Rick Morton, One Hundred Years of Dirt.

              

- This memoir has got rave reviews all over the place but I can’t recommend it wholeheartedly because it’s both exceptionally good and too often mundane and annoying. 
- The early chapters are a beautifully written, often heartbreaking, story of a dysfunctional family going back generations and living on a huge cattle station in the far southwest of Queensland. His father and grandfather were violent, abusive men. His mother suffered terribly, and his brother nearly died from severe burns and later became hopelessly addicted to drugs.
- But then the focus changes just to him and the story pales into just another coming of age drama, and not a very good one. The chapters on his severe anxiety issues, his depression and one or two rather lame suicide attempts lack power. He comes across as self-preoccupied and indulgent. Sure, it’s honest and raw, but it’s also immature and underdone. 
- His struggle with disclosing his homosexuality to family and friends feels dated. He’s in his late twenties in the mid 2010’s for god sake. It shouldn’t be that hard.
- There’s a hint of self-dramatisation and I found it off-putting. There’s nothing terribly exciting about a young man from a difficult and impoverished family landing a job as a journalist in a country newspaper. 
- The book is fleshed out with constant references to research of one sort or another. It’s massively overdone and seems to be included just to lend weight to a pretty lightweight narrative. He’s not an expert in anything after all. Take this sentence as an example: ‘Read into it what you will, but the proportion of journalists who described their personal politics as ‘left of centre’ rose over the two decades (1992-2013) from 39 per cent to 51 percent’. Wow, who’d have thought.
- On commenting on current political debates in this country Morton shows his loyalties - to his right of centre Newscorp masters. His views reflect their shallow ‘anti elite’ flavour (which he later walks back from) but he’s all over the place. Try to make any sense at all of this sentence: ‘One of the major failings of progressive politics in Australia, indeed around the world, is a preoccupation with the grievances of the middle class. Put another way, this brand of politics prioritises the woe of people who can afford to worry about anything other than paying the bills and feeding themselves’. So conservative parties with their miserable expenditure cutbacks at every turn are pro-poor?
- We’re supposed to sympathise with his financial problems as a young cadet journalist. As a struggling millennial he's hardly unique. He’s using his poor family status as a brand and trading on that. As he continually reminds us, he got his dream job at a young age and he's well paid.
- Yes, there’s the expected swipe against Fairfax and a positive nod to Chris Mitchell, former editor of the Australian. 
- The book is thin. He’s essentially a mummy’s boy. There are far more interesting, enlightening and inspiring personal stories out there that are more worth your time.

Behrouz Boochani, No Friend But the Mountains.

- This is not an angry voice condemning Australians and their anti boat-people prejudices and policies. It does not descend to that ordinary political level.
- It is a far more profound story of the pain and horror our nation has inflicted on the refugees we’ve imprisoned on Manus Island. It simply records the facts, firstly of the boat journey from Indonesia and then of the realities of life on Manus.
- It’s beautifully written in lyrical and often poetic prose. And Boochani as narrator maintains a distance that enables him to describe the prisoners and their captors, and the reality of life on Manus objectively, insightfully and sympathetically. 
- This book is not propelled by anger, but by a larger vision of captivity and hopelessness, and what that means for humans and their relationships with each other.
- There are long chapters on the kitchens and the food offered, the medical facilities (so-called), the endless queues for basics like cigarettes, the horrific and putrid toilet facilities, the utterly inadequate and crowded sleeping quarters, the constant power outages, the oppressive heat and humidity, the plague of mosquitoes, and more.
- And Boochani is a master at describing the various characters that populate the prison and define it, and how they cope or not (there are many tragic suicides). 
- It reminded me of Solzhenitsyn’s The First Circle and other classic prison narratives. The desiccated bureaucracy of these places, verging on the comic. George Orwell also came to mind. The petty absurdity and cruel minutia of authoritarian systems. 
- I found this book very difficult to read. Manus and Nauru define the ugly dimension of the Australian character. It rubbed my nose in it and made me ashamed. But it’s a book that will undoubtedly become a classic of Australian literature. And how ironic is that - written by an author who can never set foot in the country let alone become a citizen. 

Chris Hammer, Scrublands

- Hooks you from the start. A mass murder by a young priest. Cool.
- Well written - the author is a long time journalist after all. And this is a story of journalism as much as anything else. The moral quandaries good professional journalists often face in attempting to uncover the facts and do justice to the story, while under pressure to meet a deadline. It's also a contest between Fairfax and Channel ten - quality and tabloid.
- Very well paced. As the plot thickens the unsophisticated and provincial town’s inhabitants get much more interesting and intriguing. And the author has, rather appropriately, bestowed on them colourful monikers: Mandalay Blonde, Harley Snouch, Byron Swift, Doug Thunkleton, Codger Harris, D’Arcy Defoe, Winifred Barbicombe and more. It’s straight out of Harry Potter’s Hogwarts. 
- There’s a supremely well written bushfire sequence. Absolutely brings home the horror of being caught in the middle of such a ferocious disaster.
- And country NSW is in the middle of a devastating drought. A narrative for our times. 
- By the end it’s become a quite complicated story, with many elements and players interlocking. But the resolution is absolutely right and gratifying. 
- An absorbing read. 

