Journal articles on the topic 'German literature (1945-1989)'

How is Brecht regarded in Germany? His reputation in the two Germaniesrose and fell and rose again during the period from 1945 to the Fall of the Wall in 1989. Then, in the s a new, less ideological, less moralistic understanding Brecht was introduced. Haunting this and all other recent German opinions about Brecht is Heiner Mller.

The title of the story What Remains by Christa Wolf denotes one of the main topics of the present discussion about German literature after 1989. The article presents the new questions (e.g. one or two German literature(s)? What does ‘GDR literature‘ mean? Is it a ‘special case’?) and changing conditions of the study of East German literature. A few new historical works discussing German literature since 1945, mainly since the reunification, and a few theoretical approaches (e.g. GDR literature as a chronotope and as regional literature) are presented.

The article aims to indicate what freedom models have been created in post-1945 German literature. What seems particularly interesting is looking into the development of literary motifs in correlation with political events and social movements. The articles refer to such significant milestones as 1945, 1968, 1989, 2011, and finally, 2015. Theses surrounding the theories of contemporariness and modernization are key to those thoughtful considerations. The processes of individualization and hybridization occurring within one world experiencing globalization are also important.

In this essay Habermas contends that, until 1989, four phases are discernible in how postwar Germany attempted to come to terms with its “unmasterable past.” Between the end of the war in 1945 and the foundation of two German states in 1949, the first reconstruction generation mythologized the Nazi period as a criminal abyss. If this strategy allowed the government of the Federal Republic to assume legal responsibility for reparation claims, it also served to release individuals from working through their own painful pasts. This stage yielded to a second phase, one of “communicative silencing,” during the Adenauer years from 1949-63 in which the second reconstruction generation chose not to speak of the past but rather to concentrate on building the Wirtschaftswunder. The student movement of the 1960s challenged this presentism with demands for disclosure and accountability, and from the mid-1970s until 1989 this quest for unmasking existed in tension with an ongoing desire for evasion. This tension drove the “Historians’ Debate” of those years. Since reunification in 1989, Germany’s attitude toward its past has remained ambivalent. Today a New Right calls for the self-confident reassertion of a German nation unburdened by its past. But the past will lose its hold over Germany, Habermas argues, only through the work of a truly faithful memory.

SURVEILLANCE AND SPYING IN NEW GERMAN LITERATURESurveillance is a remarkably prominent issue in the actual political debate in Germany. It is undoubtedly connected with past experiences. Both the Nazi-regime and the communist dictatorship in East Germany from 1945‑1989 developed sophisticated systems for controlling citizens, thus the modern sensibility in Germany toward surveillance is explicitly a reaction against those regimes. “Never more a GDR” is a slogan that is often seen in newspapers and Internet sites.It is surprising however that this topic has had a relatively insignificant position in new German literature since the fall of the wall. In the late eighties and early nineties surveillance and spying was treated with humour and forbearance: there was something comical about the spy-game; the spies were often poor guys and it was the general conviction that the system would disappear with the reunion.All this has changed after September 11th and the fight against terrorism which it activated. The opening up of the Stasi archives has also drawn new attention and sensibility to the issue. Two examples of this new tone are presented: Susanne Schädlich writes about her uncle spying on her father Hans-Joachim Schädlich – also after his emigration to Western Germany. It is a story about a family fission and of how to continue one’s life with the treachery of a once beloved person. Juli Zeh uses her education and training as a jurist to scrutinize the total system of surveillance in a society still claiming to be democratic. She does so in a collection of essays (with Ilija Trojanow) and in her best seller novels, latest Corpus delicti with the Kafka-sounding subtitle “a process”. Juli Zeh is the most prominent example of the tendency in new German literature to take up the tradition from the GDR-literature with its ethical obligation and fight against the totalitarian state. She is an example of the tendency to activate this special German tradition under new political circumstances – and new global perspectives.

The reception of literature written in German in Czechoslovakia after the Second World War was (and still is) in a hybrid position, oscillating between aversion to historical events that still resonate in Czech culture and society, and interest due to intensive cultural contacts and exchange projects between Germany and the Czech Republic. The reception of works by Paul Celan was all the more complicated because Jewish issues were by and large considered undesirable by the communist regime. The regime was officially only anti-Zionist, but de facto, as is well known, this meant anti-Semitic. In this article, attention is drawn to a neglected aspect of the surprising history of the reception of Celan’s poems in Czechoslovakia between 1945 and 1989 (with a brief excursion into the period 1990–2020) – namely, the “mediating function” of paratexts in the totalitarian regime. The first part briefly presents a definition of the term “paratext” and outlines the function of this type of text (taking into account the specific situation in which literature found itself in socialist Czechoslovakia). The following part illustrates the “mediating function” of paratexts in the Czechoslovak and the Czech editions of Celan’s poems.

Great Britain participated in the decision at the Potsdam Conference to hand over to Poland the territory of the former Free City of Danzig. The area was not recognized as part of Germany by the Great Powers. The aim of the article is to analyze the role that Gdańsk played in British policy towards Poland from the end of the Second World War to the fall of communist rule. It is based on archival research in the National Archives, Kew, supplemented by published British and Polish diplomatic documents, diaries and academic literature on the subject. Based on these sources, the author argues that the importance of the city of Gdańsk in British policy toward the region of East Central Europe diminished during the Cold War in comparison to the city’s role as the Free City of Danzig 1919–1939. However, its place was dynamic as Gdańsk became an important center of protests against the communist authorities in the 1970s and 1980s. The city played a special role since the strikes in August 1980, becoming the center of activity of the Solidarity Trade Union. The culmination of British interest was Margaret Thatcher’s visit to Gdańsk in 1988.

