20th century literature

Monday musings on Australian literature: 1961 in fiction (2)

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I said in last week’s Monday Musing, which was dedicated Karen’s (Kaggsy’s Bookish Rambling) and Simon’s (Stuck in a Book) 1961 “Year Club”, that I might write a second post this week. I know the week finished yesterday, 19 April, but I couldn’t resist posting on a topic that popped up frequently during my research, the Commonwealth Literary Fund (CLF).

Brief history

The Commonwealth Literary Fund (see Wikipedia) was created in 1908 to assist needy writers and their families (primarily by providing small incomes to writers needing support, and to widows and dependent families of writers who died destitute). After 1939, it was broadened to grant fellowships, provide guarantees against loss to Australian publishers, and assist Australian literary magazines (Meanjin, Overland, Quadrant and Southerly). In 1973, its functions were taken over by the Literature Board of the Australia Council for the Arts (renamed the Australia Council in 1975, and Creative Australia in 2023). Of course, these renamings involve structural and policy changes but these are not my interest here.

However, I will explain that in 1939, the Committee which made the decisions was replaced by a Parliamentary Committee, which comprised the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition and one other. In practice, their Advisory board, which comprised leading writers, publishers and academics made the decisions – except when they were over-ridden.

Controversy

You won’t be surprised to hear that as an arts funding body, the CLF was involved, directly and indirectly, in controversy – in 1961 (and probably many other years if I went looking). I will share a couple from this year.

The politics of arts funding (1)

One related to the above-mentioned support for those four literary magazines. The Communist Party’s newspaper Tribune (21 June) reported that conservative PM Menzies had rejected the Advisory Board’s recommendation that Overland, a leftist magazine, should receive a grant, while he had “no objection” to a grant going to Quadrant, a conservative magazine which Tribune says has ‘infinitesimal claims to being a “literary” journal, but is renowned for the savagely reactionary nature of its political views’. They quote Katharine Susannah Prichard, Nancy Cato and Kylie Tenant as criticising this decision, with Tennant saying

We now know that the Commonwealth Literary Fund is only there to support the most anaemic and harmless publications.

Mary Gilmore, 1927 (Public Domain, State Library of QLD, via Wikipedia)

Tribune says it has criticised Overland at times for not supporting “with sufficient firmness and vehemence … the labor movement, whose energy and initiative originally launched it”. In fact, Overland had often sought ‘to take a “neutral” stand in the sharp issues of our day’. Unfortunately, ‘its attempts at “neutrality” have not saved it from the reactionary hand of Menzies’!

A few days later, poet and utopian socialist Mary Gilmore, criticised the decision in Tribune (5 July), and concluded with:

Might I suggest that, having been established by a Labor Prime Minister for the benefit of Australian writers, the unions remember this? For without such publications Australia would be a dumb continent except for book publication here and abroad.

The politics of arts funding (2)

Then, of course, there are criticisms of those who do receive funding! L.M.R, reviewing Alan Davies’ A Sunday kind of love and other stories in The Canberra Times (26 August), was not impressed, saying that the book, was “hardly designed to pass away an odd hour pleasurably. A baffling hour would be a better description”. Indeed, L.M.R. says, “they are not stories”. Rather, “each is a description of a mood, usually not accounted for”. S/he continues in this critical vein, concluding:

It was published with the help of the Commonwealth Literary Fund. I wonder why?

On the other hand, Professor T. Inglis Moore, who was on the Fund’s Advisory Board wrote a letter to the editor of The Canberra Times (5 October) correcting some points that had been made in an editorial. Apparently, the editorial had implied that grants made to writers were a new venture involving “experimentation or even gambling”. On the contrary, said Moore, the annual grants had been happening for 21 years, and formed “a well tried, sound, and constructive method of aiding our literary development”.

The editorial also seems to have implied that not all grants resulted in great works. Moore responded that there is “of course … an element of risk” but that the risk is minimised because the applications “are given careful consideration by the Fund’s Advisory Board and Parliamentary Committee”, and the “grants are made only to writers who have proved themselves … and for projects considered suitable to their particular talents”. So, in this year, he says, “it is hardly rash gambling to back Judith Wright to write good poetry and critical essays and Bill Harney to produce an expert work dealing with aborigines”.

Inevitably, though, there are occasional “failures or disappointments, but the great majority of the writers justified their awards satisfactorily, and some productions have been outstanding”. He draws a comparison with government support of the CSIRO, and concludes

there would be no success without experimentation, the risks undertaken are reasonable, and the rewards of the venture are very well worthwhile, whether in science or literature.

CLF Lectures

In addition to awarding fellowships, the CLF also supported lectures on literature around the country. Some of these were reported in the newspapers. Announcing the 1961 Fellowship winners on 2 October, The Canberra Times noted that increased interest had been shown in lectures in Australian literature, and that so far that year “the lecture programmes had reached a public audience of 8,000 and a school audience of 19,000”. A week earlier, on 27 September, the paper had reported on a CLF lecture to be given by academic Evan Jones on “The Anatomy of Frustration: Short Stories of Alan Davies and Peter Cowan.” (Given the criticism I’ve shared above of Davies’ stories, I’d love to know what he said!)

The Port Lincoln Times (3 August) wrote about a two-week lecture tour around South Australia to be given by Colin Thiele, who, they said, was well-known as a poet and broadcaster. (In fact, in 1961 he published a children’s book The sun on the stubble, and two years later Storm boy, perhaps his most famous children’s book. Today, he is best known for his children’s writing.) Two weeks later, on 17 August, the same paper reported on the tour. Thiele’s theme was “Spirit of People — Spirit of Place”. He talked about the Australian spirit (and humour), and how “a good writer should be able to observe and capture this spirit”. The report concluded by sharing the list of Australian literary works, that he recommended for “basic reading”:

  • Rolf Boldrewood, Robbery under arms
  • Martin Boyd, Lucinda Brayford
  • F. D. Davison, Man-shy (read before blogging)
  • M. Barnard Eldershaw, A house is built (on my TBR)
  • Miles Franklin, All that swagger
  • Joseph Furphy, Such is life
  • Mrs. Aeneas Gunn, We of the Never Never (read before blogging)
  • Xavier Herbert, Capricornia
  • T. A. G. Hungerford, The ridge and the river
  • Henry Kingsley, The recollections of Geoffrey Hamlyn (on my TBR)
  • The prose works of Henry Lawson (read some before blogging)
  • Vance Palmer, The passage (read before blogging)
  • Ruth Park, The harp of the south (read before blogging)
  • Katherine [sic] S. Pritchard [sic], Coonardoo (read before blogging)
  • Henry Handel Richardson, The fortunes of Richard Mahoney
  • Randolph Stow, To the islands (on my TBR)
  • Kylie Tennant, The battlers (on my TBR)
  • Patrick White, Voss and The tree of man (read both before blogging)
  • Douglas Stewart, Four plays (read one before blogging)
  • Ray Lawler, The summer of the seventeenth doll
  • Stewart and Keesing (ed.), Australian bush ballads
  • Howarth, Thompson and Slessor, The Penguin book of Australian verse
  • W. Murdoch and Drake Brockman, Australian short stories.

Anything caught your attention?

