS31 HAMPDEN ROAD, HOLLYWOOD86 4819who are happy to extend their bestwishes for the continuing success of"Westerly".Arranging Insurances atLLOYD'S LONDONand Leading CompaniesPERTH, AAELBOURNE, SYDNEY,BRISBANE, ADELAIDE, HOBARLLAUNCESTON.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968 55

IF YOU DON'T KNOW HOWDON'T DO ITft>^i• ELECTRICAL FATALITIESARE CAUSED BY0 Amateur electrical repairs.0 Meddling with appliances.0 Wrongly wired or loosely connected plugs.0 Make^ift extension leads.BE WISE - PLAY SAFEGet a competent tradesman to do the job.Issued by:THE STATE ELECTRICITY COHNISSIONOF WESTERN AUSTRALIA56 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

G. C. BoltonAUSTRALIA'S BOOK OF KINGSKings in Grass Castles, Mary Durack, CorgiBooks, 1967, $1.15.Now that Kings in Grass Castles has becomea paperback—published, it appears, somewhatdisconcertingly in the same series as KingKong, Sexual Life in England, and MickeySpillane's Bloody Sunrise—it is worth investigatingthe reasons for the wide success ofMary Durack's history of her family. For shehas been one of the few Australian writers ofnon-fiction—Chester Wilmot and Alan Mooreheadare the only others who spring immediatelyto mind—to please both the book-readingsection of the general public and the professionalacademic. Kings in Grass Castles hasnot only been well received in itself; it hasformed the basis for a children's story, ToRide a Fine Horse, and even passed intomodern folklore as the basis of a joke—theone about the Ghanaian chief who concealedhis stool of office in the thatched roof of hishut, and was killed when the roof collapsed,which only goes to show that kings in grasscastles shouldn't stow thrones.Many of its qualities are obvious. Settingaside the devoted research and narrative skillof Mary Durack, the very materials of herfamily story could hardly fail to be interesting.That vigorous clan of Duracks touched manydominant themes in Australian legend and history:the two great eras of overlanding first toQueensland and then to the Kimberleys; thegold rush trail from the Turon to Hall's Creek;the land boom of the eighties; and, of course,the impact of the Irish in Australia. Given allthese ingredients, one is still rather impressedby the enthusiastic reception for Kings inGrass Castles. It has commanded supportamong English critics who were inclined tosuperciliousness over the crudities of pioneeringlife as described in Keep Him My Country—which I think is still somewhat under-rated.Even within Australia, however, Kings in GrassCastles was published about the same time asa number of other books on pioneering famihes,perhaps inevitably challenging comparisonwith Judith Wright's Generations of Men. Itwould be inept and pointless to compare theliterary qualities of the two works, but I mustown a preference for Patrick Durack overAlbert Wright simply as a central subject fora book. Perhaps it is just that, as a study ofa sensitive and sanguine man defeated by hisenvironment, Albert Wright calls to mind toofaithfully the themes already explored by TheFortunes of Richard Mahoney. Perhaps it issimply that my professional pedantry as ahistorian is nettled by a certain vagueness inJudith Wright towards details of time andplace.Patrick Durack, on the other hand, energeticand extrovert where Albert Wright was solitaryand self-questioning, gifted with a simple Connaughtfluency which still comes alive fromhis printed letters, may have been a less subtlecharacter, but he was one whose career illuminatesa number of central themes and problemsin Australian history. Perhaps this is why hislife story has appeal on so many levels. Howdifferent he was, for instance, from that equallyclannish, eloquent, hardy and enterprising limbof the Irish, Ned Kelly. How can we possiblygeneralise about the Irish in Australia when,from their almost identical starting-pointsamong tightly-knit communities of battlingIrish smallholders, the one around Goulburnand the other from back of Mansfield, theDuracks and the Kellys went on to such differentdestinies? Ned Kelly's life may have beenblighted by his father's convict origins, but thiswas a second-hand influence compared to thesearing famine of 1846 which Patrick Duracklived through as a twelve-year-old.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 57