Among the various “natural laboratories” of high natural or technical enhanced natural radiation environments in the world such as Kerala (India), Brazil, Ramsar (Iran), etc., the areas in and around the Central European Ore Mountains (Erzgebirge) in the southern parts of former East Germany, but also including parts of Thuringia, northern Bohemia (now Czech Republic), and northeastern Bavaria, are still relatively little known internationally. Although this area played a central role in the history of radioactivity and radiation effects on humans over centuries, most of the valuable earlier results have not been published in English or quotable according to the current rules in the scientific literature and therefore are not generally known internationally. During the years 1945 to 1989, this area was one of the world's most important uranium mining areas, providing the former Soviet Union with 300,000 tons of uranium for its military programs. Most data related to health effects of radon and other carcinogenic agents on miners and residents became available only during the years after German reunification. Many of the studies are still unpublished, or more or less internal reports. By now, substantial studies have been performed on the previously unavailable data about the miners and the population, providing valuable insights that are, to a large degree, in disagreement with the opinion of various international bodies assuming an increase of lung cancer risk in the order of 10% for each 100 Bq/m3 (or doubling for 1000 Bq/m3), even for small residential radon concentrations. At the same time, other studies focusing on never-smokers show little or no effects of residential radon exposures. Experiments in medical clinics using radon on a large scale as a therapeutic against various rheumatic and arthritic disease demonstrated in randomized double-blind studies the effectiveness of such treatments. The main purpose of this review is to critically examine, including some historical references, recent results primarily in three areas, namely the possible effects of the inhalation of very high radon concentrations on miners; the effect of increased residential radon concentrations on the population; and the therapeutic use of radon. With many of the results still evolving and/or under intense discussion among the experts, more evidence is emerging that radon, which has been inhaled at extremely high concentrations in the multimillion Bq/m3 range by many of older miners (however, with substantial confounders, and large uncertainties in retrospective dosimetry), was perhaps an important but not the dominating factor for an increase in lung cancer rates. Other factors such as smoking, inhalation of quartz and mineral dust, arsenic, nitrous gases, etc. are likely to be more serious contributors to increased miner lung cancer rates. An extrapolation of miner data to indoor radon situations is not feasible. Concerning indoor radon studies, the by far dominating effect of smoking on the lung cancer incidence makes the results of some studies, apparently showing a positive dose-response relationship, questionable. According to recent studies in several countries, there are no, or beneficial, residential radon effects below about 600 to 1000 Bq/m3 (the extensive studies in the U.S., in particular by B. Cohen, and the discussions about these data, will not be part of this review, because they have already been discussed in detail in the U.S. literature). As a cause of lung cancer, radon seems to rank — behind active and passive smoking, and probably also air pollution in densely populated and/or industrial areas (diesel exhaust soot, etc.) — as a minor contributor in cases of extremely high residential radon levels, combined with heavy smoking of the residents. As demonstrated in an increasing number of randomized double-blind clinical studies for various painful inflammatory joint diseases such as rheumatism, arthritic problems, and Morbus Bechterew, radon treatments are beneficial, with the positive effect lasting until at least 6 months after the normally 3-week treatment by inhalation or bathes. Studies on the mechanism of these effects are progressing. In other cases of extensive use of radon treatment for a wide spectrum of various diseases, for example, in the former Soviet Union, the positive results are not so well established. However, according to a century of radon treatment experience (after millenniums of unknown radon therapy), in particular in Germany and Austria, the positive medical effects for some diseases far exceed any potential detrimental health effects. The total amount of available data in this field is too large to be covered in a brief review. Therefore, less known — in particular recent — work from Central Europe has been analyzed in an attempt to summarize new developments and trends. This includes cost/benefit aspects of radon reduction programs. As a test case for the LNT (linear non-threshold) hypothesis and possible biopositive effects of low radiation exposures, the data support a nonlinear human response to low and medium-level radon exposures.

The study overviews the most important choral compositions created in the Czech lands after 1945. In the introduction, it characterizes the most important milestones in the country’s development after the end of the Second World War, especially the impact of the communists and their ideology on art, the influence of avant-garde techniques of the so-called New Music, which came mainly from Germany and Poland, and the ideological relaxation after the fall of the communist dictatorship in 1989. The survey of the choral pieces is divided according to themes into sacred, inspired by folklore, ancient and medieval literature, mainly in Latin. A brief compositional analysis is also given for some of the pieces. The study does not focus on compositions set to the verses of Czech poets nor on the vibrant field of choral pieces for children, which could be the subject of another study.

AN OVERVIEW OF RESEARCH INTO THE HISTORY OF LIBRARIES AND LIBRARIANSHIP IN POLAND IN 1945–2015The author of the article discusses selected academic and popular publications concerning the history of libraries and librarianship in Poland which appeared in 1945–2015. In that period information about the most important historical resources of various Polish libraries and early book collections was made available; in addition, the period was marked by progress in the study of materials originating before the end of the 18th century. Scholars published a range of methodological studies as well as studies dealing with sources, contributing to the development of scholarship. On the other hand, there were too few editions of source materials.After 1989 scholars intensified their efforts to find sources in foreign collections, especially in Lithuania, Belarus, Ukraine, Russia and Germany. Polish collections kept abroad are yet to be fully researched and have their inventories and catalogues published.The vast body of literature is uneven when it comes to its focus on the various historical periods, regions, subregions and local centres. It comprises publications dealing with the history of libraries, their function and role in culture with regard to the history of the book, and publications focused on the types of libraries or individual libraries — of different traditions, sizes and stature. Scholars also explored the history of home book collections, reading rooms and libraries as well as biographies of librarians and collectors. The quality of the publications varies. There are gaps in, for example, the history of libraries in the former Polish Eastern Borderlands as well as “blank pages” in the historiography of Polish librarianship after the Second World War. There is a visible shortage of quantification of phenomena from the past of libraries, despite the fact that there are some possibilities in this respect. What is also needed is development in comparative studies, also in an international perspective, although this would require Polish historians to become more interested than before in the history of librarianship in other countries.

The author of the article discusses selected academic and popular publications on the history of libraries and librarianship in Poland which were issued between 1945 and 2015. In that period, information about the most important historical resources of various Polish libraries and early book collections was made available. In addition, the period was marked by progress in the study of materials originating before the end of the 18th century. Scholars published a range of methodological works and works about sources, contributing to the development of scholarship. At the same time, there were too few editions of source materials. After 1989, scholars intensified their efforts to find sources in foreign collections, especially in Lithuania, Belarus, Ukraine, Russia and Germany. Polish collections kept abroad are yet to be fully researched and to have their inventories and catalogues published. The vast body of literature is uneven when it comes to its focus on individual historical periods, regions, subregions and local centres. It comprises publications on the history of libraries, their function and role in culture with regard to the history of publications focused on the types of libraries or individual libraries — of different traditions, sizes and the book, and stature. Scholars also explored the history of private book collections, reading rooms and libraries, as well as biographies of librarians and collectors. The quality of the publications varies. There are gaps in, for example, the history of libraries in the former Polish eastern borderlands and ‘blank pages’ in the historiography of Polish librarianship after the Second World War. There is a visible shortage of quantification of phenomena from the past of libraries, despite the fact that there are some possibilities in this respect. What is also needed is development in comparative studies, including from an international perspective, although this would require Polish historians to become more interested than before in the history of librarianship in other countries.