Langston Hughes, Feet live their own life (#Review, #1961 Club)

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Today’s post for the Year Club is one of those rare occasions when I am not posting on an Australian short story. The simple reason is that I could not find one in my anthologies, and I am keen to read from my physical TBR. Happily, I found one in Great short stories by African-American writers, and it was by a writer I have read before, though it could be a bit of a cheat … read on …

Langston Hughes

Wikipedia tells us that James Mercer Langston Hughes (1901-1967) was born in Joplin, Missouri, and was “best known as a leader of the Harlem Renaissance (about which I have written before).  He was also “an American poet, social activist, novelist, playwright, and columnist” as well as “an early innovator of jazz poetry“. My anthology editors, Rudisel and Bob Blaisdell, describe him in their biographical note, as “one of the most famous African-American writers of the [twentieth] century [who] continually published poems, plays, novels, short stories, essays, translations, children’s books, and edited anthologies”. They say that “knowing first-hand the financial difficulties and discouragement of being a writer of colour, he helped numerous African Americans get noticed and published”. Poet Kwame Alexander, writing in the Beltway poetry quarterly, adds “operas, librettos, television and film scripts” and “lyrics, essays, [and] reference manuals” to his writing credentials. He was prolific.

Wikipedia explains that like many African Americans, he was of mixed ancestry, with both of his paternal great-grandmothers being enslaved Africans, and both paternal great-grandfathers being white slave owners in Kentucky. The old story! He spent most of his childhood in Lawrence, Kansas, but also lived in other Midwestern cities. His parents separated soon after his birth. Apparently, his father, who “wanted to escape the racial intolerance of the United States”, moved to Cuba and then Mexico. The critical point for us, however, is that, because his mother travelled a lot for work, he was raised primarily by his maternal grandmother. “Through stories of Black resistance, dignity, and perseverance, [she] shaped his understanding of racial responsibility” and imbued him “with a duty to help his race”. Consequently, continues Wikipedia, he “identified with neglected and downtrodden black people all his life, and centered their lives honestly in his work”.

I’ll leave his biography here, but if you are interested, start at Wikipedia which has an extensive, well-referenced article.

I mentioned that I have read him before – and I have, but in poetry anthologies, some of them for children. He captured my attention, not just because he was new to me but because his subject matter – social justice and civil rights – interests me. I have not read his prose before.

“Feet live their own life”

I said in my opening paragraph that this selection for the Year Club could be a bit of a cheat. This is because this story was originally published in the Chicago Defender in 1943. However, my anthologists selected the story from a book published in 1961, and say that the version there is “an expansion and revision” of that original column. I think this makes it valid for the 1961 Year Club!

So, the story. Wikipedia pointed me to The Chicago Literary Hall of Fame, which says that soon after inaugurating a theatre group in Chicago in 1941, Hughes went to work for the Chicago Defender, an African American newspaper founded in 1905. It was here that Hughes introduced readers to his character Jesse B. Semple, aka Simple. The Hall of Fame says that

Hughes combined powerful rhetoric with down-home humor to attack or reflect the conditions of African-Americans at the time. He was eloquent and clear – and no injustice escaped his literary wrath. To some, this column was Hughes’ most powerful and relevant work. He became the voice of a people who were beginning to secure their place in society.  Hughes wrote his column for the Defender for 20 years.

“Feet live their own life” is, in fact, based on Hughes’ first column in the Defender, making it an excellent introduction to the character. Being a column, it is a very short short story, running to just three pages in the anthology. It is set in a bar, as I think are all the Simple stories, and comprises a conversation between an unnamed, somewhat serious narrator, a foil in other words, and Simple. It starts:

“If you want to know about my life,” said Simple as he blew the foam from the top of the newly filled glass the bartender put before him, “don’t look at my face, don’t look at my hands. Look at my feet and see if you can tell how long I been standing on them.”

It is a humorous character study with a political edge and a lacing of wisdom. Simple is – as his name suggests – an ordinary man, a black everyman. In this story, he introduces his readers to the travails of his life, to which those like him, the people Hughes wanted to reach and represent, could relate:

These feet have supported everything from a cotton bale to a hongry woman. These feet have walked ten thousand miles working for white folks and another ten thousand keeping up with coloured. These feet have stood at altars, crap tables, free lunches, bars, graves, kitchen doors, betting windows, hospital clinics, WPA desks, social security railings, and in all kinds of lines from soup lines to the draft …

These are life events his readers knew. When our narrator counters that all this is general, and asks for something specific that his feet have done, Simple tells him how his right foot had broken the window of a white man’s shop and his left foot had set him off running from the cops. But why, asks our narrator, would he “go around kicking out windows”. Simple says

“You have to ask my great-great-grandpa why. He must of been simple – else why did he let them capture him in Africa and sell him for a slave to breed my great-grandpa in slavery to breed my grandpa in slavery to breed my pa to breed me to look at that window and say, ‘It ain’t mine! Bam-mmm-mm-m!’ and kick it out?”

When our logical narrator suggests that the bar glass he is drinking from is also not his, but he’s not smashing that, Simple responds, logically

“It’s got my beer in it”

I think you get the gist. Simple is a comic character who is able to say the outrageous and the human things and bring his point home. He is humorous and wise, silly and pointed at the same time. I enjoy writing like this, writing that tells the truth with warmth and humour.

I am sure many of you will know Langston Hughes. I’d love to hear your thoughts about reading him – in whatever form you have.

* Read for the 1961 reading week run by Karen (Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings) and Simon (Stuck in a Book).

Langston Hughes
“Feet live their own life” (first published in The best of Simple, 1961)
in Christine Rudisel and Bob Blaisdell (ed.), Great short stories by African-American writers
Garden City: Dover Publications, 2015
pp. 181-183
ISBN: 9780486471396
Available online in audio version at archive.org and



Monday musings on Australian literature: 1961 in fiction

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Once again it’s Karen’s (Kaggsy’s Bookish Rambling) and Simon’s (Stuck in a Book) “Year Club” week. This time, it is 1961, and it runs from 13th to 19th April. Once again, I am devoting my Monday Musings to the week.

I have already written about 1960s for the 1962 Club. It was an exciting decade, one in which we thought we were really going to change the world for the better. Older and wiser now, I can see how naive that was. But, idealism is not a bad thing, and some good changes did happen. Just not enough. This decade was also the height of the Cold War. Literature reflected all of this – the enthusiasm for change looking towards a fairer more equitable world, the fear of communism, and the tension between the two. In Australia, the conservative government of Robert Menzies had a strong grip.

A brief 1961 literary recap

Books were, naturally, published across all forms, but my focus is Australian fiction, so here is a selection of novels published in 1961:

Mena Calthorpe, The dyehouse
  • James Aldridge, The last exile
  • Mena Calthorpe, The dyehouse (my review)
  • A. Bertram Chandler, The rim of space
  • Kenneth Cook, Wake in fright
  • Dymphna Cusack, Heatwave in Berlin
  • Nene Gare, The fringe dwellers (Bill’s review)
  • Xavier Herbert, Soldiers’ women
  • Elizabeth Kata, Be ready with bells and drums
  • H.A. (Harold) Lindsay, Janie McLachlan
  • John O’Grady, No kava for Johnny
  • Ruth Park, The good looking women (aka Serpent’s Delight) 
  • Hal Porter, The tilted cross
  • F. J. Thwaites, Beyond the rainbow
  • George Turner, A stranger and afraid
  • Arthur Upfield, The white savage
  • Judah Waten, Time of conflict
  • Morris West, Daughter of silence
  • Patrick White, Riders in the chariot (Lisa’s review)

Several short stories, and short story collections were published, including by some favourite writers of mine like Thea Astley and Shirley Hazzard, by other writers I’ve posted on here before like D’Arcy Niland and Hal Porter, and by one Ray Mathew, an Australian expat whom I discovered around a decade ago when I attended my first Ray Mathew annual lecture at the NLA.