And yet perhaps both men drew from thepoverty of Ireland a grim respect for thesecurity which property can bring, and a determinationto be masters of property. Certainlyno rational economic calculation canexplain entirely the consuming land-hungerwhich led the Duracks and the Costellos andtheir kin to throw their possessions, their wives,and their young children into the harsh andhazardous Cooper country of Queensland—andhaving won through to prosperity there, tostart in on another round of pioneering in aKimberley district which, at the time of itsopening, was two years' overlanding awayfrom supplies and markets. This willingnessto hazard all one's resources in the cause ofdevelopment, trusting to skill and Providenceto justify the venture, is a recurrent featurein the history of Northern development; itis the same vindication with which Mr CharlesCourt defends the Ord Scheme against thecriticism of Sir Mark OUphant. And yet, too,one gets the feeling that what interested thepioneer Duracks—we shan't pursue the analogywith Mr Court—was the venture as an end initself, the excitement of pitting one's witsagainst the environment and wresting successfrom it. When success came, as it came toPatrick Durack on Thylungra in Queensland,he hardly seemed to know what to do with it.He concentrated all his energies into the newKimberley scheme, and, ceasing to pay attentionto his Queensland properties, lost themthrough unwise investment in city real estateand through bringing his properties into a companypartnered by speculators who were lesssound than they looked. So he failed at last inQueensland, and it was the Kimberley venturewhich had to support his sons.And this relationship between father andsons touches on an Australian theme whichneeds further exploring. Sociologists who havestudied the man on the land in Austraha informus that many farmers and graziers regardtheir properties as an extension of their personalities,and gain a good deal of assurance fromthe notion of building up something for theirsons to inherit. In the case of the Duracks, thisfeeling was reinforced not only by Irish clannishness,as evidenced by the continuing chainmigration through which Patrick Durack assistedremote kinsfolk and friends to emigrateto Australia' but also—and this is more unexpected—witha firm belief in primogeniture.The future was clearly planned for youngDuracks. Younger sons might go into theprofessions, for like many of the Irish, theolder Duracks had a naive but powerful respectfor learning; but the elder sons weredestined irrevocably to inherit and manage thefamily's lands. So it was Patrick's first-born,the intellectual and unhandy M. P. Durack,who had to shoulder the burden of the Kimberleyinheritance. Contrary to his father'sadvice and experience he chose to take partnersfor the Kimberley holdings; contrary tohis sons' advice and experience, he determinedin the last month of his fife in 1950 to sellout all but a rump of the family properties,deliberately abandoning the task which hisfather had set him to carry out throughout hislong life. If that hackneyed term 'a love-haterelationship' has any vahdity, it describes M.P. Durack's reactions to the Kimberleys. Hewas the perfect foil to his uncompUcated andexuberant father, and although his career isbarely sketched in the concluding chapters ofthe book, enough is stated to draw an effectivecontrast. There have been so many fathers inAustralia like Patrick Durack, men who havefounded properties, built up businesses, madea great name in law or politics—and then lefttheir sons the problems of living up to the inheritance.Compared with many second generationinheritors, M. P. Durack asserted hisown personaUty rather successfully; but notwithout difficulty.One could go on reflecting about the manyissues raised in Kings in Grass Castles, but Iwant to end by making one comment about itstechnical construction which partly accountsfor its success. It is one of the very few historicalworks where, besides using the orthodoxtools of the historian, it has been possible todraw on oral history to give the actual wordsand intonations of past conversations. Normallybiographers who want to enliven theirnarratives with direct speech have either toinvent—which is a gross malpractice in history—or to forego the idea. Because of reUableand extensive family traditions, Mary Durackhas been able to quote the speech of her charactersfairly, accurately and vividly. This is arare stroke of luck; but it makes for aneminently readable narrative.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