Bernard Keane, The Mess We’re In

- This is simply excellent. The first chapter’s overview is superbly done. A real, substantial vision is very clearly articulated. 
- Keane can write clearly because he always thinks clearly. Easily the best journalist in the country, despite being a ‘confirmed grump’. (He’s currently Crikey’s politics editor). He’s a master in the art of constructing fluid, well balanced sentences that make for easy reading. 
- He is across all sorts of primary sources, and doesn’t recycle other journalists’ tired cliches and mantras.
- The book is packed with stats, facts and global data. It’s a compendium - essential anchoring in these ‘fake news’ times. Better than Bell & Keating’s Fair Share because it’s eminently readable (although Fair Share, despite being a tedious read, was excellent too). 
- It’s decidedly non-partisan. Its analysis is way deeper than the empty, passing skirmishes that dog our current debate. 
- Comprehensive critiques of neo-liberalism, modern global democratic governments, the religious and political revolutions of the reformation and the enlightenment, the profound changes in our society in this internet age, and the increasing surveillance by governments and intrusions on our privacy. Keane’s deep intelligence, erudition and sound judgement shine through.
- The books concludes with ten proposed solutions to our ills, all of which make sense, although in my view they are insufficient and don’t go anywhere near far enough. 
- Of course it’s impossible to absorb every notion, fact and idea in this superb book from one reading. For fans of Keane’s work in Crikey over the last ten years it will be easier. But it’s a critically important book.
- (Like too many non-fiction books published in Australia it doesn’t have an index. That’s a miserable, cost saving policy and should end. Also - and this is far too common - it doesn’t have an author photo).

Trent Dalton, Boy Swallows Universe

- This is a stunning, beautifully, even poetically, written novel. It's an astonishing achievement.  
- Eli Bell’s maturity, intelligence and articulateness are way beyond real, especially for a 13 year old. Yet he's hugely likeable, and a superb creation.
- It's a bit Boys Own adventure: eg Eli’s escape from hospital (169ff); his escape from the women’s section of Boggo Road prison (272ff). 
- The prose is electrified by constant pop culture allusions. It’s on fire; it rocks! Colour and vitality define the novel. - Its characters, plot and location; and the vivid writing. It’s often very funny. But in the end it turns out to be a horror story. 
- The dialogue is so realistic and very Australian. Absolutely captures the characters, particularly the constant use of ‘fucking’. 
- The main characters become so attractive and engaging - even the drunks, druggies and crims. They’re bonded by love, loyalty and friendship. Except for the real nasties like Tytus Broz, Iwan Krol, and Teddy.
- There’s cliche here - young innocent heroes, old baddies (‘foreign’ as well - Polish; Vietnamese). It definitely has a YA feel at times but only echoes and suggestions. Not in essence or substance. 
- At the extreme, humans exhibit, need and get love, friendship and loyalty.
- This is not just a debut novel. It is a masterwork from an experienced non-fiction storyteller. It has so much power and drive. It's a real blockbuster, and will undoubtedly be a huge, worldwide seller, and quite probably made into a great movie. 
- Literary? Hard to say. Crime or action novels are rarely deemed ‘literary’. 

Angela Meyer, A Superior Spectre.

- Seems like a fascinating story from the start. 
- It’s a pleasure reading a story set in contemporary, and slightly futuristic times, leavened by the connected secondary historical narrative. 
- Beautifully written, often poetic.
- BUT: it’s not yet clear what meaning is intended by the ghostly intrusion into Leonora’s mind - ‘some inner tyrant’ (188).
- What purpose is this device serving? Page 120 and Jeff's just a sexually confused and exploitative bi from Melbourne. Dying for some reason and now pathetic. The lack of clarity is sort of getting annoying.
- The erotic dimension of the narrative seems an authorial obsession. It’s front and centre but for what purpose? One could be forgiven for concluding that the bi's role is just to spice up the narrative with a fair bit of gratuitous sex. 
- What’s with the two Williams (the robot and the son of the manor lord) who are integral to the two stories? They are parallel 'helpers' to each character. Little meaning here.
- In the end, a surprisingly unresolved narrative. Very unsatisfying. Leonora is never able to overcome the societal barriers (lower class; female) to her progressing into a fulfilling professional career, nor marrying a man worthy of her. So we leave her back on the farm, alone. Her 'madness' is posited as the principal cause. 
- The author was unable to move beyond the literalness of the ghost intrusion into a wider, substantial reflection which would give the book a depth and meaning.  
- Meyer would have been better served focussing entirely on Leonora's story and fleshing it out more, Hannah Kent style.

(This rather shallow review heaps praise on the book from a feminist perspective. The contention that the 'reader is complicit' in the 'pillaging' is meta nonsense:
https://www.theaustralian.com.au/arts/review/a-superior-spectre-by-angela-meyer-female-haunting/news-story/d9d7a00940a10998c06d65113e8221f2 )

Kevin Peoples, Trapped in a Closed World

This wonderful book is both a personal story and a critique. It's a long overdue demolition of the old Catholic seminary in Springwood in the Blue Mountains outside Sydney and the utter disaster it was. It's also excellent on the child abuse issue and its extent in the priesthood. 