The thing about the 1960s is that we start to see more authors appear that we still hear of today, even if not all are still keenly read.

The main literary award made this year was the Miles Franklin, which went to Patrick White’s Riders in the chariot. The ALS Gold Medal was not awarded in 1961.

Novelists born this year include Jordie Albiston (who died in 2022) and Richard Flanagan (who should need no introduction).

The state of the art

As for previous club years, I checked Trove for what newspapers were saying about Australian fiction. However, because 1961 is less than 70 years ago, I frequently confronted roadblocks, with Trove regularly telling me that “This newspaper article is still within its copyright period and can’t be displayed on Trove right now. The National Library of Australia will make it available as soon as copyright permits, or with the copyright holder’s permission”. Fortunately, some newspapers have – generously – released their material “ahead” of time! Thank you The Canberra Times, and more specialist papers like The Australian Jewish Times and Tribune.

Communists and other reformists

Communism was still a hot topic in the 1960s, and several writers in my 1961 list were Communists or, if not, Marxist or leftist writers, writers like Mena Calthorpe, Dymphna Cusack, Judah Waten – and Frank Hardy, whose nonfiction book about his most famous novel Power without glory, The Hard Way: The Story Behind Power without Glory, was published in this year.

I’ll start with Frank Hardy, who wrote a piece for Tribune (June 7) about The Communist Party of Australia’s Draft Resolution for its 19th Congress. ALS reviewer Teri Merlyn wrote in 2005 that “Hardy’s commitment to literature as a vehicle for working-class education and the Australian radical literary tradition was unwavering”. This is on display in his response to the Draft Resolution, for which he proposes the following additional lines:

An important part in interpreting Australian reality is played by realist literature and art. Art which lays bare the contradictions of capitalism, exposes the ramifications of monopoly, affirms class struggle, and reveals the worth and dignity of the working people and their ability to transform society.

While the “Party’s work has been decisive in the development of the working class literature and art movement”, this work has, he says, been “marred” by “errors”. He briefly discusses these, before concluding that literature and art are part of “the working class arsenal”, and the Party must make it a “whole party” issue.

Given the period, many of our serious writers were keenly interested in reform. What is interesting is how contemporary reviewers saw their works. For example, Mena Calthorpe’s The dye house is a factory novel, which, says The Canberra Times‘ reviewer, R.R. (16 September) ‘is “formula” novel, set in a Sydney textile factory’, and, “despite its immaturity of style … an impressive piece of work”. It’s a mixed review, panning much but also suggesting she has potential. R.R. suggests that editing out ‘schoolgirl words as “clatter,” “click clack,” and “tic tac,” which jangle irritatingly through it, would improve it immensely’. I, however, loved this language, as I wrote in my review.

Similarly, M.P., writing in The Canberra Times (13 May) about Dymphna Cusack’s Heatwave in Berlin, is less than complimentary. S/he describes its political content, adds s/he is not qualified to confirm the facts, and then critiques the book as

something which cannot be taken very seriously. The characters have the larger-than-life quality of figures in a melodrama, and they speak with something of the same staginess.

Not having read the book, I can’t comment, but there are some reviews from, for example, Hungarian and Estonian readers on GoodReads whose reflections offer some fascinating perspectives.

The aforementioned R.R. also reviewed Nene Gare’s novel, The fringe-dwellers, in The Canberra Times (21 October). S/he is far more complimentary about this one, calling it “a most compelling book and one of the best written on this theme”. Today, it would be critiqued for not being an “own story”, for being a story about First Nations people by a white writer. However, this was 1961, and Gare, I think, brought an important story into the main culture. It draws from her experiences in Geraldton, Western Australia, between 1952 and 1954, when her husband was District Officer with the Native Welfare Department. R.R. writes that Gare

captured completely the atmosphere of the part-aboriginal community—its pride, its squalor, and its terrible inertia — people caught between two ways of life and belonging to neither.

S/he says that it has a few – but not serious – false notes, and pronounces it “an outstandingly good, pertinent, and touching story”.

On reviewing

In my last Year Club post (for 1925), I shared some examples of reviewing style. I found some more interesting examples for this year, but will share just one here, by “Tinker”, who reviewed four books in The Canberra Times (12 August), including two by Australian writers, One rose less, by Pat Flower, and And death came too, by Helen Mace. Tinker – who must surely be a “he” – writes of the four books that, three

are by women authors, another saddening fact drawing evidence to the sex’s determination to invade almost every field of male activity.

What? Further, while “he” thinks that Flower’s book is the better of the two Aussies, he says she “just cannot resist the feminine love for tidying up”! Mace’s novel which “has some reasonably good word pictures of the Victorian countryside, but not so good as Pat Flowers’ Sydney scenes” also “unfortunately … suffers from the female tidying up complex”. Feminism still has battles to fight, but reviewers would be unlikely to get away with this today! Incidentally, several of Pat Rose’s novels have been republished in the 2020s.

I found much more, and might write a Part 2 next week. We’ll see … meanwhile I hope this post has piqued your interest about 1961.

Sources

(Besides those linked in the post)

Previous “Year Club” Monday Musings: 1925, 1929, 1936, 1937, 1940, 1952, 1954, 1962 and 1970.

Do you plan to take part in the 1961 Club – and if so how?

Monday musings on Australian literature: Forgotten writers 17, Beatrice Grimshaw

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Of all the writers I’ve researched for the AWW project, Beatrice Grimshaw is among the most documented, with articles in the Australian Dictionary of Biography (ADB) and Wikipedia, among others. And yet, she is little known today. This post, like most of my recent Forgotten Writers posts, draws on the one I posted on AWW. However, I have abbreviated that post somewhat here to add more commentary.

If you are interested, check out the story I shared on AWW, a romance titled “Shadow of the palm”. It provides a good sense of what she wrote – and why it might have value today, despite its problematic language. It tells of local traditions and lustful dissolute men, of missionaries and young people in love. It is a predictable story typical of its time, but is enlivened by knowledge of a place that was exotic to its readers. It also conveys some of the cultural conflict and exploitation that came with colonialism.

Beatrice Grimshaw

Beatrice Grimshaw, 1907 (Public Domain)

Beatrice Ethel Grimshaw (1870-1953) is described by Wikipedia as “an Irish writer and traveller”, while the ADB does not give a nationality. However, both state that she was born on 3 February 1870 at Cloona, Antrim, in Ireland, and died on 30 June 1953 at Kelso near Bathurst in New South Wales. She is buried in Bathurst cemetery.

Grimshaw, the fourth of six children, was never going to be the little wife and mother. Wikipedia says that she “defied her parents’ expectations to marry or become a teacher, instead working for various shipping companies” while ADB says that, although she went to university, “she did not take a degree and never married but saw herself as a liberated ‘New Woman'”. There is much detail about her life at these two sources so I’ll just share the salient points here. She loved the outdoors, and began her writing career when she became a sports journalist for Irish Cyclist magazine in 1891. Besides working as an editor, she wrote “a range of content including poems, dialogues, short stories, and two serialised novels under a pen name”. Her first novel, Broken away, was published in 1897.

“a fearless character” (HJB)

The early details aren’t fully clear, but from some time after 1891, she worked for various shipping companies in the Canary Islands, the USA and England. Things become clear by 1903 when we know she left for the Pacific to report on the region for the Daily Graphic. She also accepted government and other commissions to write tourist publicity for various Pacific islands and NZ.