Josephine GibbonTHOMAS HARDYThomas Hardy's Personal Writings, Edited byHarold Orel, Macmillan, London, 1967, $5.30.This collection includes the prefaces toHardy's novels and poetry, and what is perhapsmore useful because not so easily available,his prefaces to works of other authors,and other occasional writing by Hardy.Frequently Hardy's prefaces were writtenyears after the completion of the work theyprefaced, and they show us Hardy as his owncritic. He finds in different novels differentfaults; including immaturity, the flippant treatmentof a subject he views seriously, and anunjustifiable use of suspense "for exciting interest".However he refrained from revisingany of these works, feeling that they wouldlose their freshness and spontaneity. This attitudetowards revision was probably maintainedin his writing of poetry.As well as his own criticisms, we findHardy's reactions to the criticisms of the press.He wrote more than one defence against thecharge of pessimism. But it was his treatmentof relations between the sexes which arousedthe loudest attacks upon him; though it ishard now to see Tess of the D'Urbervilles asan inflammatory novel. Hardy answered theseattacks upon his book, but three years laterhe commented that he would not write in thatway now. Some of his critics were dead andhe was reminded of "the infinite unimportanceof both their say and mine".Hardy, however, had not lost his sensitivityto critical attack, and he claimed that thereception of Jude the Obscure cured him foreverof his desire to write novels. He complainedthat his reviewers had missed one ofthe important themes of the novel, "Thetragedy of unfulfilled aims", in their attemptto defend the marriage laws which they felthe was undermining. One bishop actually burnta copy of the book, as Hardy wryly commented,"probably in his despair at not beingable to burn me".And yet it seems unlikely that it was simplyhurt feelings resulting from this outcry whichprompted Hardy to stop writing novels. Inanother very important essay, 'Candour inEnglish Fiction', he gives us a clear insightinto the peculiar difficulties facing novelistsof this period. Popular novels were introducedto the public by magazines and circulatinglibraries whose aim was to produce "householdreading". The novel was not addressed tosingle adult readers but to whole familygroups, the adults of which were anxious toprotect their children from anything "unsuitable".In effect the discussion of sexual relationswas banned. In 'Candour in EnglishFiction' Hardy poses the problem confrontinga writer who has had the beginning of a novelprinted in a magazine before the novel is completed.To continue the story he must eithercompromise his artistic conscience and makehis characters "produce the spurious effect oftheir being in harmony with social forms andordinances" or "he must bring down the thundersof respectability upon his head, not to sayruin his editor, his publisher, and himself".One is led to wonder how far Hardy himselffelt that he had maimed his work by suchcompromises. One remembers Henry James'scharge that "the pretence of sexuality was onlyequalled by the absence of it" in Tess of theD'Urbervilles. Certainly Hardy claimed thatthe price a writer paid for writing in Englishwas "the complete extinction in the mind ofevery mature and penetrating reader, of sympatheticbelief in his personages".So Hardy can be seen as an author whoattempted to win the freedom of expression forwriters which today is taken for granted. InWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968 59

other respects his attitude was more conservative.His novels are set in the period ofhis grandparents' youth; and as Professor Orelpoints out, when he remarks that his youngerreaders may not remember how important toeveryone a good harvest was before the repealof the Corn Laws, we are apt to forget thatthey were repealed when Hardy himself wasa small boy. Hardy confessed to going to greatlengths to check trivial details in his attemptto recreate a past age in the countryside, eventhough he knew it was impossible that anyoneshould detect a mistake. More than the dispassionatecuriosity of an historian. Hardyseems motivated by a desire to honour thememory of a dead group of countrymen, allknown well by him and amongst them someof his immediate forebears. He wished to makesome record of the manner of their lives whichwould otherwise be forgotten. He shows ushow changes have altered village life; for example,when the village quire, which consistedof instrumentalists as well as singers, all "officiallyoccupied with the Sunday routine", isreplaced by one organist, local interest in thechurch declines sharply.Hardy writes of the loss of village customsand traditions in 'The Dorsetshire Labourer'.These losses were a result of the annual removalwhich had become habitual amongstfarm workers. His description of the hiring fairshows Hardy's compassion for the older workersin their insecurity. For younger workersemployment came easily and the annual removalwas something to look forward to.Hardy's description of it is lively and amusing.Since he was never long in one localitythe labourer, according to Hardy, had "a lessintimate and kindly relation with the soil hetilled". Even so. Hardy admitted that theseworkers were freer and more knowledgeablethan the old labourers who had "lived and diedon a particular plot, like a tree', and he agreedthat workers should not remain stagnant toplease romantic spectators.Amongst these essays are several records ofHardy's friendships. Friendships for examplewith George Meredith, Henry Moule, and thepoet William Barnes. This last is perhaps ofgreatest interest since the two writers hadmuch in common. Barnes, too, was trying torecord a dying way of life in a particularlocality, though his locality was narrower thanHardy's, and his poetry was written in a dialectwhich yearly fewer people spoke. Barnes,Hardy wrote, had realised "that human emotionis the primary stuff of poetry" and thecountrymen about whom he wrote, Hardysaid, had a poetic quality in their lives "lessin the peasant's residence among fields andtrees, than in his absolute dependence on themoods of the air, earth and sky". This statementseems to me significant in relation toHardy's own work. The "absolute dependence"perhaps accounts for the strange passivitywhich often marks Hardy's characters.Students of Hardy and indeed students ofthe nineteenth century will be grateful to ProfessorOrel for this useful book. ProfessorOrel's notes are scholarly and informativerather than critical, and in a work of thiskind this is no disadvantage, as the readerwill wish to concentrate upon the text. Thebook is interesting not only for the expressionit gives to Hardy's ideas, but for the impressionof Hardy's personahty which emerges from it.60 WESTERLY, No. 1, AAARCH, 1968

