Philip Butterss, An unsentimental bloke: The life and work of C. J. Dennis (Review)

Courtesy: Wakefield Press

Courtesy: Wakefield Press

If you are an Australian, particularly one of a certain age, chances are you studied some C.J. Dennis at school, most likely “The play” from his best-known book The songs of a sentimental bloke. I did, and then, not having read him for decades, I reviewed for this blog his second major book, The moods of Ginger Mick, when it was republished by Sydney University Press. I surprised myself by enjoying it more than I expected. And therein lies the rub. In many ways Dennis is dated. The language of his “larrikins” is unfamiliar to us now, and his people seem to belong to a different place and time. Yet he captivated me. I was therefore interested to read Phillip Butterss’ biography, An unsentimental bloke: The life and work of C.J. Dennis, when Wakefield Press offered it to me.

Butterss’ title sounds a bit cutesy, but it was, we must assume, carefully chosen because it conveys Butterss’ main thesis which is that, contrary to popular opinion, C.J. Dennis was not his character. First, though, a little about the man. Described by The Bulletin in 1913 as Australia’s “unofficial laureate”, Clarence Michael James (or Clarrie) Dennis was born in Auburn, South Australia, in 1876. His father was a hotelkeeper, so much of Dennis’ youth was spent in pubs. He showed interest in writing and the arts in his childhood, and his first poem was published in the Critic when he was 21 years old. From then until his death in 1938 at the age of 61 he wrote constantly, producing a large body of work, of which his published books are just a small component. But, my aim here is not, of course, to recount Dennis’ life, for that would be stealing Butterss’ thunder. Far better that you read the book.

I enjoyed the book, though Butterss doesn’t have the flair of, say, Hazel Rowley whose Franklin and Eleanor I’ve reviewed. By this I mean the book doesn’t have the sort of narrative voice and thrust that we see in “literary non-fiction”. Rather, its style is traditional, plain academic reportage. It doesn’t therefore drive the reader on, but it is, nonetheless, a fascinating read for the picture it provides of Dennis, for its analysis of his work, and for its exploration of wider themes to do with Australian culture and society and the role of the artist.

Like most biographies, the book has a chronological structure, with the chapters falling rather naturally into neat chunks of his life. I particularly liked the chapters “The Laureate of the Larrikin” and “The Laureate of the Anzac” which follow, respectively, the chapters on the writing and publication of his two most famous books, The songs of a sentimental bloke and The moods of Ginger Mick. Butterss’ analyses of how these books both reflect and explain the ethos of their times is thoughtful. He writes that “the Bloke” (published in 1915)

brings into the city and the twentieth century much of the ethos of the nineteenth-century bush legend, values such as egalitarianism, mateship and anti-authoritarianism. But if he represented a metamorphosis for the noble bushman, the transformation was not only of type and location. There was a shift in tone too. The Bloke was not a mythologised hero like the Man from Snowy River; he was an object of gentle humour. (p. 37)

Butterss goes on to explain that the Bloke also represents quite a “make-over” for the larrikin who, in colonial Australia, had been “street thugs”. He argues that this make-over, the way Dennis’ book “holds together incongruous elements”, “allowed it to smooth over deep faultlines and tensions in Australian culture”. He’s reminding us, I believe, that for all our claims of mateship and egalitarianism, we know it has never been quite so rosy in practice.

More poignant is the chapter “Ruin and Reburnishing 1920-1924” in which Butterss discusses changing “fashion” in literature – from “larrikin poetry” to “the more personal and intimate free verse of modernism”, and from poetry to novels. Dennis struggles from this point on to retain his popularity and standing – and it’s sad to see, because the effect is financial and emotional, which results in his returning to heavy drinking. He was one of Australia’s early celebrities, and Butterss shows what this meant – the positives such as recognition and money, and the negatives such as the difficulty of repeating the feat and unexpected things like being impersonated. Dennis was not the strongest of men, and many times in his life he fell on the support of others – including businessman Garry Roberts in his early years, publisher George Robertson (of Angus & Robertson), and his wife Biddy. He did not always treat them well in return.

There is another thread that runs through the book, and that is Dennis’ politics, which changed from a leftist-socialist orientation in his youth to a more conservative one after his success. I had not known about this aspect of Dennis’ life and I enjoyed reading examples of his early political writings in which he railed against free trade that closed factories, industries that chopped down gorgeous gums (“the mighty kings”), and politicians who turned their backs on working people. He might have become more conservative as he aged, but he continued to astutely comment on society and culture. His last poem satirises the ABC’s (Australian Broadcasting Commission) push to standardise Australian voices. Here are a few lines:

I have long sought the reason why all men should be as peas
In speech, in thought, in action, e’en in strife.
Uniformity around them
Serves further to confound them,
Since it washes all the colour out of life.

An unsentimental bloke concludes with two chapters that discuss Dennis’ reputation and legacy. Butterss writes that although Dennis, sales-wise, is “far-and-away the most popular of all Australian poets”, his place in Australia’s literary canon has been “marginal”. He quotes one David Carter who wrote in an essay in Southerly in 1997 that “the right kind of failure”, as exemplified by Christopher Brennan’s symbolist poetry, is often regarded more positively by critics than “the wrong kind of success”. In other words, if your poetry is accessible it is not regarded as good. TS Eliot, he writes, defended Rudyard Kipling saying “that people … are contemptuous of poetry which they understand without effort”. Hmmm … I suspect this is still so today – and it may explain why many people prefer not to read poetry at all. It’s safer that way. Meanwhile, it is somehow gratifying that two of Australia’s most significant and enduring literary-cultural icons – Paterson’s Man from Snowy River and Dennis’ Sentimental Bloke – come from poetry. I thank Butterss for fleshing out the story behind the man behind one of these!