In 1907, she returned to Papua, intending to stay for two or three months, having been being commissioned by the London Times and the Sydney Morning Herald as a travel writer, but ended up living there for most of the next twenty-seven years. She wrote, joined expeditions up rivers and into the jungles, managed a plantation (1917-22), and established a short-lived tobacco plantation with her brother (1934). She played a key role in the development of tourism in the South Pacific.

Due to recurring malaria fever, she moved to Kelso in 1936 to live with her brothers. She didn’t retire, however. She continued to write books, and undertake other work, including, according to Broken Hill’s Barrier Daily Truth (12 Feb 1943) “liaison work for the Americans in Australia … She said that Australia offers unlimited opportunities for expansion, opportunities which the American people will be quick to utilise”.

Grimshaw was a prolific and best-selling writer, with over 35 novels to her name. She drew from her experiences in the South Seas, and wrote in the popular genres of the time – romantic adventure, crime fiction and some supernatural or ghost stories. The Armidale Express and New England General Advertiser (3 July 1940) reported that many of her novels and short stories had been “translated into German, French, Danish and Swedish” and that her books were “known throughout England, America and Australia”. She also wrote numerous articles and short stories for papers and journals. Her 1922 novel, Conn of the Coral Seas, was made into a film, The Adorable Outcast, in 1928.

She was quite the celebrity, for her adventurous life as well as for her writing. After all, as The Australian Women’s Weekly (Feb 1935) pointed out, she had lived amongst “headhunters”, no less! Her writing was frequently praised for its realism, with a reviewer in Adelaide’s The Register writing (9 Sept 1922) identifying “two outstanding features of her writing” as:

her understanding of human nature, and her power of description. There is no need to illustrate her books. Her own words conjure up pictures as accurate as they are enchanting …

Some though were more measured, like the writer in The Queenslander (4 Mar 1922) who admired her storytelling but was “forced to wonder if the beautiful islands hold nothing but hatred and dark intrigue”. That though, was surely her genre more than the truth speaking!

Nonetheless, for modern readers her writing is problematic. We can’t, as Byrne writes, overlook “her paternalistic and occasionally racist attitudes” in her fiction and her journalistic writing. Take her reference to Japanese divers as “little yellow men” (The Australian Women’s Weekly 1940) or this much earlier one on Papuans:

The native is willing to work—unlike the Pacific Islander—and a good fellow when well treated. His interests are being thoughtfully cared for, and he is governed with honesty and justice. (Sydney Morning Herald, 14 December 1907)

And yet, if you read this SMH article, you will gain an impression of the liveliness of her observations, which brings me to why she is worth reading. Her writing is a valuable historical source. She wrote a lot, in depth, and with excellent powers of observation about the Pacific, and in doing so conveys information about the life of European settlers, along with the values, beliefs, and attitudes they had. It has to be gold for anyone researching that time and place.

AustLit notes that she was, in her day, “sometimes favourably compared with Joseph Conrad, Bret Harte and Robert Louis Stevenson”, but that she is out of print today. More interestingly, the Oxford Companion shares that researcher Susan Gardner concluded that she “was made up of contradictions” including that “between her explicit anti-feminism and her feminist career”. A most fascinating, forgotten woman.

Sources

HJB, “At home with Beatrice Grimshaw, Novelist”, Sydney Mail (9 December 1931)  [Accessed: 10 February 2026]
Angela Bryne, “Beatrice Grimshaw: The Belfast explorer treated as a male chief on Samoa“, The Irish Times (5 March 2019) [Accessed: 2 March 2026]
Beatrice Grimshaw, AustLit (Accessed: 8 February 2026]
Beatrice Grimshaw, Wikipedia [Accessed: 7 February 2026]
Hugh Laracy, ‘Grimshaw, Beatrice Ethel (1870–1953)‘, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian National University, 1983 [Accessed: 7 February 2026]
William H. Wilde, Joy Hooton and Barry Andrews, The Oxford companion to Australian literature. Melbourne, Oxford University Press, 2nd, edition, 1994

All other sources are linked in the article.

Adeline F. Ries, Mammy: A story (#Review)

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Adeline F. Ries’s short story “The scapegoat” is the sixth in the anthology Great short stories by African-American writers, which my American friend Carolyn sent me. Like the previous author, Emma E. Butler, Adeline F. Ries is barely known.

Adeline F. Ries

The biographical note at the end of the anthology, like that for Butler, comprises three sentences, starting with:

Unfortunately, Ries’s life is unknown except for her authorship of this story.

It then offers two more:

The “mammy” was an image and caricature repeatedly evoked in American fiction, and here and in Dorothy West’s tale “Mammy” we see the caricature transformed by the author’s deeper understandings of the women who had such roles. Ries’s chilling and compressed story dramatizes the suffering and restraint her heroine experienced in her long, loving life.

This was, it seems, her sole story for The Crisis. Again, I did my own searches, but wasn’t expecting to do much better than the editors of this anthology. And I didn’t … I mostly found listings for the story and some digitised versions. However, I did find a 2015 PhD thesis titled “The Women, the Indomitable, the Undefeated”: The Mammy, the Belle, and Southern Memory in William Faulkner from Lucy Buzacott at the University. Buzacott references the story a couple of times and, as the thesis title implies, she focuses on the “mammy” that my anthology’s authors do. Well, of course they do, it’s the title of the story!

As with Butler, this story by an author about whom nothing is known has been anthologised more than once, including in Asha Kanwar’s The unforgetting heart: An anthology of short stories by African American women (1859-1993), published in 1995. Better World Books says that “The writers included here, both the famous and the less well-known, together represent the remarkable diversity of African American women’s writing across class, culture and time.” Another anthology, published by OUP in 1991, was edited by E. Ammons, and titled, Short fiction by black women, 1900-1920.

“Mammy: A story”

WARNING: SPOILER

If the last story, “Polly’s hack ride”, was a very short story, “Mammy” is a very very short story, taking up just three pages in the anthology, but it packs a serious punch. And I’m going to share that punch because you can quickly read the story at the link below (where it occupies just over a page. Do it!)

So, here goes. “Mammy” opens with our being told that she had raised a “white baby” named Shiela, who had been borne away in marriage, leaving Mammy with a heavy heart. That heart was comforted, however, by the presence of her own “black baby”, Lucy. However, the day Mammy hears the joyful news that Shiela had had her own baby is the day her Lucy is “sold like common household ware!” – in an irony not lost on Mammy – to Shiela to care for her baby. About a year later, she is told that Lucy had been found dead on the nursery room floor of heart failure, and is offered the use of a carriage to go to the coast to see Lucy before her burial. Mammy takes this opportunity, and in a shocking act drowns the baby her dead daughter had been bought to care for. Mammy’s refrain as she carries out her act is, “They took her from me an’ she died”.

As I read this story, other stories of mothers who murder came to mind, including Toni Morrison’s fictional Sethe in Beloved, and the real Akon Guode in Helen Garner’s essay “Why she broke” (my review). In fact, it was the refrain “why she broke” that came to my mind as I read “Mammy”. In her essay, Garner quotes a psychiatrist during Guode’s trial saying that it need not have been something dramatic that triggered her action, that “it can just be the ebb and flow of human suffering, and the person reaching the threshold at which they can … no longer go on”. This felt like Mammy.

