Posted by: Lisa Hill | February 27, 2010

Appo, Recollections of a Member of the Sydney Push (2009), by Richard Appleton

 I really like the cover of this memoir: it shows David Perry’s portrait of a debonair Richard Appleton (1932-2005), sitting elegantly in an armchair with his dandified cigar, his aloof eyebrow and his carefully casual shock of hair on one side of the body – while he’s sporting a bloodied hand and eye on the other.  I like its ambiguity: it could be referring to Reds on the Left, or to the pub punch-up in which Appleton severed some tendons on broken glass…but if it is, the blood’s on the wrong hand.  (p104)

Appo, Recollections of a Member of the Sydney Push is Appleton’s memoir of his life amid the group which went by the strange name of the Sydney Push. What was it?  Since I was still a child in its heyday, I had to investigate via Wikipedia before I started reading.  There I learned that the Push was a predominantly left-wing sub-culture in Sydney from the 1940s to the 1970s.  It starred such luminaries as Germaine Greer, Clive James,  Eva Cox , Robert Hughes, Frank Moorhouse, Les Murray, John  Olsen and Paddy McGuinness.

(This was a surprise.  Paddy McGuinness a member of a left wing sub-culture? Is this the same McGuinness who wrote in The Australian until recently? ? There can’t possibly be two of them, but PM was, for all the years I was aware of his existence, a thorn in the side of anyone to the left of Genghis Khan.  I gave up reading him years ago because (like  most of the The Usual Suspects in the daily press) he was so predictable I could have written his articles myself.  However did this Left/Right metamorphosis occur??)

I was more than two thirds of the way through this book before I realised I actually owned a book by Appleton.  It’s The Cambridge Dictionary of Australian Places, one of those reference books on my shelf that I get down from time to time but had never noticed its author.  It’s a gazetteer listing cities and suburbs and intriguing little places you’ve never heard of, with brief and sometimes earthy entries about all sorts of things from the origin of the place name to its Aboriginal history. It’s got maps too, which were done by Appleton’s third wife Barbara, and I now realise that I could have checked out their abode when I was in Cessnock last summer!   Appleton was also the Editor-in-Chief of The Australian Encyclopedia but I don’t feel at all embarrassed about not knowing that.  I don’t know who the Editor-in-Chief of the Britannica is either, although I’ve  got a complete set (thanks to a cull in my local library, where  for $40.00 I bought two sets of the entire 1994 edition, one for me and one for school.)

I’ll cheerfully admit that I’d never heard of most of the people mentioned in this book.  I don’t know whether this is because my awareness of Australian contemporary poets is scanty, because the Push was a local Sydney phenomenon, or because the dramatis personae were merely legends in their own lunchtimes. Among those who really were notable (at least to people like me) were Clive James and Germaine Greer (who was born in Melbourne, not Sydney, and got her undergraduate degree here).  These two shot through to the UK, became famous for being public intellectuals and haven’t come back except on flying visits where they manage to irritate nearly everybody, as expats routinely do.  Robert Hughes went to the US and became famous for being an art critic.  (He doesn’t want to come back since having a rather unedifying episode in the courts after a car accident in Broome). Eva Cox was a Big Deal in the Women’s Electoral Lobby, and Les Murray writes poetry which John Howard liked.  (Or said he did. I can’t really imagine Howard reading anything except cricket scores and treasury budget forecasts but you never know, I suppose. ) Frank Moorhouse is a notable writer and won the Miles Franklin for Dark Palace in 2000, so he’s my favourite out of this lot, though I do like John Olsen’s paintings and wish I had enough money to buy one.  I hadn’t heard of any of the rest of them, so I shall spare you the list.

Whether they grew up to be significant and influential people or not, they seem to have indulged themselves in their youth.  It  might just be Appleton’s rather adolescent attitude towards heavy drinking, but writing this memoir in his dotage he seems keen to give the impression that their lives revolved around boozing.  Students or not (Appleton dropped out) they hung out at the pubs surrounding Sydney Uni, but since in those days pubs closed at 6:00pm, they moved operations after dark to cheap restaurants and noisy parties.  Handicapped by the fact that they were radicals who disapproved of anything remotely organised, (including elections and democracy), they seem to have been paralysed into inaction, though they managed to get to the odd demo against the Vietnam War, the Springbok Rugby Tour and Sharpeville.  (But didn’t everyone with a social conscience?)

Were Push members on ASIO’s visiting list?  Given the paranoia about Communism they probably were.  They were snooty about The Establishment but they also thought that revolutions were a waste of time.  It’s not quite clear to me from what Appleton writes about the different kinds of Communism whether he eventually rejected it or the local Communists rejected him, but I didn’t find that part very interesting anyway.   I don’t think that Appleton paints a very clear picture of what was meant by Push libertarianism apart from scorning the conservatism of the day, theorising about permanent revolution and enjoying sexual liberation.  (However since reliable contraception was not available in Australia till the early 1960s, for most of the Push’s history sexual liberation was a risky proposition for women, and probably not quite so much fun).

