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so of course for many other lists which people see fit to
compile:
lists of all time greatest films, racehorses, albums...the
lists of lists goes on.
Searching
the web one can easily find the list compiled by the Australian
Society of Authors which purports to celebrate the society's
40th anniversary last year with a Top 40 of Australian books.
The
most revered book was Tim Winton's Cloudstreet, which left
the silver medal to Christina Stead's The Man Who Loved
Children and bronze to Henry Handel Richardson's The Fortunes
of Richard Mahony.
If the allocation of Olympic style medals here is a little
jarring, then that is in the nature of such lists: they
can only really be welcomed on the basis that they start
some sort of discussion''and as any punter knows, it is
hard enough lining up 10 horses and determining which is
the "best" horse, let alone doing it with books.
That
said, the examination of this and other such lists has confirmed
in my mind the general oversight of what might arguably
be considered if not a Great Australian Novel, certainly
a truly great novel by an arguably Australian writer.
The writer in question is Frederic Manning and the novel
is The Middle Parts of Fortune.
Knowing the way in which Australians look for offshore praise
to legitimise their onshore assessments it is amazing not
more people know of and rate this seminal Great War novel.
Ernest
Hemingway was prepared to call it " The finest and noblest
book of men in war that I have ever read". It was this quote
from the author of A Farewell to Arms (published in the
same year, 1929) which forced the book off the shelf and
into my arms.( Judging books by covers is of course contrary
to the advice of the proverb, but it remains the starting
point for most of us.) Hemingway went on to add " I
read it over once each year to remember how things really
were so that I will never lie to myself or anyone else about
them". High enough praise?
Further
credit flowed from E M Forster who called it " The best
of our war novels" and from T E Lawrence who claimed that
" No praise could be too sheer for this book".
The
novel is in the tradition of Robert Graves' Goodbye to All
That and closer in spirit to All Quiet on the Western Front
but it is different to both these books.
While
it is true that the author left his land of birth at 21
years, to return to his family only a few times, much of
the book's difference and therefore greatness might be attributed
to his Australian demeanour.
Consider that a distinguishing feature of the novel is that
while the central character and the author display a total
appreciation of the class system, especially in the military
context, the book remains essentially quite classless. There
is no clichéd soldierly contempt for the upper ranks
whose folly is paid for by the blood of the privates, and
there is no special glorification of the humble sacrifice
of these same men. It is a very Australian perspective.
Further
the author does not shy away from the plain language of
the men in the ranks and indeed he has an ear for them that
very few Englishmen of similar education have displayed:
[Bourne]
heard Pritchard talking to little Martlow on the other side
of the tent.
'...both
'is legs 'ad bin blown off, pore bugger; an' 'e were dyin'
so quick you could see it. But 'e tried to stand up on 'is
feet. " 'elp me up" 'e sez, " 'elp me up"'"you lie still
chum" I sez to 'im , "you'll be all right presently" An
'e jes give me one look, like 'e were puzzled, an' 'e died
'......
'Well,
anyway,' said Martlow, desperately comforting; ' 'e couldn't
'ave felt much, could 'e , if 'e said that'
' I don't know what 'e felt,' said Pritchard, with slowly
filling bitterness, 'I know what I felt'
Not
just an ear for the dialogue, but a non'saccharine empathy.
A
further distinguishing characteristic of the novel is the
total resignation to the appalling plight that was the Western
Front in 1916. The author's own experience of the war was
clearly an acceptance that these cards had been dealt and
had to be played. Get on with it. Almost "she'll be right".
That so few mutinies occurred in this carnage is hard to
fathom but Manning conveys like no other this widespread
acceptance of the unacceptable.
Take
for example our protagonist assessing the risks of soldiers
parading about in drill on open ground despite the overhead
threat of enemy aircraft:
Bourne took the men's point of view that these parades were
silly and useless; and then he reflected , with a certain
acidity of thought, that there was a war on, and men were
liable to be killed rather cursorily in a war.
Perhaps
the defining rhythm of the Great War and therefore Great
War literature is that life was characterised either by
interminable boredom or sheer and total terror. Many veterans
have spoken of a boredom so profound that against all understandable
instinct they eventually craved battle. Manning's mastery
allows such boredom and aimlessness to be conveyed without
the book ever being boring itself. It is kept moving by
the beauty of Manning's language, by the never unsubtle
internal dialogue of the protagonist and by the just perceptible
descent of gloom as the soldiers move inevitably towards
another "show". Show indeed. If ever a time required a euphemism,
this was it.
Frederic
Manning was born to a newly wealthy family with an Irish
Catholic tradition: many of his brothers were Jesuit educated
at Riverview and one, Jack, was at one stage the Wallaby
rugby captain. Manning himself was considered too ill to
attend classes, so apart from some months at Sydney Grammar
School he was privately tutored at home: in Bayswater Rd
near what is now a chic nightclub, at Elizabeth Bay House,
and later Tusculum, in Manning St, Potts Point, now the
headquarters of the Australian Institute of Architects.