Of course, “Mammy” has a twist on these two examples, because she doesn’t kill her own child, bringing the idea of revenge into the frame. Like Sethe, she is a powerless slave, but the character in “Mammy” belongs to another tradition, that of the “mammy”. Wikipedia discusses the USA’s Mammy stereotype, describing it as “Black women, usually enslaved, who did domestic work, including nursing children”. Fictionalised mammy characters, it continues, are often visualised “as a dark-skinned woman with a motherly personality”. (We all know Scarlett O’Hara’s mammy in Gone with the Wind, don’t we?) Wikipedia also says that “the mammy caricature was used to create a narrative of Black women being content within the institution of slavery among domestic servitude”. They are, in other words, taken advantage of and assumed to be happy with their lot. In Ries’ story, the slave-owners are kind enough, but Mammy also knew that “serious floggings” were never far away.

Ries tells her story well. It’s tight, with the prime focus trained on Mammy and her feelings. I see it less as a story of revenge, than one of brokenness – brokenness caused by a system that controls and disempowers, completely. (For Australians, there is also an echo here of the “Stolen Generations”.)

Either which way, it subverts the myth of “the Mammy”, by giving the Mammy an agency that she takes because no-one would have expected her to. In her PhD, Buzacott quotes Kimberley Wallace-Sanders who suggests that in Ries’s story “the symbol of racial harmony [the mammy] is distorted until the fantasy and myth dissolves into a tragic nightmare”. Buzacott suggests that the murders enacted by Sethe, “Mammy”, and Nancy in William Faulkner’s Requiem for a nun, “are part of a genealogy of black maternity outraged by slavery and its aftermath”. Whether they kill their own or another’s child, the point is made – and I certainly felt it worked in this story.

Such a shame that we have no others from Adeline F. Ries.

Adeline F. Ries
“Mammy: A story” (first published in The crisis 13 (3), January 1917)
in Christine Rudisel and Bob Blaisdell (ed.), Great short stories by African-American writers
Garden City: Dover Publications, 2015
pp. 61-63
ISBN: 9780486471396
Available online (in the whole journal)

Emma E. Butler, Polly’s hack ride (#Review)

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Emma E. Butler’s short story “Polly’s hack ride” is the fifth in the anthology Great short stories by African-American writers, which my American friend Carolyn sent me. Unlike the previous author, Paul Laurence Dunbar, is barely known.

Emma E. Butler

The biographical note at the end of the anthology comprises three sentences! The first two read:

This was Emma E Butler’s sole story for The Crisis. No details of her life have been published.

The third offers a one-line summary of the story.

Of course, I did my own search, but if the editors of this anthology couldn’t find anything meaningful about Butler I wasn’t hoping for much. My first search resulted in AI summarising that “Based on the search results, there appears to be a distinction between Emma Butler, an Australian author, and the renowned African American science fiction author, Octavia E. Butler”. Given my search was for “Emma E Butler African American author”, the results list focused on links for Octavia E. Butler. Hmm, it wasn’t looking good.

I then searched on “Emma E Butler Polly’s hack ride”, and got several results, including links to a digital copy of the journal containing the story. I discovered that The Crisis was subtitled “A Record of the Darker Races”, and was published monthly by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. It was “conducted [meaning “edited”] by” W . E. Burghardt Du Bois (whom I have posted on before). I also got indexes to The Crisis, as of course her name is in those, and references to a couple of anthologies containing the story. I gave up!

But, it is worth noting that this story – by this author about whom nothing is known – has been anthologised, including in Dover Publication’s 100 Great American short stories. And, it’s also worth noting that The Crisis’ table of contents lists her as “Mrs”, so presumably “Butler” was her married name. It’s intriguing that they know nothing about her. No death or marriage records for example?

“Polly’s hack ride”

So, let’s just get to “Polly’s hack ride”, a very short story by a very unknown writer. The one-sentence summary I mentioned above simply says it “is a well-imagined tale of a young girl’s reaction to an infant sibling’s death”. Why the accolades – including a top-100 listing – for such a story?

Well, I think because it is a well-structured, beautifully told universal story of the irrepressibility of youth. The opening paragraph comprises one sentence, and goes like this:

POLLY GRAY had lived six and one-half years without ever having enjoyed the luxury of a hack ride.

Polly’s family is poor. Paragraph 2 tells us that she and her family live in a “little shanty, merely an apology for a house” and that Polly watches “with, envy, the finely dressed ladies and gentlemen riding by…” In Paragraph 3, we hear that she’s not brave enough to steal a ride on the back, “as she had seen her brothers do on the ice wagon” because she believes the “predictions of broken necks, arms, legs …”. However, in the next paragraph things are looking up:

Who then could say that Polly was wanting in sisterly love when she exulted in the fact that she was going to a funeral? What did it matter if Ma Gray was heart-broken, and Pa Gray couldn’t eat but six biscuits for his supper when he came home and found the long white fringed sash floating from the cracked door knob?

Paragraph 4 flashes back to tell of the death of two-year-old Ella, and then the story takes us through the funeral and hack ride to Polly falling asleep that evening. It is not until after the hack ride that Polly thinks about her actions:

As Polly alighted from the hack, she began to realize how, as a mourner, she had lowered her dignity by yelling from the window like a joy-rider, and she was not a little uneasy as to how Ma Gray would consider the matter should old Rummy [her great uncle] inform her. So during supper she cautiously avoided meeting his eye, and as soon as she had finished eating she ran upstairs to change her clothes.

There are many reasons why this story works so well. First is its tight structure and focus. The structure establishes Polly’s youth, and sets her desire for something impressive like a hack ride against her poverty. The focus stays firmly with Polly’s point of view. It is, in the background as readers know, a story about poverty and infant mortality, but it is also about children, and how they respond to the world they find themselves in. It’s not only Polly, but her siblings too who exhibit child-like responses to the death, with Bobby, after platefuls of “liver, onions and mashed potatoes” working hard to suppress a whistle and Sally trying “several bows of black ribbon on her hair to see which one looked best”.

In keeping with this child-perspective, the story is told with a light touch and quiet humour. Picture, for example, Polly leaning out of the hack on the way home from the funeral, yelling “Whee” to some friends as she waves her “black-bordered handkerchief”. This tone doesn’t deny the tragedy of death, but again lets us see it from the response of children who cannot be kept down for long. The result is a hopeful story despite the toughness of life.

The story ends with one more paragraph after Polly has run upstairs after dinner. In one sentence it contrasts Polly’s contrition with the joy of the ride. She knows what’s right, but can’t help herself.

Emma E. Butler
“Polly’s hack ride” (first published in The crisis, 1916)
in Christine Rudisel and Bob Blaisdell (ed.), Great short stories by African-American writers
Garden City: Dover Publications, 2015
pp. 57-60
ISBN: 9780486471396
Available online (you can find the whole journal issue at this link)

Monday musings on Australian literature: Forgotten writers 16, Edna Davies

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Of all the forgotten writers I’ve researched, Edna Davies proved by far the most difficult. Even AustLit had nothing on her besides a list of a few works, but she intrigued me so I soldiered on. This post, like most of my recent Forgotten Writers posts, a revision, with a little bit of added information, of the one I posted there.

Edna Davies

So, for my AWW post I started at the end, where we get some facts. Her death was reported on 26 December 1952 in the Family Notices section of The Pioneer (from Yorketown, South Australia). It said she was 56 years old, which suggests she was born in 1896. The notice gives her name as Edna Irene, identifies her parents, and names her siblings as Daisy, Keith and Jack (deceased).

There are two other entries for her in the newspaper in December. On 12 December, a brief article announced that ‘Miss Edna Davies, “Pioneer” representative and correspondent, has been absent for some weeks because of ill health, and is at present in hospital, where she may have to spend some time yet’. They identify someone who will gather news, and add that “until Miss Davies’ return to Minlaton, advertisements, or payment of accounts, should be sent direct to the Pioneer Office”, which suggests she had an administrative role. They conclude this announcement, by saying that ‘The weekly feature “Comments on the News” (Written by Miss Davies) will, we regret, have to be temporarily suspended”, which confirms her writing contribution.

