Morag Fraser

How literature loves to corral its characters in defined, even confined spaces and closed societies. Chaucer anatomised his ‘sondry folk’, his pilgrims, as they gathered in Southwerk’s Tabard Inn. A secluded Florentine villa was Boccaccio’s retreat for storytelling, while the Black Death raged in the countryside. Agatha Christie, who understood immurement-by-loss, lent a lethal frisson to the English country house and the European rail carriage. Umberto Eco chose a monastery for his Name of the Rose intrigue. As recently as 2023, Charlotte Wood brought the protagonist of her novel Stone Yard Devotional into a convent, to confront herself and witness another portentous environmental and social plague – this one of mice.

Tony Horwitz, fêted American journalist-historian, died in 2019 – on the last Monday in May, a day when America ritually honours its war dead and heralds the beginning of summer. Horwitz was sixty. For his wife, Australian journalist and novelist Geraldine Brooks, his death was more than an ironic anomaly: it was an inconceivable rupture in time:

Reading for this review I came across some apposite words by Jacqueline Rose, biographer of Sylvia Plath, cultural analyst and explorer of the lives and roles of women:

In her 2019 biography, Chaucer: A European life, Marion Turner provides a fine-grained social context for the poet’s life – from early days. Young Geoffrey Chaucer, we learn, would likely have been educated in a school such as London’s St Paul’s, with its generously stocked library, and a ‘master’ who ‘sat in a chair of authority, raised up, surveying the room’, and whose pedagogical style allowed for disputation.

‘Dick Downing had a keen sense of what would make Australia a better country – for a strongly welfare minded economist – the knack of being in the right place at the right time.’ Thus Nicholas Brown, in his subtle and intelligent account of one of the shapers of Australia in the twentieth century.

Writing in The New York Times on 15 December 2020, three days after John le Carré’s death, Philippe Sands, genocide scholar and professor of law at University College London, recounted a 1962 encounter in Vienna between his friend (Sands knew Le Carré by his birth name, David Cornwell) and the famous Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal. Cornwell had asked Wiesenthal how he could continue to live in the city, given Vienna’s history of anti-Semitism. Wiesenthal replied: ‘If you are studying the disease you have to live in the swamp.’

Judith Brett, historian and La Trobe University emeritus professor of politics, is characteristically direct – in her questioning, her analysis, and her engagement with readers. If there is something declarative about ‘Going Public’, the title of Doing Politics’s introductory chapter, that is exactly what Brett intends: to go public, to offer a general reader her considered reflections on Australian political and cultural life. This is not an assemblage of opinion pieces, though her writings have a related journalistic conciseness and impact – they speak to the times. What distinguishes Brett’s collection of essays is their scholarly depth and habit of enquiry. They prompt thought before they invite agreement, or conclusions. Even the bad actors, the political obstructors, the wreckers in Brett’s political analysis, are psychologically intriguing. Why are our politicians like this? What’s going on? Judith Brett studied literature and philosophy as well as politics as an undergraduate. Perhaps Hamlet drills away in her consciousness: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’