Fofeiture of property is the most severe of all penalties affecting property that have ever been imposed in hisiory. It consists in the convicted offender’s property being taken over – wholly or in part – by the treasury. The paper deals with the history of this particular penalty in the criminal policy of Polish People’s Republic in the years 1944–1990. The penalty of forfeiture of property was not provided for in the 1932 penal code (which remained in force till December 31, 1969). It appeared in the legislation shortly before World War II, in the act of June 23, 1939 on special criminal responsibility for desertion to the enemy or abroad. Before the passing of the 1932 penal code, the codes of the partitioning powers had been in force in the Polish territories (as until the regaining of independence in 1918, Poland was partitioned by Russia, Austria and Germany). Also those codes did not provide for forfeiture of property. It was only the legislator of People’s Poland who introduced forfeiture of property as an additionar penalty and provided for its broad adjudication. The history of forfeiture of property in postwar Poland is analyzed divided into four stages which differ from one another due to significant changes in the legislation. The changes reflected re-orientation of criminal policy in connection with a succession of political crises. The first such stage in the history of forfeiture of property were the years 1944–1958. The data discussed in the paper that concern this period are statistics of civilians convicted by military courts from the spring of l944 till April 30, 1955 (till which date in special cases provided for in statutes, civilians fell under the jurisdiction of military courts), and statistics of convictions by common courts till 1949. The second stage began with the passing of the act of June 18, 1959 on protection of social property. Stage three was initiated by the entering into force, on January 1, 1970, of the new penal code of April 19, 1969. The fourth and last stage began with the passing of the act of May 10, 1985 on special criminal responsability and ended with the act of February 23, 1990 which derogated the penalty of forfeiture of property. The introduction of forfeiture of property as an additional penalty is characteristic of the earliest legislative acts of the new authorities of People’s Poland, imposed from without. Its broad application and obligatory character demonstrate the importance attached by those authorities to forfeiture as an element of political game against society. The first legal acts of the Polish Committee for National Liberaltion provided for that penalty: the decree of August 31, 1944 on statutory penalties for the Nazi was criminals, the decree of September 23, 1944 – Penal Code of the Polish Army, and the decree of October 30, 1944 on protection of State. One year later, the decree of November 11,1945 was passed on offences of particular danger in the period of reconstruction of State (which quashed the former wartime decree on protection of State). It was in turn replaced with a new one under the same title, passed on June 13, 1946. The Council of Ministers justified the new decree with the need for aggravation of penalties for all activities that disturbed internal peace, order, and safety, and impaired Poland’s international position. The decree piovided for particularly severe penalties for perpetration of, incitement to, and approval of fratricide; for membership of illegal organizations and terrorist groups; for distribution of illegal literature; for illegal possession of firearms; for helping the members of terrorist groups; and in some cases of failure to inform on an offence. (The decree was generally known as the small penal code – s.p.c.). As provided for in the decree, the additional penalty of forfeiture of property was obfigatory in two cases: sentence to death or to life imprisonment, and conviction for attempt with violence or membership of an armed union. It was optional in the case of sentence to a prison term (Art. 49 para 1 and 2 of the decree). The provisions of s.p.c. extended the application of forfeiture: the court could at ail times adjudicate forfeiture of the property not only of the convicted person himself but also of his spouse or familly members (this did not concern, though, the property such persons attained themselves, inherited, or acquired gift not donated by the convicted persons). Thus forfeiture could affect a very large group of actually innocent persons. Here the decree introduced group responsability for crime. In 1953, four decrees were passed; according to the people’s legislator, they aimed at protecting social property and the interests of buyers in commercial trade. Two of them, the decree of March 4, 1953 on protection of buyers in commercial trade and another one passed on that same date on increased protection of social property, provided for the possibility of forfeiture of the offender’s property wholly or in part. In that case, forfeiture was optional. Statistical data concerning the adjudication of forfeiture were gathered since 1949. Beginning from August 15, 1944, though, forfeiture of property was also adjudicated in cases of civilians convicted by military courts which had civilians in their jurisdiction by force of the decree of October 30, 1944 on protection of State. Military courts were competent to decide in cases of persons accused of offences specified in Art. Art. 85–88 and 101 – 103 of penal code of the Polish Army, in the decree on protection of State, and – the latter quashed – in s.p.c. The jurisdiction of military courts in cases of civilians was abolished in the act of April 5, 1955 on transfer to common courts of the former competence of military courts in cases of civilians, functionaries of public security agencies, the Civic Militaria and Prison Staff. Military courts retained their competence in cases of the specified categories of civilians accused of espionage (Art. 7 s.p.c.). The passing of that act was the first manifestation of a gradual abolition of the legal and judiciary terror. Convictions of civilians tried by military courts were two or three times more frequent than convictions of military service men. Starting from as early as the latter half of 1944, civilians were convicted for membership of illegal or delegalized organizations (mainly the former Home Army) and for illegal possession of firearms (70 per cent of all convictions). Aftcr 1952, the number of persons convicted for the latter went down; instead, more persons were convicted for banditry and failure to inform on an offence. Forfeiture of property was adjudicated in about 40 to 50 per cent of cases of civilians; it accompanied sentences to long prison terms or to death, as well as another additional penalty: deprivation of public rights. It was imposed first of all on those who opposed the newly introduced political system, but also on chance perpetrators of what was called anti-State propagande. Common courts adjudicated forfeiture of property mainly for offences specified in two decrees: the one of August 31, 1944 on statutory penalties for Nazi war criminals, and the decree of June 28,1946 on criminal responsability for repudiation of Polish nationality during the 1939-1945 war. Over 90 per cent of all forfeiture were adjudicated in such cases. During the 1959–1969 decade, the additional penalty of forfeiture of property was imposed basing on special statutes. Two statutes were passed as a novelty which provided for forfeiture while aiming at special protection of the social property. They were: the act of January 21, 1958 on increased protection of social property, and the act of June 18, 1959 on criminal responsability for offences against social property. Nearly all forfeitures in that period were adjudicated for offences specified in the act of June 18, 1959, and the actual offence concerned was appropriation of social property in practically all cases. Convictions for the offences specified in the discussed statut constituted one-fifth of all convictions; most cases, however, concerned petty or not too serious offences where forfeiture was optional only. This is why that penalty was imposed rather seldom; there were realatively few acts for which it was obligatory. Forfeiture was also most seldom adjudicated by force of ther statutes. It amounted to 1,5–2,2 per cent of all additional penalties imposed. The new penal code passed on April 19, 1969 introduced forfeiture of property to its catalogue of additional penalties. Forfeiture of the whole or part of property was obligatory on the case of conviction for the following crimes: 1) against the basic political or economic interests of Polish People’s Republic: betrayal of the fatherland, conspiracy against Polish People’s Republic, espionage, terrorism, sabotage, abuse of confidence in foreign relations, misinformation, participation in organized crime against the economy or foreign currency regulations; and 2) appropriation of social property of considerable value. Besides, the court could adjudicate forfeiture of property wholly or in part in the case of conviction of another crime committed for material profit. The code’s regulation of application of forfeiture was clearly copied from the earlier legislation: the s.p.c. and the acts that increased the protection of social property. During the fifteen years 1970–1984, forfeiture of property was among the least frequently imposed penalties and constituted from 1,2 to 3,3 per cent of all additional penalties. It accompagnied nearly exlusively the convictions for two types of offences: appropriation of social property of considerable value, and that same offence committed by a person who availed himself of the activity of a unit of socialized economy, and acted in conspiracy with others to the detriment of that unit, its customers or contractors. Convictions for these offences constituted about 1 per cent of all convictions for offences against property. The fourth and last period discussed are the years 1985–1990 when forfeiture was again adjudicated very often, as in the 1940’s – 1950’s, to be abolished completely in the end. The entire five-year period was characterized by changes in penal law, one completely opposing another: from extension of penalization and increase of repressiveness introduced by the acts of 1985 to liberalization in 1990. Two acts were passed bearing the same date – may 10, 1985: on changing some provisions of penal law and the law on transgressions, and on special criminal responsability (the so-called provisional act in force till June 30, 1988). They introduced significant changes in the range of application of forfeiture of property, making its adjudication possible, and for some time even obligatory, for common offences. In the discussed period, that penalty was imposed mainly for offences against property. Nearly a half of them were burglaries, and the victims were usually – in two-thirds of cases – natural persons. In the period of particular intensity of convictions – 1986–1987 – forfeiture accompanied 11–12 per cent of ail convictions, the proportion going down to a mere 0,1 per cent in 1989. The imposition of that penalty was extremely broad: consequently, forfeiture was adjudicated in cases of quite petty offences where it was inappropriate and out of all proportion to the seriousness of the act and the guilt of the offender. This made the execution of forfeiture actually ineffective as it usually proved objectless in the case of petty common offenders. Forfeiture of property evolved in a way from was practically non-existence to emergence in special statutes and then in the penal code, to its special use in the criminal policy of the eighties when grounds well known from the past were given for its broader imposition: the need for severe penal repression towards offenders against property, to a complete abolition of that penalty in 1990. Forfeiture was extensively applied in the years 1949–1958 (when common courts adjudicated 1044, and military courts – 1538 forfeitures a year on the average). The next two periods were similar as to the number of forfeitures (503 and 513 respectively). The use of forfeiture was the broadest under the provisional statute (10,345 cases a year on the average). Forfeiture is no doubt one of the most severe penalties affecting property, or penalties in general, which is why it should have been adjudicated in exceptional cases only. Its use under the provisional statute in cases of ,,ordinary” offenders violated the principle of just punishment. On the other hand, forfeiture can hardly be called a just penalty anyway as it always affects not only the offender himself but also his family. The political changes in Poland made it possible to liberalize penal law and to remove the most unjust solutions it contained, the penalty of forfeiture of property included.