I was a student there from 1963 to 1965, roughly the same time as the author, Kev Peoples. We were good friends although he was 10 years older than me. He tells, with frankness and honesty, his own story of Springwood as a mature-age student. It’s a compelling tale, beautifully written. And his analysis of the culture of the seminary at that time is supremely well done, informed by his personal experiences and doubts, and subsequent familiarity with noted psychological studies of the psychosexual immaturity ingrained in young men by that seminary system. 

Kev's impeccable research into clericalism, the various popes who invented and refined it, their authoritarian prescriptions, the small man Cardinal Norman Gilroy of the Sydney archdiocese, and others, and their views on the purpose of seminaries and the ideal priestly culture, is presented in detail and always with a breath of horror. And his summaries of the contrasting and more modern research, particularly of some major psychological studies into the negative effects of such a priestly life, and catholic culture in general, are very sobering and enlightening. The critique of the church’s misogyny is excellent.

It seems obvious to me now that a major part of Kev’s personal Springwood problem was the fact that he was actually sent there, rather than to a mature age college, none of which existed in Sydney at that time. St Paul's in Kensington was opened in 1968.

I can see how some reviews of this book could be critical: 

 1. The causal link between the old seminary system and priestly child abuse is not clearly established. The great majority (over 90%) of graduate priests did not become abusers. The real culprit surely is mandatory celibacy. 
 2. Kev seems not to possess a cogent reason for wanting to become a priest. At the age of 28 he comes across as a very confused young man. He seems to have absolutely no idea as to what he wants to do with his life. 
 3. He evidently has no priest models that attracted him to such a vocation in the first place, eg, running parishes, youth programs, liturgy, giving homilies, counselling, educating, comforting the grieving, sick and dying. I for one, perhaps as a measure of my immaturity, looked forward to enjoying the ‘status’ a priest had in the community at that time. His to-ing and fro-ing about whether he should stay or go is rather immature. He  either wants to be a priest or he doesn’t, surely. He finally admits ‘At heart I am a layman’ (149). 

Kev also never clarifies what sort of an institution he would regard as a better model for a seminary. Those of us who went to Rome know. We enjoyed Propaganda Fide College. We were liberated, let out of prison, and the Second Vatican Council, just concluded, was inspiring us. We could freely exit the college at any time (apart from at night, a rule many of us ignored) to tour Rome, shop, eat, see movies, etc. We were treated like adults - we could smoke, drink, and celebrate birthdays and national days with our international colleagues. Wine was served at every meal. We could form study groups, social groups, meditation groups, film/music groups or any other type of group. We went to delightful rural holiday hostels in Castelgandolfo and other villages. Or we could travel alone or in groups throughout Europe during the long summer breaks. The collegial spirit was deep and supportive. 

Sure, there were negatives (the ‘superiors’ were absurd, immature men whom we Australians universally pilloried and ignored) but overall it was a University College experience. And many of the professors lecturing us at Urban University were progressive and inspiring in their views (eg, Carlo Molari). I made deep and lasting friendships there, which I still enjoy today. 

Our colleague Bob Donnelly’s letter from Prop to Kevin in October 1966 details a college experience I don't recognise at all. It is plain wrong regarding not being able to eat out ‘without permission’ (most of us never asked for it) and wrong about ‘spying prefects’ and limited contact, debate and conversation between the students. Donnelly, perhaps because he was older, was obviously not comfortable breaking stupid ‘rules’. We younger Australians, especially those of us at the new philosophy college 'Torre Rossa', broke them all the time and there was never any ‘penalty’. As for being confined to our rooms, that was not true, and in any case no negative for me. I was absorbed in my recently purchased books and articles on new, progressive and frequently radical philosophical and theological perspectives. I appreciated the time and space to devour them. Or I was in someone else’s room debating them. We were intellectually alive. Bob Donnelly, liked and admired as he was by us, had never become part of our group, and he was whisked off to Genoa before he could embrace it. Another example perhaps of an older man out of his time and place at a younger man’s college. 

Had Kev been sent to Rome (he had the opportunity apparently) I am convinced he would have also been liberated, his instinctual, far more human, theological beliefs been confirmed and strengthened, and he would very likely have stayed and been ordained (like Lawrie Jennings, also from his older age cohort). His natural charm, friendliness and warmth would have been an enormous asset to college life and the priesthood. He fitted in with the younger cohort. He was a great loss. He’s a perfect example as to why mandatory celibacy is a self-defeating absurdity in today’s world. 

At first I found Kev's deliberate interweaving of two quite separate narratives in the book - his own seminary experience and the church's sexual abuse scandal - questionable. But as the book proceeds I was absolutely captured by the tension between both stories and their links and contrasts. Underneath it all a major, very potent   narrative emerges - a powerful and surely incontestable argument against the church's medieval policy of mandatory celibacy. 

Not for everyone this book, but fascinating all the same.