Philip Butterss
An unsentimental bloke: The life and work of C. J. Dennis
Kent Town: Wakefield Press, 2014
ISBN: 9781743052877

(Review copy supplied by Wakefield Press)

15 thoughts on “Philip Butterss, An unsentimental bloke: The life and work of C. J. Dennis (Review)

  1. I came to CJ Dennis late, studying his works as a mature age student at USQ. A senior lecturer there encouraged me to do my thesis on Dennis and an abridged version of that work was published by Antipodes as ‘The Australian Larrikin: CJ Dennis’s [Un]sentimental Bloke’. So of course, I love the title of Butterss’ book!
    In the argot of the slum districts, Dennis showed us the original ‘larrikin’ (a frighteningly violent figure), the same type of figure portrayed by Henry Lawson in ‘The Captain of the Push.’ But Dennis did whitewash the unsavoury aspects of the hooligan to give us that sort of sentimental notion of a larrikin that we use (often overuse) today. Thanks to your wonderful review, I am keen to drag out my ‘Selected Verse of CJ Dennis’ again and I now have Philip Butterss’ biography on my list to purchase.

    • Oh thanks Karen Lee. How fun that you did work on the larrikin aspect. I loved the discussion about this in Butterss’ book and also about how the story met the needs of a war-time audience. There were so many things to explore in Butterss’ book – and some great examples of Dennis’ lesser known poetry too.

      I don’t know that Lawson work. Will add it to my list of things to check out!

  2. Good review- thank you. Melissa Bellanta wrote a book ‘Larrikins: A History’ that discusses the transformation of the unsavoury, frankly criminal larrikin of the 1870s into the more loveable, sentimentalized larrikin that we see now in our media. She identifies the Sentimental Bloke as an example of this shift.

    • Thanks RJ. I’d love to find time to read more about the larrikin. I was also interested in Butterss discussion of moving some of the 19th century bush ethos/focus into urban environment. Literature is such a rich source for understanding society isn’t it (as long as we understand the fictional parameters within which it operates!)

      • Very interesting indeed. I had only very vaguely heard of Dennis and this sounds a rather fascinating book. He seems very much to be a cross between an Australian Burns and Kipling. Both of those writers have, often, a complexity behind the accessibility – Burns transcends the suppers and Kipling’s Danny Deever has a Brechtian edge. Does the book discuss Dennis’s affinity with Kipling and Burns?

        • Oh spot on Ian, the book reports that Joe Lyons, Australia’s prime minister at the time of Dennis’ death, described him as “Australia’s Robert Burns”.

          As for Kipling, the book talks of how Kipling was one of his heroes and had inspired him to start writing poetry again after he left school. Butterss talks of various similarities in their style, such as using non-standard spelling to convey different dialect, and similarities in sentiment. He also says that Dennis wanted to write, like Kipling (and later Masefield), highly regarded poetry that was also commercially successful.

          I’ve just read Kipling’s Danny Deever. I see what you mean. Probably a little darker than Dennis but I can see how he was inspired by Kipling.

  3. Isn’t a good biography a pleasure to read? I’m not much interested in bios of politicians or other public leaders, but a literary biography in which the author can look at both life and work and does it well.

  4. “… if you poetry is accessible it is not regarded as good” – I agree with you that this attitude of our literary gatekeepers creates an impediment for Australians reading poetry. I enjoy bush poetry and odes that tell a tale. I read literature for enjoyment so I don’t want to have to puzzle over every line.

    I would be interested if you could share your thoughts on the new Austlit project, World War I in Australian Literary Culture. I was at the launch but have not had a chance to explore it yet, but it looks like it could be a valuable contribution to our understanding of that period.

    • Thanks perkinsy for the heads up on this when we met … I have looked at the site and in fact found a couple of little issues I’ve emailed them about. I am planning a post on Monday, unless something gets in the way.

  5. Pingback: Best Reads 1915 | theaustralianlegend

  6. Pingback: The Sentimental Bloke, CJ Dennis | The Australian Legend

  7. Pingback: C. J. Dennis – Brona's Books

  8. Thanks to Bill’s recent post about discovering his dad’s second edition signed copy, I’ve been on a slight nostalgia trip as I remember an uncle who loved CJ Dennis and that last stanza that you mentioned on Bill’s post –

    Sittin’ at ev’nin’ in this sunset-land,
    Wiv ‘Er in all the World to ‘old me ‘and,
    A son, to bear me name when I am gone….
    Livin’ an’ lovin’ — so life mooches on.

    It sums up his life (and dreams and hopes) perfectly.

    A pingback will come your way, as I’ve added this link to my old post so people can read a little more back story about Dennis if they choose.
    I take these opportunities to fix up the formatting on my old posts so they fit the WP page better.

    • Thanks Brona! I will happily accept the pingback, and I love that these things give you an opportunity to “wordpressise” (how’s that for a word) old posts.

      I love that you used that stanza for a post on your uncle. Notwithstanding the sexism-of-the-time re “son to bear me name”, it’s so warm-hearted.

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