The spread of venereal diseases after the Second World War constituted a grave public health danger in Europe. Especially in all four occupation zones in Germany and the Polish People's Republic high morbidity rates were observed. In order to limit the spread of diseases, respective administrations adopted specific regulations. The aim of this research is the analysis and comparison of legal regulations for controlling and combating venereal diseases in these countries. We have analyzed legislative and administrative acts concerning combatting venereal diseases issued by the official organs of the Soviet Occupation Zone, the German Democratic Republic, and the Polish People's Republic from 1945 to 1989. Subsequently, the analyzed sources were evaluated in light of the existing literature on the topic. Our analysis shows that policy approaches in both countries were based the Soviet Union's model for fighting venereal diseases. Visible are similarities of the approaches. They include organization of anti-venereal services, compulsory hospitalization, and actions against social groups perceived as sources of venereal diseases. Beside the purpose of breaking the spread of the epidemics, the approaches had also a political aim of sanctioning behavior that diverged from prescribed socialist moral norms.

Summary Background In the 1950s the socialist health policy in East Germany did not follow a clear-cut course with regard to outpatient medical care. Whilst state-run policlinics gradually took the place of doctors in private practice, the required qualifications of physicians working in outpatient care remained unclear. After preparatory lobbying by committed physicians from the outpatient sector, the 1960 Weimar Health Conference finally paved the way for the preservation and professionalization of general practice in East Germany. Aim The article analyzes the formation of general practice as a specialty in East Germany between 1945 and 1990. We scrutinize the status of general practitioners and their field in the socialist health system as well as the foundation of their medical society. Our paper aims to contribute to a broader history of general practice in Germany. Methods We draw on literature from that time, unpublished archival material, and interviews with contemporary witnesses. Results After the establishment of standards for specialist training in the early 1960s, general practice was introduced as a field of specialty in 1967. By this, East Germany had a compulsory specialist training in general practice much earlier than West Germany. In 1971, a specialist society for general practice was founded in East Germany. However, institutionalization at the medical faculties was still lacking. Meanwhile, the nationalization of outpatient care continued. In the years that followed, primary medical care was increasingly provided in policlinics. In 1989, of 40,000 physicians in the GDR, only about 340 were still practicing in their own offices. Conclusion Within the nationalized GDR health system a committed group of physicians, under difficult political circumstances, pushed for professionalization of general practice and its recognition as a field of specialty. When general medicine was recognized as a specialty in 1967, this happened earlier than in other countries and constituted an important milestone.