(By comparison, the Left in Melbourne were almost staid.  Most of them (as Barry Jones says in the blurb) were active in the Fabian Society, a progressive policy think tank based on the British Fabians and established in Australian in 1947.  Australian Fabianism is characterised by longevity and by its influence on Australian domestic politics.  Famous Fabians include Prime Minister Gough Whitlam, Bob Hawke, and Paul Keating, and State Premiers Don Dunstan, Neville Wran and John Cain. )

Whatever, Wikipedia tells us that the evolution of youth culture in the 1970s meant that Push libertarianism became irrelevant.  Quoting Alan Barcan, the article says that in “advocating free love and opposition to authority, the Push and the Libertarians anticipated the new post-1968 morality. But the adoption of many of their ideas by society undermined their raison d’être”. [1] How tiresome it must have been to have the masses adopt their views!

The blurb on the back quotes Barry Jones as saying this is a ‘provoking’ memoir, and I certainly agree.  By the end of Chapter 4 I was tired of Appleton’s world-weary cynicism  and his too-deliberate flippancy and I was none too impressed by his writing style.  Whatever does it mean when he writes: ‘Omnipresent at the Lincoln, when he was present there at all, was Harry Hooten’? (p39)

And the poetry he quotes? I like Ovid, Milton, John Donne, and T S Eliot, old ballads and a bit of war poetry if I’m feeling sentimental on ANZAC Day, so I’m in no position to judge contemporary poetry, but I’m really not much impressed.

Epitaph for Tania, by Lex Banning

Who was not altogether
unlike the Duchess of Malfi 

Remember her;
she had a quality of beauty.

Lament for her;
Time used her poorly.

Speak truly of her;
she was not wholly honest.

Be glad for her;
she died young.

Is that good poetry? If it is, does that excuse the last lines, when the girl in question committed suicide??

On the other hand, some parts were really interesting.  I found Appleton’s adventures as an itinerant worker extraordinary – when he ran out of money for idling away his days in the pub with the Push, he seems to have set off out into the bush to earn a bit of money. He hitchhiked all over the eastern states in search of work – from Far North Queensland  to Melbourne and back again picking up jobs as an unskilled labourer.  Appleton’s poverty-stricken search for work reminds me of  Murray Bail’s marvellous book about Ian Fairweather, that wonderfully talented artist who could not support himself as a painter and was reduced to taking on horrible menial tasks to buy the materials he needed.   Although Appleton’s plight was possibly self-inflicted (his flippancy makes it hard to tell) he was often hungry, homeless, cold, dirty and shabbily dressed, doing menial and badly paid work on sugar cane farms and sheep stations, trying everything from harvesting peanuts to grading wheat seeds, with stints at fencing, rabbiting, and fettling – but he writes about all this not with self-pity but with entertaining humour.

It’s even more extraordinary that when Appleton got his girlfriend pregnant her parents wanted her to marry him.  A son-in-law less suitable to fit into middle-class Melbourne life would be hard to find, but to give him his due he made an effort and even completed teacher-training and got a real job for a while.  Quite why the marriage took place when Marion had decided to adopt out the child as soon as it was born isn’t clear, and Appleton seems to have no feelings about this relinquished child, which is rather sad.  He’s also disconcertingly philosophical about being estranged from his children by his second marriage…

Sometimes his flippancy goes too far.  After he abandoned the first marriage, he went to Sydney with a woman called Jan Millar.  She was killed, tragically, at Circular Quay when she went to farewell Paddy McGuiness on his trip to England.

Those waving farewell were crowded onto a platform perched high above the concrete pier to which the ship was moored. A ‘safety fence’ was there to keep them in check, but Jan, characteristically enthusiastic and probably drunk , thrust herself too far forward.  She fell – and crushed her skull. (p117)

Now, I object to this. ‘Probably drunk’ means that Appleton doesn’t really know for certain whether she was or she wasn’t, and didn’t bother to find out.  So why write it?  Why besmirch a memory in this way when it might not even be true?   He’s not above slagging off about his second wife either, and may well have been a bit of a misogynist.