D. E. HutchisonTHE EARTH AROUND USBetween Wodjil and Tor, Barbara York Main,The Jacaranda and Landfall Presses, Brisbaneand Perth, 1967, $4.80.It is a pity that Paul Rigby, whose satire isoften sharply accurate, should have saddledconservationists in this State with the imageof a fuddy-duddy in ancient frock-coat andbattered top hat wielding the banner, " 'andsoff our 'eritage'". Fortunately, however, thelocal press has given sober and considerablesupport to the demand for a sensible conservationpolicy. Dr Main's book should do muchto dispel the former image and will contributesubstantially to the latter campaign. It is easyfor Western Australians to feel that this is notan urgent matter. Indeed it is not yet quite aspressing as in other places. A speaker on theA.B.C. programme "Insight" recently statedthat by the year 2000 the United States willbe 50 million acres short of recreational area—an estimate which was unrealistic because itincluded practically unusable waste-lands. Wemay feel that we are a long way from thisimpasse yet, but if account is taken of themuch larger areas of Australia which are aridand may never be of use either as pastoral orrecreational areas, perhaps the matter is becomingmore urgent.Dr Main's book is probably unique in theliterature of Australian natural history andbelongs to a class of literature which includesthe splendid books by Rachel Carson about thesea. In some ways it is unfair to use RachelCarson's books for comparison, for she had,in addition to scientific information, a richstore of maritime myth and legend to drawupon. It can be said at once that for thisreason, and partly because Dr Main's literarygifts are not of as high an order. BetweenWodjil and Tor may not appeal to so many.I hope, however, that its many merits willcause it to be read widely.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1 968The book also marks the establishment ofa new publisher. Landfall Press, in Perth. Thisfirst venture it shares with Jacaranda Press ofBrisbane, which in recent years has had one ofthe most imaginative publishing policies of anyAustralian press. Considered physically, as apiece of book production, this is a handsomevolume, with a striking jacket on which is alarge coloured photograph of the sandplainpear, one of our attractive species which isthreatened by the spread of agriculture. Theprice is reasonable, considering the wealth ofillustration. The wide margins include, on almostevery page, Dr Main's own sketches.Even the most amateurish of these sketchesconveys the appearance of the trees and thelandscape remarkably faithfully. Taken as awhole they add great charm to the book, makingit a very personal record of a scientificand aesthetic appreciation of the ecology ofthe countryside most familiar to Western Australians.Dr Main has admitted to a 'personalexaltation', but realistically pleads not for totalpreservation, but for a conservation policywhich will allow the wilderness and settledlands to exist in harmony.She has given us a detailed survey of a smallarea of bushland through a full cycle of theseasons. I do not think that any Australianwriter, certainly not a scientist, has attemptedto do this before. We need more of theseregional studies. I hope that there are otherscientists who can write so affectionately aboutother types of Australian bushland, with acomparable intimacy of knowledge. The 'wodjil'of the title is a native word for the acaciadominatedthickets of the wheatbelt and 'tor'refers to one of the fascinating granite 'islands'.I have not, hitherto, heard them referred toas 'tors'.It is fortunate that those massive 'islands'of granite are scattered fairly liberally in ourwheatbelt. They have been barriers to total61

