I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all

(From “Clancy of the Overflow“, by Banjo Paterson)

Sydney Skyline

In “Clancy of the Overflow”, Banjo Paterson opposes the freedom of Clancy’s droving life to the narrator’s dull life in the city: “For the drover’s life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know”. This poem popped into my mind recently and made me realise that it was time I came clean. You see, I suspect I’ve been misleading my non-Aussie readers with all my posts about our sunburnt (or not) country, our gum trees, bell-birds and the like. You might, just might, have been led to believe that we Aussies are an outback, country-sort of people, but that is far from the truth. We are in fact a highly urban nation: while our population density is around 2.6 people per square kilometre, some 89% of us live in urban areas (capital and regional cities).

So, how is this reflected in our literature? Well, I’m going to look at just five examples, chronologically, starting with the late nineteenth century.

1892: William Lane’s The workingman’s paradise

is set in Sydney, though the two protagonists come from the bush, and one still works primarily on the land. It’s a political novel focusing on improving conditions for the poor in Sydney, and for shearers in the outback. The bulk of it though is about Sydney where “the streets, some wider, some narrower, all told of sordid struggling”, a Sydney that is somewhat similar to that described by Ruth Park half a century later. That is, one in which the poor struggle, in which the beauty so loved by tourists is rarely seen.

1943: Marjorie Barnard‘s The persimmon tree, and other stories

is not her most famous work but is one of that small number of books that I’ve read twice. The themes are universal – love, loss, disappointment – but they are mostly told in an urban setting. A newly widowed woman buys a new hat, a young girl buys a new dress for a special date, people meet in buffets and tea rooms, a woman goes to a party in a

block of flats. The imitation stone stair-case, mock baronial, mock grandeur, and behind the closed doors with their heavy antique knockers the same ordinary little flats … it is shattering to go up to a smug, unknown door and ring the bell, knowing that a party lurks behind it.

1948: Ruth Park‘s Harp in the south

which is set in the slums of Sydney, was controversial when it was published because of its realistic portrayal of urban poverty and the struggles that accompany living in such conditions. There were those who felt she was fostering a “cult of ugliness” and that no good could come of it. Little did they know that 60 years later this book would be regarded as an Australian classic.

1977: Helen Garner‘s Monkey grip

is also now regarded by many as an Australian classic. It’s set in inner city Melbourne, in the “bohemian” home of musicians, students, actors and, yes, drug-takers. Helen Garner’s characters – particularly her women – strive to live independent lives that are not bound by societal constrictions, the sort of lives that are hard to live in the more conservative country or the ‘burbs.

2009: Christos Tsiolkas‘ The slap

is, by contrast, set in the ‘burbs – of Melbourne. It explores a wide range of “issues” typical (more-or-less) of middle-class suburbia. You know what they are:  relationships, employment, education and politics, not to mention aging, drugs and sex. And they are played out in backyards, workplaces, carparks, bars and all sorts of homes ranging from modest bungalows to the mansions of the nouveau riche. The setting is modern Australia – but many of us hope that the people are rather less so!

According to the Australian Government Culture Portal, Australia was well-urbanised by 1910 … and our literature to some degree reflects that. Yet, the idea of “the bush” doesn’t go away – and is still highly visible in our literature. I can think of no better recent example than Murray Bail‘s The pages (2008) in which sophisticated city meets pragmatic country. Paragraph 2 starts with two women setting out from Sydney:

They were city women. Comfortably seated and warm they were hoping to experience the unexpected, an event or person, preferably person, to enter and alter their lives. There is a certain optimism behind all travel. The passenger, who wore a chunky necklace like pebbles made out of beer bottles, had never been over the mountains before. And she was forty-three. Directions had been given in biro, on a page torn out of an exercise book. It would take all day getting there. Over the mountains, into the interior, in the backblocks of western New South Wales, which in the end is towards the sun.

Need I say more?