I wasn’t very interested in the stuff about Labor Party factions, but was most intrigued by Appleton’s adventures with emerging computer technology.  At the beginning of his time at Angus and Robertson things were much as they had been for decades:

an editorial office strung with clothes lines on which were pegged, in alphabetical order, the printer’s galley proofs of the encyclopedia, each about one-and-a-quarter metres in length and printed on cheap paper.  These were used, in those pre-computer days when linotype and monotype printing were the norm, for publishers to check the typesetter’s accuracy.  Through that flammable forest of paper fronds the editorial staff went about their day-to-day and year-to-year compilation of the encyclopedia. (p194)

Writing about publishing in transition from typesetting to computers Appleton reminds us that such transitions were more complex than they now seem.  Early software was not WYSIWYG, and this was especially tricky if publishing something in columns, as encyclopedias are.  For the third edition of The Australian Encyclopedia, to work out where words could be hyphenated, he had to read the entire MS – all 2,400,000 words of it – marking syllables where hyphenation was permissable.  For the fourth edition, he had to fight hard to have an index included in the fourth edition  (how bizarre is that??) but software could not sort articles alphabetically.  Metrication meant that Appleton had to convert all the distances in the encyclopedia by hand without a calculator too.  This is the stuff I found really interesting, and I wish there were more of it and less of the inane anecdotes about drinking.

I wonder who the market for this book is.  Will it be stocked throughout Australia?  It’s available at Gleebooks in Sydney but not at Readings in Melbourne, which could mean that Melbourne isn’t interested.  You can also get it from Sydney University Press.


Author: Richard Appleton
Title:  Appo, Recollections of a Member of the Sydney Push
Publisher: Darlington Press, an imprint of Sydney University Press. 2009
ISBN: 9781921364099
Source: Review copy, Sydney University Press.


  1. I am glad you opened the review with reference to the cover — when I saw it in the sidebar, I thought it was great (reminds me of the cover for The Glass Room, my favorite of the last few years). And thank you for such an extensive review of what would seem to be a not very good book. We did have similar not very relevant leftie movements in Canada, so the review struck some responsive chords — not enough to make me want to read the book, but enough to bring me up to date.

    And I love the cover of the next book in your list as well. You are on quite a “cover run”.


  2. Cover art is one of the areas where publishers are increasingly making economies, and it’s a real shame. So often these days they recycle something from Getty Images instead of using a design that ‘belongs with’ the story – and the irony is that this is happening in the visual age, where people are more and more ‘image literate’.
    The jacket design from A Body of Water is by Christopher McVinish and it’s a painting by Matisse, Interieur, bocal aux poissons rouges 1914. The blurb explains why it ‘belongs with’ the book: like a body of water fed by many sources yet remaining whole and self-contained, the text draws on journal, notebook, story, poem, tribute and criticism to produce an astonishingly powerful, many layered montage. The Matisse is a very clever choice, suggesting that Farmer’s work is both interior and outward looking, contained yet constrained, originating from beyond yet belonging in her world and so on. The fluidity and colour of the font is perfect too.
    It’s a clear indication that McVinish understood the book *and* could draw on his knowledge of art works to choose exactly the right one.


  3. “Appo…” Re poor Tania, Is it wicked to suggest that she may have been reading too much poetry by Lex Banning?


  4. I can’t answer that one, Pam; as with many tantalising bits of gossip in Appo, the full story isn’t told!
    As to Banning, well, I’ve looked up him up online and found on Wikipedia a poem of his called The Dark Soul ( but (like the one quoted in Appo) it is a mystery to me why it’s considered so great. I freely admit above, and here, that this may well be because of my limitations in respect of modern poetry…


    • Lisa, Here is a short poem by Lex Banning that I have remembered verbatim for nearly fifty years. It made a big impression on me. What do you think?

      Of the thousand and one stairs
      up to my heart eagerly
      she climbed them all until,
      upon the very topmost one,
      she paused, and sadly turned away.


      • Hello Lyn, thanks for dropping by:)
        I do rather like that one!


  5. Re. Is that good poetry?

    I don’t know, but the call and response pattern seems appropriate, given that the poet is trying to stamp a memory into his audience’s head. Sursum corda reinforcement.

    Remember her / she had a quality of beauty.

    could be

    Lift up your hearts / We lift them up to the Lord

    or any of those other times when a leader calls out to the chorus, “Think of this,” and they respond, “Yes, it was like this.” For an epitaph it seems suitably liturgical.

    As for the last two lines, they’re a shallow and romantic reponse to a suicide, but this sentiment is not an anomaly. Slews of fictional youths have died sweetly at young ages. “Whom the gods love die young,” wrote Menander. Appo is fitting her into that tradition. “Thrice fortunate who of that fragile mould, / The precious porcelain of human clay, / Break with the first fall,” wrote Byron.

    But your point remains: is it decent of him to fictionalise a real person in this way? Is it lazy? Ideally the last line would prompt a reader to look back at the other lines and wonder about the woman who inspired them. “Is it better that she died young because time was using her poorly? Would she have suffered unbearably if she’d lived? If she was “not … unlike” the Duchess of Malfi does that mean she was she trapped and persecuted to death? Is this why she felt compelled to lie, “not wholly honest”?”

    “Be sorry for her / She died young” wouldn’t have quite the same counterintuitive kick. So I think a case can be made for the poem.