His father, William, had some years as Sydney's Mayor, an
unusual achievement for a man of his background.
Given
his physical frailty and his fondness for the drink Manning's
involvement in the war is extraordinary enough in itself.
His stoic survival might be considered a minor miracle.
Before
the War Manning had shown his literary ability through
poetry and through his 1909 collection of classically
themed vignettes, "Scenes and Portraits" , but plot was
never his forte. He doubted his ability to write a "normal"
novel and it was only through the coercion of publisher
Peter Davies, ( whose childhood was in fact the model
for J M Barrie's Peter Pan) that Manning wrote the book,
under a form of creative house arrest. The Middle Parts
of Fortune is dedicated " To Peter Davies who made me
write it".
Originally
the book was published anonymously, apparently written
by Private 19022, and only 520 were printed. The language
of this edition was considered too frank for most readers
and it was not until 1977 before the unexpurgated version
re'appeared: Consider Martlow's disgust that the binoculars
he has looted fair and square from a dead German have
ended up around the neck of a superior:
'Wouldn't
you've thought the cunt would 'a' give me vingt frong
for 'em anyway?'
'Your language is deplorable, Martlow,' said Bourne in
ironical reproof; 'quite apart from the fact that you
are speaking of your commanding officer. Did you learn
all these choice phrases in the army?'
'Not much' said little Martlow derisively; 'all I
learnt in the army was me drill an' care 'o bloody arms.
I knew all the fuckin' patter before I joined'
This
is language not prevalent in Graves work or in "All Quiet..."
but most certainly prevalent among working men, under
constant threat of death and with women virtually non'existent.
Two
Manning biographies exist: more than we might expect considering
Manning's literary contribution; three books of poetry,
his "Scenes and Portraits", a biography commissioned by
an industrialist and his war novel.
One is by an American, Jonathan Marwil. Sub'titled " An
Unfinished Life" it shows a great understanding of the
various Australian institutions with which the Manning
family were involved, and is driven by the curiosity of
it's author who travels from Michigan to Oxfordshire,
to Point Piper and to Cootamundra to learn what he could
from Manning's intimates and their successors.
The
other is by Verna Coleman, and titled The Last Exquisite
it shows a deep understanding of the literary circles
and traditions which informed Manning's career, and his
qualified acceptance into British social and literary
society.
Neither book has any serious flaws and in fact neither
makes the other redundant, anyone moved towards obsession
by reading his masterpiece will enjoy the insights of
both of his biographers.
Having
just spent hundreds of US dollars importing one of the
original 520 editions of The Middle Parts of Fortune I
concede to being in the obsessional category. Its greatness
has been acknowledged by better judges than I and should
be in no dispute.
Is
it an Australian book? Well, Pte 19022, or Bourne is clearly
serving in the British Army but he is also clearly an
outsider, at least to the ranks with whom he serves. His
comrades seem not to be intimidated by his education and
value his French language skills without worrying too
much about their origin.
Is the character then Australian? Not quite but despite
Manning's own comments that Australia had only its climate
to commend it, Bourne betrays a different view:
"
You want a few thousand Australians in the British Army,"
said Bourne angrily. "They would put wind up some of these
details who think they own the earth".
And more to the point perhaps since we are looking to
celebrate the Australian use of the language
:
"you're learnin' a lot o' bad words from us'ns," said
Martlow, grinning.
" Oh, you swear like so many Eton boys," replied Bourne
indifferently. " Have you ever heard an Aussie swear?"
The
Middle Parts of Fortune is not an Australian book, it
is as great books are, universal. Its publication brought
acclaim from both sides of the Atlantic and indeed of
the Pacific, but somehow the book remains unfamiliar to
most Australian readers who know yet the work of first
hand veterans Sassoon, Graves and Remarque, or even Sebastian
Faulks and Pat Barker who have more recently mined ( or
perhaps undermined) this massive resource. It seems a
shame.
The
criteria for the Australian Society of Authors' Top 40
is not known to me but expatriate status was clearly no
barrier to awards for Henry Handel Richardson or Peter
Carey or others.
While one might quibble with the cosiness of the ASA's
list surely its principal utility is in kick'starting
discussion, and in that sense: Mission Accomplished.
If however there is the ambition to celebrate the contribution
of Australia to the literary world, and if the cultural
depth of the country needs to be highlighted, then The
Middle Parts of Fortune is a book which deserves a wider
recognition and a wider readership.
Does
it have Top 40 status? To quote a writer with even less
Australian credentials; more than somewhat.
All images courtesy of http://www.gwpda.org/
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