clearing and, as they are usually the onlydominant feature in a flat landscape, manyshires have set them aside with some surroundingbush as reserves. However, and this is partof Dr Main's eloquent plea, mere reservationwill not preserve the ecology. The reserves requiremanagement based on scientific policies.They need protection from conscious and unconsciousvandalism and a positive administrationto enable the ecology to be as little disturbedas possible.Natural history enthusiasts suffer from anothergreat disadvantage in Australia whenthey write books such as these: the lack ofaccepted common names. Many of our insects,birds and animals, although they have greatintrinsic charm and interest, are little knowneven by people living near where they arefound. The developing enthusiasm for gardencultivation of the flora is making it betterknown. But for most of our trees and flowers,and for many of our birds and animals, thereare few universally accepted common names.Inevitably this leads to writing which is sometimesstilted and Dr Main has not always beenable to overcome this, nor to avoid the jargonof the scientific paper. This is an example ofthe latter:Now at one time it is the waxy substancewhich, under harsh dry summer conditions,protects the plants by forming a kind of'seal' on leaves and phyllodes, thereby minimizingtranspiration and preventing unduedesiccation, whereas under other conditionsthe high oil and wax content induces fulminatorydestruction, (p. 124)The lack of common names is not only adisadvantage for writers (of fact or fiction).It is at once a barrier to the development ofan affectionate interest in our natural heritageand a reflection of the still-lingering tendencyto find it repellent. The landscape of the cultivatedimagination is still, for many of us,the landscape of Europe; and it may be severalgenerations yet before the tension between theaffection for the literary and the local landscapesdisappears. Dr Main recognizes thatonly a relative few will ever love the completewilderness, and that for most a harmoniousbalance between the artificial and natural landscapeshas the greatest appeal. But large areasof wilderness must be retained if both requirementsare to be catered for.62The detailed information in this book is fascinating,supplementing factual handbooks. Infact, for most people, this one volume willcontain as much detail as they will require tohave sufficient understanding of the subtle andintricate balancing of plant and animal Ufe ina landscape which may appear almost sterile.It is upon such accurate information that thegrowing demand for conservation must bebased. Moreover, Dr Main's book serves in itsown way to enlarge our vision and our affection,sharing the work of the poet and thenoveUst. Enlargement of vision can come inunexpected ways. I remember returning fromEngland to find the radiant springtime wheatbeltnewly revealed for me by the intense andflickering silver light that plays about the elGreco paintings in the National Gallery. Insimilar fashion, this book has given my affectionfor our landscape a new dimension. Ihope that it will work upon many in this way.POSTSCRIPT: After the publication of my reviewof The Beckoning West (Westerly No. 2,1967) I received a letter from Mr Percy Hope,a surveyor who worked under Canning. Shortlyafterwards I had the pleasure of an eveningin his company. Although he was not withCanning on the major surveys of the RabbitProof Fence and the Stock Route, Mr Hopeconfirmed my impression that Canning was avery remarkable man. Mr Hope took exception,until I explained my intention, to onepassage in the review: "It was not his (Canning's)fault that his two major achievements,the surveys for the Rabbit I'roof Fence andthe Stock Route were not crowned by thesuccess of these undertakings." In case anyoneelse should have been misled, I would like tomake it clear that this statement reflects inno way upon the success of these ventures assurveys. Canning did his work splendidly. However,I overlooked one fact and was not awareof another. Firstly the Fence, although noteffective against rabbits, serves a purpose stillin blocking the movement of emus. Secondly,as Mr Hope informed me, the Rabbit-ProofFence provides "a standard traverse for 1100miles from which a good ground control canbe obtained for aerial photo work". It is pleasingto think that Canning's work was notwasted on a 'folly' after all! I am also pleasedto report that the National Trust is consideringthe suggestion that the Canning Stock Routeshould be reserved.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968