On 26 December, the same day the death notice appeared, they published a brief obituary. Here it is in full:

Press and Radio Correspondent Dies
Yorke Peninsula generally will feel the loss of Miss Edna Davies, of Minlaton who died in an Adelaide Hospital on Monday. Miss Davies, whose name is particularly familiar to readers of “The Pioneer,” has served many years as Southern and Central Yorke Peninsula’s chief correspondent for radio stations, provincial and metropolitan newspapers. People in many Peninsula towns will miss the friendly weekly phone calls she used to make in her search for news about the doings of local organisations and people. Her articles, as well as her Peninsula news items, have been of great value and interest, and we join her brother and sister and our readers in mourning her sudden demise.

So, it’s likely that she was born in Minlaton, central Yorke Peninsula, which is about 30 kms north of Yorketown, the home of her employer The Pioneer. Indeed, on 20 March 1926, a brief article appeared in The Pioneer, headed “Minlaton. Farewell to Miss Edna Davies”. The article describes an event that was held at the Minlaton Institute “to bid farewell to Miss Edna Davies and Mr. Jack Davies” (presumably the brother mentioned in the death notice.) They were leaving for London. (Indeed, according to Adelaide’s The Register, they left on 20 March). There were “eulogistic addresses” and “a useful cheque” was handed to Miss Davies. What does this tell us? Not a lot, but we can glean some information. She was around 30 years old, and seemingly not married. She was known in the community, at least enough for her departure to be reported on, albeit social news was more common at the time. It also tells us – from the headline – that it was she, not her brother, who was most known.  

Since writing my AWW post, I have done more research, and have discovered something about why she was known in the community. For example, Adelaide’s Observer (3 November 1923), writing on the Central Yorke’s Peninsula Agricultural Society’s annual show, observed that “the show committee provided the dinner … under the able management of Miss Edna Davies … Things worked smoothly in this department”. The article also praises the work of the Society’s secretary, Mr D.M.S. Davies, Edna’s father.

Anyhow, back to her chronology, three months after the report of her going to London, Moonta’s The People’s Weekly (12 June 1926) writes about the Minlaton Literary Society’s fourth annual musical and elocutionary competitions, advising that entries go to “secretary (Miss Edna Davies)”. This must have been a clerical error because, from the many newspaper reports under her by-line – and headed “Travel” or “Our London Letter” – it’s clear that she was in England by June 1926, then through 1927 and probably into early 1928. It’s possible that some of the articles dated later in 1928 were written back home.

Certainly, on 31 May 1929, there is a report in The Pioneer of the Minlaton Institute Literary Society’s seventh annual musical and elocutionary competitions and once again entries were to go to secretary Edna Davies. She probably was back on the job then. From this time, there are more articles, stories and columns – including her “Comments on the News” – by her South Australian papers. Together they build up a picture of who she was, and what she thought about life – local, national and international.

One that captured my attention was written from England, and published in The Pioneer on 6 January 1928. She starts by saying she hadn’t been doing much sightseeing so was “short of material” for her London Letter. So, she writes about some reading she’s doing about Australia, including a book by Mr Fraser. From what she says, I believe the book was Australia: The making of a nation (1911/12) by Scottish travel writer John Foster Fraser. Chapter 19 is tilted “A White Australia”. Fraser, a man of his times, understands the desire for a “white Australia”, but asks this:

What will Australian people say when the question is put to them, “As you are not developing this region [the great uninhabited north], what right have you to prohibit other people from developing it? It was not your land in the first instance. You obtained it by conquest that was peaceful. What can you do to resist conquest by force of arms? Who are you to say to the world, Let other peoples crowd together and be hungry owing to congestion of population, live cramped and struggling lives, but we, although doing practically nothing to develop our own resources, do not want anybody else to come in and develop the resources of a part of the world not given to us but given to the human race?'”

Davies is taken with this question and asks, “Have we all studied the pros and cons of the question carefully, so that should it be wanted, we can without hesitation give a carefully thought out decision after viewing the question from all sides. Looking back through history we see that no nation has ever come into, or held its own, without fighting for it, so why should we be an exception”. Her thinking – and Foster’s thinking – is not our thinking, but that she took the issue up and was published tells us something about her and the times. Neither of course consider that “little” line of Foster’s that “It was not your land in the first instance”.

Another randomly chosen example of her thinking comes from 20 June 1952, when she writes in her column “Comments on the News”:

READING about a press conference Mr. Menzies had recently in London this thought struck me — “What much wider outlook British pressmen seem to have than do their colleagues in Australia.”
And that’s a bad thing for Australia. Because if pressmen haven’t a wide outlook how can the public, who depend on them for news of the outside world, be expected to have one.

She slates it to the “old problem” of Australia’s geographic isolation, suggesting that “we are so isolated from other places that it it [sic] hard to realise that their welfare and their doings are important to us”.

AustLit lists 5 stories by her, and AWW lists 12 short stories in Stories from online archives (11 from the 1930s and 1 from the 1940s), but these are just a few of many short stories by her that were published in South Australian newspapers, and The Bulletin. I shared one of The Bulletin stories in my AWW post. Titled “Scrub”, it’s perfect “Bulletin-fare”, with its story of a woman who cannot get over a childhood nightmarish experience in the bush, and an intriguing take on lost-child-in-the-bush tradition in Australian culture.

Edna Davies turned out to be another example of an independent woman who seems to have made a career for herself in journalism and writing.

Sources

Edna Davies, “Scrub“, The Bulletin, Vol. 56 No. 2906 (23 Oct 1935)

All other sources are linked in the article.

Teffi, The examination (#Review, #1925 Club)

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Mostly for the Year Clubs, I read an Australian short story, usually from one of my anthologies. However, for 1925, I couldn’t find anything in my anthologies, so turned to other newspaper-based sources, including Trove, but I mainly found romances or works that were difficult to access. And then, out of the blue, I found something rather intriguing, a story titled “The examination”. It was written by a Russian woman named Teffi, translated into English by J.A. Brimstone, and published in The Australian Worker, an Australian Workers’ Union newspaper, on 25 November 1925. I don’t know when it was originally written, nor have I been able to found out who J.A. Brimstone was.

Who is Teffi?

The Australian Worker ascribes the story to N. Teffi. This nomenclature is interesting. My research suggests that Teffi, not N. Teffi, was the pen name of Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya (1872-1952). Wikipedia gives her pen name as Teffi, but its article on her is titled Nadezhda Teffi. Curiously, the article’s history page includes a comment from a Wikipedian, dated 11 June 2014, that “Her pen name is only Teffi, not Nadezhda Teffi”. This Wikipedian “moved” the article (Wikipedia-speak for changing titles) to “Teffi”, but it was later moved back to “Nadezhda Teffi”. Seems to me it should be under “Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya” or “Teffi”. But, let’s not get bogged down. There’s probably more I don’t know about how she used her name over time.

The more interesting thing is who she was. Wikipedia provides what looks like a fair introduction to her life, so I won’t repeat all that here. Essentially, it says she was a Russian humorist writer who could be both serious and satirical, but whose gift for humour was “considered anomalous for a woman of her time”. However, she proved them wrong, “skyrocketing to fame throughout Russia with her satirical writings, so much so that she had candies and perfume named after her”.