  6. I begin to see what you mean, Deane…
    How about if you do a post or two about appreciating modern poetry, along the lines of my Postmodernism for the Uninitiated? I don’t like being a klutz about poetry, but as a non academic, I don’t know where to begin…


  7. Ha, nor do I. I haven’t studied poetry since high school, where they gave us Sylvia Plath’s ‘Daddy’ and pointed out that she was a smidge upset. My only guide to appreciating modern poetry would be this: trust that the poet has written that way for a reason, and try to work out what the reason is. That’s all.


  8. Well, yes, but how to tell if it’s ‘good’ or ‘bad’? A ‘good’ poet writes ‘that way for a reason’ and an indifferent poet writes stuff that looks the same at first glance because he doesn’t know any better.
    It’s a mystery to me!


  9. Are you thinking of Ern Malley? If the first glance is the killer then I suppose the only answer is to go beyond the first glance and keep glancing at it until you’re satisfied, not only on the page, but in your head as well. The point about the liturgy didn’t come to me until some time after I’d read the poem in your post. The structure was so deliberate that it was obviously imitating something — and something not unfamiliar — but what? I was idling over the lines in my head when “Lord be with you” chimed in of its own accord, and when I thought about it the idea made sense. What does call and response do? It establishes and reinforces an idea. What does the poet let us know he’s trying to do? Tell us about a woman and encourage us to remember her. So the structure (and the history of the structure — the liturgy aspect, the religious touch, suitable for an epitaph) fits the poet’s intention. I don’t know if this makes it ‘good’, but it makes it work. The poem’s got a motor.


  10. I definitely think that there is a place for an OzPoetry blog where someone who knows poetry and is keen to chat about it and share insights about how and why it works!
    Ern Malley unnerved me, I think. I mean in the sense that I’m only willing to invest time in trying to interpret a poem if I know that there’s something there worth finding even if I can’t see it at first. I need some guidance to do that.


  11. […] of its evocative cover, but I now see that my friend Lisa, at ANZLitLovers, has already done this, so I’ll start more boringly with definitions instead! According to Wikipedia, the Sydney […]


  12. Great review Lisa – and I generally concur with your points!


  13. Re. I need some guidance to do that.

    You could try Carol Rumens’ posts at the Guardian bookblog. She writes about a different poem each week, telling you what the poet seems to be trying to do, and how they’re doing it. For example:

    “But we shouldn’t forget that poems are made of line-breaks as well as words, and “so much depends”, in this poem [William Carlos Williams’ The Red Wheelbarrow], on the splitting of the two compound words, “wheelbarrow” and “rainwater”. These dissections slow us down, and help the mind’s eye to register more: the individual wheels as well as the body of the barrow, the water that is more than raindrops.”


    • Thanks, this is exactly what I want! I’ll be visiting her blog regularly – thanks for finding it for me:)


  14. You will find answers to your questions re Paddy McGuinness’s early years in the obituaries published in early 2008 – eg Damien Murphy in SMH 28 Jan and Christopher Pearson in The Australian Feb 2-3. Paddy was firstly an economist, and Left indeed.


    • Hi Barbara, I think I read those at the time, but the man remains a mystery. Will someone write a bio of him one day, I wonder?


  15. […] (I wonder whether the left-wing Sydney Push of the 1940s-1970s that Richard Appleton eulogized in Appo, Recollections of a Member of the Sydney Push  knew about the sordid antecedents of its […]


  16. […] Push’.   What I know of the them is derived from my reading of Richard Appleton’s Appo, Recollections of a Member of the Sydney Push, but the poseurs, inane babble and heavy drinking of Dancing on Coral seem […]


  17. […] Nick’s predicament is a remarkable contrast with the life of privilege into which he was born.  The narrative shifts to his childhood, when he was heir to Owl Creek in outback New South Wales.  His sister Lilly and friend Richard Connolly form a trio in an era when children were free to roam.  But it’s not an indivisible trio: sectarian, class and gender differences impact on their lives even in childhood. Lilly’s ambitions are compromised by her gender; Dick even as a child does not want to be the next generation of Connollys who’ve always worked for the MacLeans; and Nick wants to follow his creative ambitions, not his father’s expectation that he will take over the property in due course.  They become adults in the Sixties, when the Vietnam War ruptured Australian consensus and estranged families; when feminism rewrote the rules of female behaviour; when the divisiveness of sectarianism waned; and when new educational opportunities bridged the chasm between privilege and disadvantage. The author also captures the era of counter cultures encompassing sexual liberation and substance abuse, along with left-wing intellectual subcultures.  Nick joins the libertarian Sydney Push, much to the disapproval of his family, but that’s not all that he does to earn disdain. (Some readers may remember Appo, Recollections of a Member of the Sydney Push, (2009) by Richard Appleton, which described some aspects of the Push, see my review.) […]


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