At the start of the twentieth century, many young Australian artists travelled abroad to expand their art education and to gain exposure to the modern art movements of Europe. Most of these artists were active members of artist associations such as the Victorian Artists Society or the New South Wales Society of Artists. Male artists from Victoria were generally also members of the Melbourne Savage Club, a club with a strong association with the arts.This paper investigates the dual function of the club, as a space where the artists felt “at home” in the familiar environment that the club offered whilst they were abroad and, at the same time, a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London would have a significant impact on male Australian artists, as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world, which enhanced their experience whilst abroad.Artists were seldom members of Australia’s early gentlemen’s clubs, however, in the late nineteenth century Melbourne, artists formed less formal social groupings with exotic names such as the Prehistoric Order of Cannibals, the Buonarotti Club, and the Ishmael Club (Mead). Melbourne artists congregated in these clubs until the Melbourne Savage Club, modelled on the London Savage Club (1857)—a club whose membership was restricted to practitioners in the performing and visual arts—opened its doors in 1894.The Melbourne Savage Club had its origins in the Metropolitan Music Club, established in the late 1880s by a group of professional and amateur musicians and music lovers. The club initially admitted musicians and people from the dramatic professions free-of-charge, however, author Randolph Bedford (1868–1941) and artist Alf Vincent (1874–1915) were not content to be treated on a different basis to the musicians and actors, and two months after Vincent joined the club, at a Special General Meeting, the club resolved to vary Rule 6, “to admit landscape or portrait painters and sculptors without entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club). At another Special General Meeting, a year later, the rule was altered to admit “recognised members of the musical, dramatic and artistic professions and sculptors without payment of entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club).This resulted in an immediate influx of prominent Victorian male artists (Williams) and the Melbourne Savage Club became their place of choice to gather and enjoy the fellowship the club offered and to share ideas in a convivial atmosphere. When the opportunity arose for them to travel to London in the early twentieth century, they met in London’s famous art clubs. Membership of the Melbourne Savage Club not only conferred rights to visit reciprocal clubs whilst in London, but also facilitated introductions to potential patrons. The London clubs were the venue of choice for visiting artists to meet their fellow artist expatriates and to share experiences and, importantly, to meet with their British counterparts, exhibit their works, and establish valuable contacts.The London Savage Club attracted many Australian expatriates. Not only is it the grandfather of London’s bohemian clubs but also it was the model for arts clubs the world over. Founded in 1857, the qualification for admission was (and still is) to be, “a working man in literature or art, and a good fellow” (Halliday vii). If a candidate met these requirements, he would be cordially received “come whence he may.” This was embodied in the club’s first rules which required applicants for membership to be from a restricted range of pursuits relating to the arts thought to be commensurate with its bohemian ideals, namely art, literature, drama, or music.The second London arts club that attracted expatriate Australian artists was the New English Arts Club, founded in 1886 by young English artists returning from studying art in Paris. Members of The New English Arts Club were influenced by the Impressionist style as opposed to the academic art shown at the Royal Academy. As a meeting place for Australia’s expatriate artists, the New English Arts Club had a particular influence, as it exposed them to significant early Modern artist members such as John Singer Sargent (1856–1925), Walter Sickert (1860–1942), William Orpen (1878–1931) and Augustus John (1878–1961) (Corbett and Perry; Thornton; Melbourne Savage Club).The third, and arguably the most popular with the expatriate Australian artists’ club, was the Chelsea Arts Club, a bohemian club formed in 1891 by local working artists looking for a place to go to “meet, talk, eat and drink” (Cross).Apart from the American-born founding member, James McNeill Whistler (1834–1903), amongst the biggest Chelsea names at the time of the influx of travelling young Australian artists were modernists Sir William Orpen, Augustus John, and John Sargent. The opportunity to mix with these leading British contemporary artists was irresistible to these antipodean artists (55).When Melbourne artist, Miles Evergood (1871–1939) arrived in London from America in 1910, he had been an active exhibiting member of the Salmagundi Club, a New York artists’ club. Almost immediately he joined the New English Arts Club and the Chelsea Arts Club. Hammer tells of him associating with “writer Israel Zangwill, sculptor Jacob Epstein, and anti-academic artists including Walter Sickert, Augustus John, John Lavery, John Singer Sargent and C.R.W. Nevison, who challenged art values in Britain at the beginning of the century” (Hammer 41).Arthur Streeton (1867–1943) used the Chelsea Arts Club as his postal address, as did many expatriate artists. The Melbourne Savage Club archives contain letters and greetings, with news from abroad, written from artist members back to their “Brother Savages” (Various).In late 1902, Streeton wrote to fellow artist and Savage Club member Tom Roberts (1856–1931) from London:I belong to the Chelsea Arts Club now, & meet the artists – MacKennel says it’s about the most artistic club (speaking in the real sense) in England. … They all seem to be here – McKennal, Longstaff, Mahony, Fullwood, Norman, Minns, Fox, Plataganet Tudor St. George Tucker, Quinn, Coates, Bunny, Alston, K, Sonny Pole, other minor lights and your old friend and admirer Smike – within 100 yards of here – there must be 30 different studios. (Streeton 94)Whilst some of the artists whom Streeton mentioned were studying at either the Royal Academy or the Slade School, it was the clubs like the Chelsea Arts Club where they were most likely to encounter fellow Australian artists. Tom Roberts was obviously attentive to Streeton’s enthusiastic account and, when he returned to London the following year to work on his commission for The Big Picture of the 1901 opening of the first Commonwealth Parliament, he soon joined. Roberts, through his expansive personality, became particularly active in London’s Australian expatriate artistic community and later became Vice-President of the Chelsea Arts Club. Along with Streeton and Roberts, other visiting Melbourne Savage Club artists joined the Chelsea Arts Club. They included, John Longstaff (1861–1941), James Quinn (1869–1951), George Coates (1869–1930), and Will Dyson (1880–1938), along with Sydney artists Henry Fullwood (1863–1930), George Lambert (1873–1930), and Will Ashton (1881–1963) (Croll 95). Smith describes the exodus to London and Paris: “It was the Chelsea Arts Club that the Heidelberg School established its last and least distinguished camp” (Smith, Smith and Heathcote 152).Streeton, who retained his Chelsea Arts Club membership when he returned for a while to Australia, wrote to Roberts in 1907, “I miss Chelsea & the Club-boys” (Streeton 107). In relation to Frederick McCubbin’s pending visit he wrote: “Prof McCubbin left here a week ago by German ‘Prinz Heinrich.’ … You’ll introduce him at the Chelsea Club and I hope they make him an Hon. Member, etc” (Streeton et al. 85). McCubbin wrote, after an evening at the Chelsea Arts Club, following a visit to the Royal Academy: “Tonight, I am dining with Australian artists in Soho, and shall be there to greet my old friends. How glad I am! Longstaff will be there, and Frank Stuart, Roberts, Fullwood, Pontin, Coates, Quinn, and Tucker’s brother, and many others from all around” (MacDonald, McCubbin and McCubbin 75). Impressed by the work of Turner he wrote to his wife Annie, following avisit to the Tate Gallery:I went yesterday with Fullwood and G. Coates and Tom Roberts for a ramble … to the Tate Gallery – a beautiful freestone building facing the river through a portico into the gallery where the lately found turners are exhibited – these are not like the greater number of pictures in the National Gallery – they represent his different periods, but are mostly in his latest style, when he had realised the quality of light (McCubbin).Clearly Turner’s paintings had a profound impression on him. In the same letter he wrote:they are mostly unfinished but they are divine – such dreams of colour – a dozen of them are like pearls … mist and cloud and sea and land, drenched in light … They glow with tender brilliancy that radiates from these canvases – how he loved the dazzling brilliancy of morning or evening – these gems with their opal colour – you feel how he gloried in these tender visions of light and air. He worked from darkness into light.The Chelsea Arts Club also served as a venue for artists to entertain and host distinguished visitors from home. These guests included; Melbourne Savage Club artist member Alf Vincent (Joske 112), National Gallery of Victoria (NGV) Trustee and popular patron of the arts, Professor Baldwin Spencer (1860–1929), Professor Frederick S. Delmer (1864–1931) and conductor George Marshall-Hall (1862–1915) (Mulvaney and Calaby 329; Streeton 111).Artist Miles Evergood arrived in London in 1910, and visited the Chelsea Arts Club. He mentions expatriate Australian artists gathering at the Club, including Will Dyson, Fred Leist (1873–1945), David Davies (1864–1939), Will Ashton (1881–1963), and Henry Fullwood (Hammer 41).Most of the Melbourne Savage Club artist members were active in the London Savage Club. On one occasion, in November 1908, Roberts, with fellow artist MacKennal in the Chair, attended the Australian Artists’ Dinner held there. This event attracted twenty-five expatriate Australian artists, all residing in London at the time (McQueen 532).These London arts clubs had a significant influence on the expatriate Australian artists for they became the “glue” that held them together whilst abroad. Although some artists travelled abroad specifically to take up places at the Royal Academy School or the Slade School, only a minority of artists arriving in London from Australia and other British colonies were offered positions at these prestigious schools. Many artists travelled to “try their luck.” The arts clubs of London, whilst similarly discerning in their membership criteria, generally offered a visiting “brother-of-the-brush” a warm welcome as a professional courtesy. They featured the familiar rollicking all-male “Smoke Nights” a feature of the Melbourne Savage Club. With a greater “artist” membership than the clubs in Australia, expatriate artists were not only able to catch up with their friends from Australia, but also they could associate with England’s finest and most progressive artists in a familiar congenial environment. The clubs were a “home away from home” and described by Underhill as, “an artistic Earl’s Court” (Underhill 99). Most importantly, the clubs were a centre for discourse, arguably even more so than were the teaching academies. Britain’s leading modernist artists were members of the Chelsea Arts Club and the New English Arts Club and mixed freely with the visiting Australian artists.Many Australian artists, such as Miles Evergood and George Bell (1878–1966), held anti-academic views similar to English club members and embraced the new artistic trends, which they would bring back to Australia. Streeton had no illusions about the relative worth of the famed institutions and the exhibitions held by clubs such as the New English. Writing to Roberts before he joins him in London, he describes the Royal Academy as having, “an inartistic atmosphere” and claims he “hasn’t the least desire to go again” (Streeton 77). His preference lay with a concurrent “International Exhibition”, which featured works by Rodin, Whistler, Condor, Degas, and others who were setting the pace rather than merely continuing the academic traditions.Architect Hardy Wilson (1881–1955) served as secretary of The Chelsea Arts Club. When he returned to Australia he brought back with him a number of British works by Streeton and Lambert for an exhibition at the Guild Hall Melbourne (Underhill 92). Artists and Bohemians, a history of the Chelsea Arts Club, makes special reference of its world-wide contacts and singles out many of its prominent Australian members for specific mention including; Sir John William (Will) Ashton OBE, later Director of the Art Gallery of New South Wales, and Will Dyson, whose illustrious career as an Australian war artist was described in some detail. Dyson’s popularity led to his later appointment as Chairman of the Chelsea Arts Club where he initiated an ambitious rebuilding program, improving staff accommodation, refurbishing the members’ areas, and adding five bedrooms for visiting members (Bross 87-90).Whilst the influence of travel abroad on Australian artists has been noted, the importance of the London Clubs has not been fully explored. These clubs offered artists a space where they felt “at home” and a familiar environment whilst they were abroad. The clubs functioned as a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London had a significant impact on male Australian artists as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world which enhanced their experience whilst abroad and influenced the direction of their art.ReferencesCorbett, David Peters, and Lara Perry, eds. English Art, 1860–1914: Modern Artists and Identity. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000.Croll, Robert Henderson. Tom Roberts: Father of Australian Landscape Painting. Melbourne: Robertson & Mullens, 1935.Cross, Tom. Artists and Bohemians: 100 Years with the Chelsea Arts Club. 1992. 1st ed. London: Quiller Press, 1992.Gray, Anne, and National Gallery of Australia. McCubbin: Last Impressions 1907–17. 1st ed. Parkes, A.C.T.: National Gallery of Australia, 2009.Halliday, Andrew, ed. The Savage Papers. 1867. 1st ed. London: Tinsley Brothers, 1867.Hammer, Gael. Miles Evergood: No End of Passion. Willoughby, NSW: Phillip Mathews, 2013.Joske, Prue. Debonair Jack: A Biography of Sir John Longstaff. 1st ed. Melbourne: Claremont Publishing, 1994.MacDonald, James S., Frederick McCubbin, and Alexander McCubbin. The Art of F. McCubbin. Melbourne: Lothian Book Publishing, 1916.McCaughy, Patrick. Strange Country: Why Australian Painting Matters. Ed. Paige Amor. The Miegunyah Press, 2014.McCubbin, Frederick. Papers, Ca. 1900–Ca. 1915. Melbourne.McQueen, Humphrey. Tom Roberts. Sydney: Macmillan, 1996.Mead, Stephen. "Bohemia in Melbourne: An Investigation of the Writer Marcus Clarke and Four Artistic Clubs during the Late 1860s – 1901.” PhD thesis. Melbourne: University of Melbourne, 2009.Melbourne Savage Club. Secretary. Minute Book: Melbourne Savage Club. Club Minutes (General Committee). Melbourne: Savage Archives.Mulvaney, Derek John, and J.H. Calaby. So Much That Is New: Baldwin Spencer, 1860–1929, a Biography. Carlton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press, 1985.Smith, Bernard, Terry Smith, and Christopher Heathcote. Australian Painting, 1788–2000. 4th ed. South Melbourne, Vic.: Oxford University Press, 2001.Streeton, Arthur, et al. Smike to Bulldog: Letters from Sir Arthur Streeton to Tom Roberts. Sydney: Ure Smith, 1946.Streeton, Arthur, ed. Letters from Smike: The Letters of Arthur Streeton, 1890–1943. Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1989.Thornton, Alfred, and New English Art Club. Fifty Years of the New English Art Club, 1886–1935. London: New English Art Club, Curwen Press 1935.Underhill, Nancy D.H. Making Australian Art 1916–49: Sydney Ure Smith Patron and Publisher. South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1991.Various. Melbourne Savage Club Correspondence Book: 1902–1916. Melbourne: Melbourne Savage Club.Williams, Graeme Henry. "A Socio-Cultural Reading: The Melbourne Savage Club through Its Collections." Masters of Arts thesis. Melbourne: Deakin University, 2013.