Literary scholar Maria Bloshteyn, writing in the LA Review of Books in 2016, would agree. She starts her piece by describing Teffi as “once a Russian literary superstar”, and says that “Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya claimed that she took the comic-sounding and intentionally androgynous nom de plume for good luck”. Bloshteyn writes:

She began to publish in her early 30s and tried her hand in various genres, but it was her short stories, with their keen and hilarious observations of contemporary society, that were read by everyone from washerwomen to students to top government officials. They won her literary success on a scale unprecedented in pre-Revolutionary Russia.

My short story, however, was written post-Revolution, given we are talking 1925. But, I’m jumping ahead. Tsar Nicholas II was a big fan, Bloshteyn says, as was Vladimir Lenin “with whom she worked in 1905 at the short-lived New Life [Novaia Zhizn’] newspaper”. She left Russia in 1919, during the “Red Terror” when things started to turn sour. Her popularity continued in the émigré world. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, her books were read again and “celebrated as recovered gems of Russian humor”.

This potted history sounds very positive, but Bloshteyn explains that there was also darkness in her life, including the death of her loved father when she was young, difficult relationships with siblings, a failed marriage, mental health problems, and more. Also, “she became a victim of her immensely successful but severely confining brand”, meaning editors and readers “only wanted the Teffi they knew” and, worse, “they perceived all of her stories as funny, even when they were clearly tragic”. How frustrating that would be, eh?

She was inspired by – and has been likened to – Chekhov. Bloshteyn says:

Her appreciation of the absurd, of the comic minutiae of life, helps set off the darker or more transcendent aspects of our existence, but her main focus, in the tradition of the great 19th-century Russian writers, was always human nature itself: what makes us tick and why.

I’ll leave her biography here, but if you are interested, start at Wikipedia, and go from there.

“The examination”

“The examination” tells the story of a young girl, Manichka Kooksina, who is sitting for her end-of-year exams which will decide whether she moves on to the next grade. Important things ride on passing them, including staying with her friend Liza who has already passed and getting the new bike her aunt promised her if she passed. However, instead of knuckling down to study she fritters her time, trying on a new dress, reading, and finally filling her notebooks with a prayer “Lord, Help”, believing that if she writes it hundreds or thousands of times she will pass. Needless to say, she does not do well.

The story is beautifully told from her perspective, with much humour for the reader as she flounders her way through preparation and the exam itself. She feels persecuted, an animal being tortured, and resorts to the absurd solution of writing lines, while her nervous peers have at least tried. I wondered why this particular story of hers was chosen by The Australian Worker. Was it the only one available to them in English? Did the examination theme feel universally relevant? According to Bloshteyn, Teffi said that “even the funniest of her stories were small tragedies given a humorous spin”. This is certainly a “small tragedy” for the – hmm, foolish, procrastinating, but believable – Manichka.

Bloshteyn’s essay is primarily a review of two books that had been recently published, Tolstoy, Rasputin, others, and me: The Best of Teffi and Memories: From Moscow to the Black Sea. The former includes sketches and some of her “best loved short stories”. GoodReads says of it that “in the 1920s and 30s, she wrote some of her finest stories in exile in Paris … In this selection of her best autobiographical stories, she covers a wide range of subjects, from family life to revolution and emigration, writers and writing”. I don’t know whether “The examination” is one of them, but Bloshteyn writes, of the child-themed stories she mentions, that all “show children in the process of getting to know the world around them and finding the means to cope with it”. Manichka, although showing some resourcefulness, has a way to go.

I was thrilled to find this little treasure in Trove, and will try to read more Teffi. Has anyone else read her?

* Read for the 1925 reading week run by Karen (Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings) and Simon (Stuck in a Book).

N. Teffi
“The examination” [Accessed: 21 October 2025]
in The Australian Worker, 25 November 1925

Monday musings on Australian literature: Forgotten writers 15, Tarella Daskein

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I first came across Tarella Daskein back in 2021 when Bill (The Australian Legend) wrote a post about her as the result of her coming up in discussions and reading about Katharine Susannah Prichard. She then slipped my mind until a couple of months ago when I was searching around for a subject for my Australian Women Writers post that month. This post, like most of my recent Forgotten Writers posts, s a minor revision of the one I posted there.

Tarella Daskein

As with many of the lesser-known writers we research for this blog, Tarella Daskein (1877-1945) was somewhat challenging to pin down. It’s not that she wasn’t known. Indeed, Wikipedia and AustLit both have entries for her. However, there were conflicting details of her life. For example, both Wikipedia and AustLit had her death date as 1934, which was curious because Adelaide’s The Advertiser reported on her visiting that city in June 1935. How could that be? Further, The Advertiser also had her husband as Mr. T.S. Daskein while Wikipedia and other newspaper articles had him as Mr. T.M. Daskein. Compounding all this was her use of multiple names, including some confusion over her maiden name. The above-mentioned Advertiser, for example, reported it as Quinn. AustLit, however, resolved this by noting at the end of its entry that her name had been incorrectly spelled as ‘Quinn’ in Miller and Macartney’s Australian Literature: A Bibliography (1956). The death date issue was clarified by, strangely, Wikipedia’s article on her father, Edward Quin, which gave her death as 1945 and cited a newspaper notice as evidence. And a death notice for her husband confirms him as T.M. not T.S.

So, with all that resolved, who was this Tarella Daskein? Tarella Ruth Quin was born in Wilcannia, second daughter to pastoralist and one-time member of the New South Wales Legislature, Edwin Quin, in 1877. She is best known as a writer of children’s stories, but also wrote three adult novels – A desert rose (1912), Kerno (1914) and Paying guests (1917) – and many short stories which were published in contemporary newspapers and magazines. AustLit provides a good outline of her origins. She was one of eight children. Her father owned a dairy farm called ‘The Leasowes’, near Victoria’s Fern Tree Gully, and a sheep station called ‘Tarella’, after which she was named, in far western New South Wales near Wilcannia. ‘Ella’, as she was known, was educated in Adelaide, but spent most of her life on stations. She married Thomas Mickle Daskein, part proprietor of a station in far northwest NSW.

Cover for Tarella Quin Gum Tree Brownie

AustLit says that her first writing comprised short sketches of station life, which were published under the pseudonym “James Adare” in the Pastoral Review. At the editor’s suggestion, she also wrote some stories for children, which she sent to Ethel Turner, hoping to have them published in Sydney newspapers. However, Turner apparently recommended they be published as books. Her first book, Gum Tree Brownie, was published in 1910, with illustrations by Ida Rentoul whom Ella’s younger sister, Hazel, knew at school. This began a long partnership between the two, with Ida Rentoul Outhwaite illustrating many of her books for children. Wilde et al say she was “one of Australia’s most successful writers of fairy-stories for children” and that “humour, irony, a fluent, dramatic style and fantasy reminiscent of Lewis Carroll enliven her stories”.

Bill, as mentioned above, came across her, initially in Katharine Susannah Prichard’s autobiography, Child of the hurricane. Apparently, Prichard was governess for a year at Tarella Station in 1905, by which time Tarella, who was six years older than KSP, was already a published author. Prichard, says Bill, is “pretty dismissive” of Quin’s writing.

However, not all were. Several contemporary reviewers praised her adult novels, often singling out Kerno: A stone for special mention. On 10 April 1915, Adelaide’s Observer wrote:

Kerno, although similar in some respects, is nevertheless distinctly different from A Desert Rose. The latter is a novel – the former is a study – a keen analysis of human feelings and desires. One cannot well peruse the book without thinking deeply, and wondering what one would have done in circumstances like those in which the leading actors found themselves placed. Young people and those having a preference for light ephemeral literature may be inclined to consider the story rather tame; but all who have a true appreciation for human nature, and endeavour to probe into its many and varied qualities, will find in it compelling and absorbing interest.