SEAFORTH MACKENZIE ISSUEIn this issue it was the concern of ourselves and Evan Jones to publish a faithful textof the Hospital poems. We even thought this had been achieved—but with Mackenzienothing is simple, and the textual difficulties of the poems were underhned. Evan Joneswishes to draw attention to the following mistakes in the text as printed:In '/ ought to write to Bill today . . .', 1.21—stop for comma (comparable errors inpunctuation elsewhere, however, are Mackenzie's).In 'Belladonna—Beautiful Lady—', 1.5—'O* for 'o'.In 'Down on the river levels', 1.19—'disdaine' for 'disdain'.In 'Grey sky, grey water . . .', 1.12—'of for 'or'.In 'An Old Inmate', 1.10—'strange' for 'straight'; 1.39—'grand'ma' for 'gran'-ma'.(There should, too, be a normal stanza break after 1.42.)In the prefatory note, 1963 should be 1953.The textual problems of the poems were formidable enough in themselves. It wasunfortunate that publication had to be pushed through just at the time Evan Joneswas in the middle of last minute arrangements for going overseas. Westerly was at thetime attempting to catch up a serious publishing lag, and final proofing offered difficultiesfor all concerned.The Navigators-This poem was first performed over ABC TV, Adelaide, a draft of thecomplete text was later published in Meanjin: a revival of interestcaused by a reading of the Meanjin text at the Strines Gallery, Melbourne,recently, led to a long-delayed revision in which the latter partwas almost entirely re-written: this, then (so far as I am capable), isthe final and definitive draft.—J. G.WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 63

WHAT IS THECRITIC?The Critic is a critical journal published in Western Australia approximatelyevery three weeks.WHAT IS IT TRYING TO DO?The Critic, novi^ in its seventh year of pubhcation, tries to cover everyliterary, artistic, musical, cinematographic or cultural event of vi^orth, providingcriticisms by the best people that can be found in every field.IS IT JUST AN 'ARTS JOURNAL?The Critic has covered civic problems such as the building of the newtown hall, legal problems such as the question of 'deportations' fromRottnest, and controversies in education, architecture and morals.WHO PUBLISHES THECRITIC?The Critic is published by a group of trustees and a managing committee,on which are an artist, a doctor, and members of the Philosophy, Law,and English faculties of the University, who give their services voluntarilybecause of their desire to continue the publication of an independentcritical journal in Western Australia. There are no salaries paid and noprofits made.IS IT IMPORTANT TO PUBLISH SUCH A JOURNAL?There is no other purely critical journal ofiFering publishing space forserious and constructive criticism in this state, or indeed, in Australia.We earnestly hope that we can interest you in such a journal. If youwould like to try a subscription for 12 months would you kindly forwardyour cheque or postal note for $1.75.The Critic is also on sale at the following places: Rogers and Mounseys*Newsagencies, both of Broadway, Nedlands; The Grove Bookshop, GroveShopping Centre, Cottesloe; Alberts Bookshop, Forrest Place, Perth; Townand Country Bookshop, Newspaper House, Perth; Facade Ballet Shop,Levinson Building, Hay Street, Perth; University Bookshop, Nedlands.

on 3ll occasionsBEER IS BE

JOHN KEATSBronze cast from a life maska heapOf candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;With jellies soother than the creamy curd.And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'dFrom Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,From silken Samarcand to cedar d Lebanon.from THE EVE OF ST. AGNESKEAT'S GLOWING IMAGINATION COULD ONLY CONJURE UP EXOTIC DELICACIES WHICHIN THE MODERN WORLD ARE AVAILABLE AT EVERY ONE OF TOM THE CHEAP GROCER'S165 STORES THROUGHOUT AUSTRALIAwesterly is PUBUSHED BY THE UNIVERSITY OF WESTERN AUSTRALIA PRESS, SETIN TIMES TYPE-FACE AND PRINTEl) BY ALPHA PRINT PTY. LTD., PERTH, W.A.