Australian suburbia, historically and culturally, has been viewed as a feminised domain, associated with the domestic and family, routine and order. Where “the city is coded as a masculine and disorderly space… suburbia, as a realm of domesticity and the family, is coded as a feminine and disciplinary space” (Wilson 46). This article argues how the treatment of suburbia in fiction as “feminine” has impacted not only on the representation and development of the character of the “suburban female”, but also on the shape and form of her narrative journeys. Suburbia’s subordination as domestic and everyday, a restrictive realm of housework and child rearing, refers to the anti-suburban critique and establishes the dichotomy of suburbia/feminine/domesticity in contrast to bush or city/masculine/freedom as first observed by Marilyn Lake in her analysis of 1890s Australia. Despite the fact that suburbia necessarily contains the “masculine” as well as the “feminine”, the “feminine” dominates to such an extent that positive masculine traits are threatened there. In social commentary and also literature, the former is viewed negatively as a state from which to escape. As Tim Rowse suggests, “women, domesticity = spiritual starvation. (Men, wide open spaces, achievement = heroism of the Australian spirit)” (208). In twentieth-century Australian fiction, this is especially the case for male characters, the preservation of whose masculinity often depends on a flight from the suburbs to elsewhere—the bush, the city, or overseas. In Patrick White’s The Tree Of Man (1955), for example, During identifies the recurrent male character of the “tear-away” who “flee(s) domesticity and family life” (96). Novelist George Johnston also establishes a satirical depiction of suburbia as both suffocatingly feminine and as a place to escape at any cost. For example, in My Brother Jack (1964), David Meredith “craves escape from the ‘shabby suburban squalor’ into which he was born” (Gerster 566). Suburbia functions as a departure point for the male protagonist who must discard any remnants of femininity, imposed on him by his suburban childhood, before embarking upon narratives of adventure and maturation as far away from the suburbs as possible. Thus, flight becomes essential to the development of male protagonist and proliferates as a narrative trajectory in Australian fiction. Andrew McCann suggests that its prevalence establishes a fictional “struggle with and escape from the suburb as a condition of something like a fully developed personality” (Decomposing 56-57). In this case, any literary attempt to transform the “suburban female”, a character inscribed by her gender and her locale, without recourse to flight appears futile. However, McCann’s assertion rests on a literary tradition of male flight from suburbia, not female. A narrative of female flight is a relatively recent phenomenon, influenced by the second wave feminism of the 1970s and 1980s. For most of the twentieth century, the suburban female typically remained in suburbia, a figure of neglect, satire, and exploitation. A reading of twentieth-century Australian fiction until the 1970s implies that flight from suburbia was not a plausible option for the average “suburban female”. Rather, it is the exceptional heroine, such as Teresa in Christina Stead’s For Love Alone (1945), who is brave, ambitious, or foolish enough to leave, and when she does there were often negative consequences. For most however, suburbia was a setting where she belonged despite its negative attributes. These attributes of conformity and boredom, repetition, and philistinism, as presented by proponents of anti-suburbanism, are mainly depicted as problematic to male characters, not female. Excluded from narratives of flight, for most of the twentieth-century the suburban female typically remained in suburbia, a figure of neglect, satire, and even exploitation, her stories mostly untold. The character of the suburban female emerges out of the suburban/feminine/domestic dichotomy as a recurrent, albeit negative, character in Australian fiction. As Rowse states, the negative image of suburbia is transferred to an equally negative image of women (208). At best, the suburban female is a figure of mild satire; at worst, a menacing threat to masculine values. Male writers George Johnston, Patrick White and, later, David Ireland, portrayed the suburban female as a negative figure, or at least an object of satire, in the life of a male protagonist attempting to escape suburbia and all it stood for. In his satirical novels and plays, for example, Patrick White makes “the unspoken assumption… that suburbia is an essentially female domain” (Gerster 567), exemplifying narrow female stereotypes who “are dumb and age badly, ending up in mindless, usually dissatisfied, maternity and domesticity” (During 95). Feminist Anne Summers condemns White for his portrayal of women which she interprets as a “means of evading having to cope with women as unique and diverse individuals, reducing them instead to a sexist conglomerate”, and for his use of women to “represent suburban stultification” (88). Typically “wife” or “mother”, the suburban female is often used as a convenient device of oppositional resistance to a male lead, while being denied her own voice or story. In Johnston’s My Brother Jack (1964), for example, protagonist David Meredith contrasts “the subdued vigour of fulfillment tempered by a powerful and deeply-lodged serenity” (215) of motherhood displayed by Jack’s wife Shelia with the “smart and mannish” (213) Helen, but nothing deeper is revealed about the inner lives of these female characters. Feminist scholars identify a failure to depict the suburban female as more than a useful stereotype, partially attributing the cause of this failure to a surfeit of patriarchal stories featuring adventuresome male heroes and set in the outback or on foreign battlefields. Summers states how “more written words have been devoted to creating, and then analysing and extolling… [the] Australian male than to any other single facet of Australian life” (82-83). Where she is more active, the suburban female is a malignant force, threatening to undermine masculine goals of self-realisation or achievement, or at her worst, to wholly emasculate the male protagonist such that he is incapable of escape. Even here the motivations behind her actions are not revealed and she appears two-dimensional, viewed only in relation to her destructive effect on the weakened male protagonist. In her criticism of David Ireland’s The Glass Canoe (1976), Joan Kirkby observes how “the suburbs are populated with real women who are represented in the text as angry mothers and wives or simply as the embodiment of voraciously feral sexuality” (5). In those few instances where the suburban female features as more than an accessory to the male narrative, she lacks the courage and inner strength to embark upon her own journey out of suburbia. Instead, she is depicted as a victim, misunderstood and miserable, entrapped by the suburban milieu to which she is meant to belong but, for some unexplored reason, does not. The inference is that this particular suburban female is atypical, potentially flawed in her inability to find contentment within a region strongly designated her own. The unhappy suburban female is therefore tragic, or at least pitiable, languishing in a suburban environment that she loathes, often satirised for her futile resistance to the status quo. Rarely is she permitted the masculine recourse of flight. In those exceptional instances where she does leave, however, she is unlikely to find what she is looking for. A subsequent return to the place of childhood, most often situated in suburbia, is a recurrent narrative in many stories of Australian female protagonist, but less so the male protagonist. Although this mistreatment of the suburban female is most prevalent in fiction by male writers, female writers were also criticised for failing to give a true and authentic voice to her character, regardless of the broader question of whether writers should be truthful in their characterisations. For example, Summers criticises Henry Handel Richardson as “responsible for, if not creating, then at least providing a powerful reinforcement to the idea that women as wives are impediments to male self-realisation” with characters who “reappear, with the monotonous regularity of the weekly wash, as stereotyped and passive suburban housewives” (87-88). All this changed, however, with the arrival of second wave feminism leading to a proliferation of stories of female exodus from the suburbs. A considered portrait of the life of the suburban female in suburbia was neglected in favour of a narrative journey; a trend attributable in part to a feminist polemic that granted her freedom, adventure, and a story so long as she did not dare choose to stay. During the second wave feminism of the 1970s and 1980s, women were urged by leading figures such as Betty Friedan and Germaine Greer to abandon ascribed roles of housewife and mother, led typically in the suburbs, in pursuit of new freedoms and adventures. As Lesley Johnson and Justine Lloyd note, “in exhorting women to ‘leave home’ and find their fulfillment in the world of work, early second wave feminists provided a life story through which women could understand themselves as modern individuals” (154) and it is this “life story” which recurs in women’s fiction of the time. Women writers, many of whom identified as feminist, mirrored these trajectories of flight from suburbia in their novels, transplanting the suburban female from her suburban setting to embark upon “new” narratives of self-discovery. The impact of second wave feminism upon the literary output of Australian women writers during the 1970s and 1980s has been firmly established by feminist scholars Johnson, Lloyd, Lake, and Susan Sheridan, who were also active participants in the movement. Sheridan argues that there has been a strong “relationship of women’s cultural production to feminist ideas and politics” (Faultlines xi) and Johnson identifies a “history of feminism as an awakening” at the heart of these “life stories” (11). Citing Mary Morris, feminist Janet Woolf remarks flight as a means by which a feminine history of stagnation is remedied: “from Penelope to the present, women have waited… If we grow weary of waiting, we can go on a journey” (xxii). The appeal of these narratives may lie in attempts by their female protagonists to find new ways of being outside the traditional limits of a domestic, commonly suburban, existence. Flight, or movement, features as a recurrent narrative mode by which these alternative realities are configured, either by mimicking or subverting traditional narrative forms. Indeed, selection of the appropriate narrative form for these emancipatory journeys differed between writers and became the subject of vigorous, feminist and literary debate. For some feminists, the linear narrative was the only true path to freedom for the female protagonist. Following the work of Carolyn G. Heilbrun and Elaine Showalter, Joy Hooton observes how some feminist critics privileged “the integrated ego and the linear destiny, regarding women’s difference in self-realization as a failure or deprivation” (90). Women writers such as Barbara Hanrahan adopted the traditional linear trajectory, previously reserved for the male protagonist as bushman or soldier, explorer or drifter, to liberate the “suburban