Those who praise Kerno mostly praise it for its “real” characters and deep understanding of human nature. Indeed, the Observer says that it “richly deserves to rank among the best truly Australian novels”. Daskein was also praised for her understanding of and ability to convey life in the bush and, as the Observer says, for her “descriptive writing which … captivates the reader”.

Notwithstanding all this, Quin mostly wrote for children, with The Australian Women’s Weekly claiming, after the publication of Chimney Town in 1936, that

She has published more ambitious volumes, but her tales for children have a unique charm that makes one feel that this is her real metier.

Quin’s publishing career lasted from around 1907 to the mid-1930s, so it was no flash in the pan. AustLit lists over 20 works by her, but this may not be all. Regardless, she was well-known to readers of her time, and, according to Adelaide’s The Rouseabout, had some presence in literary circles, including being “a foundation member of the Melbourne centre of the P.E.N. Club and a constant attendant at its meetings”. She died on 22 October 1945, at a private hospital in Melbourne. The fact that I found little mention of this beyond The Rouseabout’s short article suggests that in the last decade of her life – after the death of her husband in 1937 – she faded from view.

The piece, “The camel”, which I chose for AWW, was published in The Bulletin’s Christmas issue in 1935. It shows a writer a writer who knows the outback, knows how to entertain her audience, and, who firmly belongs to the bush tradition. Life is tough, but our woman protagonist is resourceful.

Sources

Bill Holloway, “Tarella Down a Rabbit Hole“, The Australian Legend (blog), 16 December 2021 [Accessed: 9 November 2025]
The Rouseabout, “In Town and Out“, The Herald, 12 November 1945 [Accessed: 16 August 2025]
Tarella Quin, AustLit [Accessed: 16 August 2025]
Tarella Quin, Wikipedia [Accessed: 16 August 2025]
William H. Wilde, Joy Hooton and Barry Andrews, The Oxford companion to Australian literature. Melbourne, Oxford University Press, 2nd, edition, 1994

Olga Tokarczuk, House of day, house of night (#BookReview)

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About 30 pages into Olga Tokarczuk’s novel, House of day, house of night, I turned to Mr Gums and said, I have no idea what I am reading, which is unusual for me. I certainly don’t pretend to understand everything I read, but I can usually sense a book’s direction. However, something about this one was throwing me, so …

I had a quick look at Wikipedia, and found this “synopsis”:

Although nominally a novel, House of Day, House of Night is rather a patchwork of loosely connected disparate stories, sketches, and essays about life past and present in … a Polish village in the Sudetes near the Polish-Czech border. While some have labeled the novel Tokarczuk’s most “difficult” piece, at least for those unfamiliar with Central European history, it was her first book to be published in English. [Accessed: 1 October 2025]

That made me feel better! I am more than comfortable with “loosely connected disparate stories” but am only generally-versed in Central European history. So, I decided to relax and go with the flow. From that point on, I started to enjoy my reading more, but it was slow going, because the “disparate stories” demand attention. It’s not a book you whizz through for story, but one you savour for thoughts and ideas, and for the connections you find along the way.

Tokarczuk calls it, in fact, a “constellation novel”, which I understand builds on thinking by the German critic and philosopher, Walter Benjamin (1892-1940). According to academic Louis Klee, who has written on “the constellational novel”, “these novels are recognizable by the presence of a first-person narrator committed to drawing affinities and making connections among disparate things”. They can be non-linear and incorporate various forms of writing from essayistic to lyrical to fragmentary, and encourage readers to find their own connections (like finding patterns in a constellation).

This well encapsulates House of day, house of night. It comprises numerous individually titled chapters (or sections or parts), some just a few paragraphs long, and others several pages. At first it felt disjointed, but it wasn’t long before an underlying structure started to reveal itself, one held together by a first-person narrator, a woman who had come to live in a small Polish village with her partner R – just like Tokarczuk and her husband did – three years before the novel opens. She tells of life in the village, and particularly of the relationship she develops with her neighbour, a somewhat mysterious old woman named Marta, who embodies a wisdom that she sometimes shares but other times must be gleaned from what she doesn’t say.

Interspersed with our narrator’s story, are other stories – some real, some magical, some past, some present – about the region and people in it. There’s a gender-fluid monk named Paschalis who is writing the life of the female saint Kummernis. There’s the unnamed couple who think they have it all, until each is visited by the same lover, a female for “he” and a male for “she”. There’s a religious community called the Cutlers who make knives and believe that “the soul is a knife stabbed into the body, which forces it to undergo the incessant pain that we call life”. There’s the wonderfully named Ergo Sum who had tasted human flesh in frozen Siberia, where he’d been deported in 1943, and believes he is turning into a werewolf. And so on. Some of these stories continue, for several chapters, woven around our narrator’s story, while others stand alone. Some are about people who think they have life worked out, while in other stories, the people don’t have a clue.

There’s more though, because scattered through the stories are ruminations on disparate things like dahlias, nails, comets and grass allergies. And threading through it all are various motifs, usually providing segues between chapters, encouraging us to see links and to ponder their meaning for us. These motifs include dreams, names, time, death, borders, mushrooms (potentially deadly), and knives. The more you read, the more connections you see between them and the stories. Many are philosophically-based, but are not hard to understand. In other words, the challenge is not in understanding, but in how we, individually, process the links we see. You might have already noticed some in my examples above, such as the idea of identity. Even the mysterious Marta, who disappears every winter, is unsettling. Who is she really?

“people are woefully similar”

This is the sort of book you would expect of a Nobel prizewinner. The writing is simple but expressive, and is accompanied by a rich, dark, and often ironic humour. We have border guards who don’t want to deal with a dead body so they quietly shove it to the other side of the border. And Leo the clairvoyant who says “Thank God people have the capacity for disbelief — it is a truly bountiful gift from God”. That made me splutter.

Underpinning all this – the thing that gives the book its heft – is a quiet but somewhat resigned wisdom. It interrogates some big questions – our willingness (or not) to see what is happening in front of us, our relationship to place, how we comprehend time, and who we are. These are explored through universal binaries, not only the night-and-day contained in the title, but life and death, change and stasis, ripening and decay. How do we live with – and balance – these parts of ourselves, of life?

But, House of day, house of night is also set in a particular place and time, southwest Poland, just post World War 2. This area, explains the Translator in her note, was part of the German Reich until 1945, when the Allies agreed to move Poland’s borders west. Many Poles left their old lands of the east (now part of the USSR), and resettled in this once German area in the west, occupying homes left by the evacuated Germans. This specific history is also found in the book, with Polish families hopefully, greedily, digging up German treasures, for example, and Germans sadly returning to see their old places.

House of day, house of night offers no answers, but it sure asks a lot of questions – about how, or whether, we can move forward into more humane, and hence more fulfilling lives.

This brings me to the ending. I won’t spoil it – it’s impossible in a story like this anyhow – but we close, appropriately, on the idea of constellations and finding patterns, and a hope that it is possible to find a pattern that explains it all. It is deliciously cheeky. And, on that note, I will end.

Olga Tokarczuk,
House of day, house of night
Translated from the Polish by Antonia Lloyd-Jones
Melbourne: Text publishing, 2025 (Orig. pub. 1998; Eng trans. 2002)
298pp.
ISBN: 9781923058675

Review copy courtesy Text Publishing