female”. These stories feature the female protagonist trading a stultifying life in the suburbs for the city, overseas or, less typically, the outback. During these geographical journeys, she is transformed from her narrow suburban self to a more actualised, worldly self in the mode of a traditional, linear Bildungsroman. For example, Hanrahan’s semi-autobiographical debut The Scent of Eucalyptus (1973) is a story of escape from oppressive suburbia, “concentrating on that favourite Australian theme, the voyage overseas” (Gelder and Salzman, Diversity 63). Similarly, Sea-green (1974) features a “rejection of domestic drabness in favour of experience in London” (Goodwin 252) and Kewpie Doll (1984) is another narrative of flight from the suburbs, this time via pursuit of “an artistic life” (253). In these and other novels, the act of relocation to a specific destination is necessary to transformation, with the inference that the protagonist could not have become what she is at the end of the story without first leaving the suburbs. However, use of this linear narrative, which is also coincidentally anti-suburban, was criticised by Summers (86) for being “masculinist”. To be truly free, she argued, the female protagonist needed to forge her own unique paths to liberation, rather than relying on established masculine lines. Evidence of a “new” non-linear narrative in novels by women writers was interpreted by feminist and literary scholars Gillian Whitlock, Margaret Henderson, Ann Oakley, Sheridan, Johnson, and Summers, as an attempt to capture the female experience more convincingly than the linear form that had been used to recount stories of the journeying male as far back as Homer. Typifying the link between the second wave feminism and fiction, Helen Garner’s Monkey Grip features Nora’s nomadic, non-linear “flights” back and forth across Melbourne’s inner suburbs. Nora’s promiscuity belies her addiction to romantic love that compromises her, even as she struggles to become independent and free. In this way, Nora’s quest for freedom­—fragmented, cyclical, repetitive, impeded by men— mirrors Garner’s “attempt to capture certain areas of female experience” (Gelder and Salzman, Diversity 55), not accessible via a linear narrative. Later, in Honour and Other People’s Children (1980) and The Children’s Bach (1984), the protagonists’ struggles to achieve self-actualisation within a more domesticated, family setting perhaps cast doubt on the efficacy of the feminist call to abandon family, motherhood, and all things domestic in preference for the masculinist tradition of emancipatory flight. Pam Gilbert, for instance, reads The Children’s Bach as “an extremely perceptive analysis of a woman caught within spheres of domesticity, nurturing, loneliness, and sexuality” (18) via the character of “protected suburban mum, Athena” (19). The complexity of this characterisation of a suburban female belies the anti-suburban critique by not resorting to satire or stereotype, but by engaging deeply with a woman’s life inside suburbia. It also allows that flight from suburbia is not always possible, or even desired. Also seeming to contradict the plausibility of linear flight, Jessica Anderson’s Tirra Lirra by the River (1978), features (another) Nora returning to her childhood Brisbane after a lifetime of flight; first from her suburban upbringing and then from a repressive marriage to the relative freedoms of London. The poignancy of the novel, set towards the end of the protagonist’s life, rests in Nora’s inability to find a true sense of belonging, despite her migrations. She “has spent most of her life waiting, confined to houses or places that restrict her, places she feels she does not belong to, including her family home, the city of Brisbane, her husband’s house, Australia itself” (Gleeson-White 184). Thus, although Nora’s life can be read as “the story of a very slow emergence from a doomed attempt to lead a conventional, married life… into an independent existence in London” (Gelder and Salzman, Diversity 65), the novel suggests that the search for belonging—at least for Australian women—is problematic. Moreover, any narrative of female escape from suburbia is potentially problematic due to the gendering of suburban experience as feminine. The suburban female who leaves suburbia necessarily rejects not only her “natural” place of belonging, but domesticity as a way of being and, to some extent, even her sex. In her work on memoir, Hooton identifies a stark difference between the shape of female and male biography to argue that women’s experience of life is innately non-linear. However, the use of non-linear narrative by feminist fiction writers of the second wave was arguably more conscious, even political in seeking a new, untainted form through which to explore the female condition. It was a powerful notion, arguably contributing to a golden age of women’s writing by novelists Helen Garner, Barbara Hanrahan, Jessica Anderson, and others. It also exerted a marked effect on fiction by Kate Grenville, Amanda Lohrey, and Janette Turner Hospital, as well as grunge novelists, well into the 1990s. By contrast, other canonical, albeit older, women writers of the time, Thea Astley and Elizabeth Jolley, neither of whom identified as feminist (Fringe 341; Neuter 196), do not seek to “rescue” the suburban female from her milieu. Like Patrick White, Astley seems, at least superficially, to perpetuate narrow stereotypes of the suburban female as “mindless consumers of fashion” and/or “signifiers of sexual disorder” (Sheridan, Satirist 262). Although flight is permitted those female characters who “need to ‘vanish’ if they are to find some alternative to narrow-mindedness and social oppression” (Gelder and Salzman, Celebration 186), it has little to do with feminism. As Brian Matthews attests of Astley’s work, “nothing could be further from the world-view of the second wave feminist writers of the 1980s” (76) and indeed her female characters are generally less sympathetic than those inhabiting novels by the “feminist” writers. Jolley also leaves the female protagonist to fend for herself, with a more optimistic, forceful vision of “female characters who, in their sheer eccentricity, shed any social expectations” to inhabit “a realm empowered by the imagination” (Gelder and Salzman, Celebration 194). If Jolley’s suburban females desire escape then they must earn it, not by direct or shifting relocations, but via other, more extreme and often creative, modes of transformation. These two writers however, were exceptional in their resistance to the influence of second wave feminism. Thus, three narrative categories emerge in which the suburban female may be transformed: linear flight from suburbia, non-linear flight from suburbia, or non-flight whereby the protagonist remains inside suburbia throughout the entire novel. Evidence of a rejection of the flight narrative by contemporary Australian women writers may signal a re-examination of the suburban female within, not outside, her suburban setting. It may also reveal a weakening of the influence of both second wave feminism and anti-suburban critiques on this much maligned character of Australian fiction, and on suburbia as a fictional setting. References Anderson, Jessica. Tirra Lirra by the River. Melbourne: Macmillan, 1978. Astley, Thea. “Writing as a Neuter: Extracts from Interview by Candida Baker.” Eight Voices of the Eighties: Stories, Journalism and Criticism by Australian Women Writers. Ed. Gillian Whitlock. St Lucia, Qld: U of Queensland P, 1989. 195-6. Durez, Jean. “Laminex Dreams: Women, Suburban Comfort and the Negation of Meanings.” Meanjin 53.1 (1994): 99-110. During, Simon. Patrick White. Melbourne: Oxford UP, 1996. Friedan, Betty. The Feminine Mystique. Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin, 1965. Garner, Helen. Honour and Other People’s Children. Ringwood, Vic.: Penguin, 1982. ———. The Children’s Bach. Melbourne: McPhee Gribble, 1984. ———. Monkey Grip. Camberwell, Vic.: Penguin, 2009. Gelder, Ken, and Paul Salzman. The New Diversity. Melbourne: McPhee Gribble, 1989. ———. After the Celebration. Melbourne: UP, 2009. Gerster, Robin. “Gerrymander: The Place of Suburbia in Australian Fiction.” Meanjin 49.3 (1990): 565-75. Gilbert, Pam. Coming Out from Under: Contemporary Australian Women Writers. London: Pandora Press, 1988. Gleeson-White, Jane. Australian Classics: 50 Great Writers and Their Celebrated Works. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2007. Goodwin, Ken. A History of Australian Literature. Basingstoke: Macmillan Education, 1986. Greer, Germain. The Female Eunuch. London: Granada, 1970. Hanrahan, Barbara. The Scent of Eucalyptus. St Lucia, Qld: U of Queensland P, 1973. ———. Sea-Green. London: Chatto & Windus, 1974. ———. Kewpie Doll. London: Hogarth Press, 1989. Hooton, Joy. Stories of Herself When Young: Autobiographies of Childhood by Australian Women Writers. Melbourne: Oxford UP, 1990. Ireland, David. The Glass Canoe. Melbourne: Macmillan, 1976. Johnson, Lesley. The Modern Girl: Girlhood and Growing Up. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1993. ———, and Justine Lloyd. Sentenced to Everyday Life: Feminism and the Housewife. New York: Berg, 2004. Johnston, George. My Brother Jack. London: Collins/Fontana, 1967. Jolley, Elizabeth. “Fringe Dwellers: Extracts from Interview by Jennifer Ellison.” Eight Voices of the Eighties: Stories, Journalism and Criticism by Australian Women Writers. Ed. Gillian Whitlock. St Lucia, Qld: U of Queensland P, 1989. 334-44. Kirkby, Joan. “The Pursuit of Oblivion: In Flight from Suburbia.” Australian Literary Studies 18.4 (1998): 1-19. Lake, Marilyn. Getting Equal: The History of Australian Feminism. St Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1999. McCann, Andrew. “Decomposing Suburbia: Patrick White’s Perversity.” Australian Literary Studies 18.4 (1998): 56-71. Matthews, Brian. “Before Feminism… After Feminism.” Thea Astley’s Fictional Worlds. Eds. Susan Sheridan and Paul Genoni. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2006. 72-6. Rowse, Tim. Australian Liberalism and National Character. Melbourne: Kibble Books, 1978. Saegert, Susan. “Masculine Cities and Feminine Suburbs: Polarized Ideas, Contradictory Realities.” Signs 5.3 (1990): 96-111. Sheridan, Susan. Along the Faultlines: Sex, Race and Nation in Australian Women’s Writing 1880s–1930s. St Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1995. ———. “Reading the Women’s Weekly: Feminism, Femininity and Popular Culture.” Transitions: New Australian Feminisms. Eds. Barbara Caine and Rosemary Pringle. St Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1995. ———. "Thea Astley: A Woman among the Satirists of Post-War Modernity." Australian Feminist Studies 18.42 (2003): 261-71. Sowden, Tim. “Streets of Discontent: Artists and Suburbia in the 1950s.” Beasts of Suburbia: Reinterpreting Cultures in Australian Suburbs. Eds. Sarah Ferber, Chris Healy, and Chris McAuliffe. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 1994. 76-93. Stead, Christina. For Love Alone. Sydney: Collins/Angus and Robertson, 1990. Summers, Anne. Damned Whores and God’s Police. Melbourne: Penguin, 2002. White, Patrick. The Tree of Man. London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1956. ———. A Fringe of Leaves. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1977. Wolff, Janet. Resident Alien: Feminist Cultural Criticism. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995.