Late last week, in what turned out to be the dying days of the Abbott administration, and perhaps the last sands of George Brandis’s time in the arts portfolio, the government’s new Book Council of Australia (BCA) finally arrived. Trailing behind it were some controversies about its structure and membership – controversies seemingly as small as its A$6 million (over three years) budget, but in fact real thorns for the literary sector.
A suffering publishing industry first mooted the idea of a book council with the Labor government in 2010. The industry was gulping air in turbulent seas as waves of globalisation and digitisation crashed. New business paradigms were attacking the old; traditional bookstores, publishers, and authors were at risk – with potential downstream costs for the rest of us in the form of damage to our literary and reading culture.
Most of the industry was on board – in fact the Council is made up of representatives of the industry associations. But its limited aims and role, its modest funds, the source of these funds, the Chair who has been appointed, and the absence of Indigenous voices and voices from the emerging writer and emerging digital literary sector have tainted the initiative for some.
Without surprise, the President of the Australian Publishers Association, Louise Adler, has been invited by Minister Brandis to chair the new council. Adler, whose day job is as CEO of Melbourne University Press, was the key player in the chain of reports and working parties that led to the BCA’s establishment. And usually, while Adler is seen as a figure of the left (ex-Radio National, ex-The Age, ex-Australian Book Review, once student of Edward Said), she also seems to have the confidence of the right.
Australian prime minister Julia Gillard with former prime minister Bob Hawke and publisher Louise Adler at the launch of the biography Hawke: The Prime Minister by his wife Blanche D’Alpuget (centre right) in 2010. AAP ONE
Mostly this reflects Adler’s standing within the publishing industry and her persuasiveness on committees (see disclosure), but it may have helped in this instance that she is Tony Abbott’s publisher. Indeed, Adler even seems to have a soft spot for Abbott personally or politically (see Q&A footage from 47:45), which I presume Abbott reciprocates, perhaps making it easy enough for him, at the time, to give her the gig.
Ms Adler will be joined on the Council by representatives appointed from a wide range of literary and industry organisations including the Australian Society of Authors, the Australian Publishers Association, the Australian Booksellers Association, the Australian Literary Agents’ Association and the Australian Library and Information Association.
In fact they are not all: The National Library, the Copyright Agency, the Small Press Network, and the Children’s Book Council also get guernseys.
The BCA drew fire a week before it was announced, with an open letter from 39 organisations concerned at the delay at its arrival and a lack of clarity about its purpose and operations. There was particular concern about whether the BCA would recognise “the breadth of Australia’s literary sector”:
The National Writers’ Centre Network, writers’ festivals across the country, prize-giving organisations, bookstores, critics, schools and universities, literary journals, libraries, digital-only initiatives et al – and that many of these organisations and publications not only feed directly into the wider publishing industry, but are critical to sustaining it for both creators and consumers: developing the capacity of writers, publishers and readers; offering skills and professional development programs; and many publication and employment opportunities.
The small and the new players were pitching themselves against the top-end of town (the old model of publishing).
Two related issues seemed to be at stake. The first question is around the purpose of the BCA and the second around the question of how representative the BCA is of new forms of literary activity and new voices.
Elsewhere, I have written on the question of whether the BCA is about industry or about culture. Inevitably books, writers, our literary culture, and the publishing industry come as a matched set. It is hard to have a literary culture without an industry – even if that sometimes means sharing turf with a globalised publishing industry whose goals are as much financial as cultural.
Policy responses then become a question of emphasis: will government emphasise industry sustainability (no matter what the cultural utility of the material produced) or will government emphasise literature’s work of telling our stories, debating our issues, helping people form themselves and enrich their lives through it?
Decisions by both the last Labour Government and this current LNP one have impacted on the balance between these not-wholly-opposed goals. As the BCA comes into being it assumes an unexpected role as the apparatus of government with the most magisterial view of policy in the literary domain.
This follows the ALP’s shuttering of the Literature Board of the Australia Council in 2014 – a shuttering that looks increasingly misguided in the wake of Minister Brandis’s raid on the Australia Council budget to form the National Program for Excellence in the Arts (NPEA).
For 40 years the Literature Board provided writing, publishing and other literary grants based on decisions made by a committee and sub-committees of writers and the very occasional publisher. It provided a writer-led view of literary development. It was often finely tuned to aesthetic questions, but less so to industrial ones.
But still, the Board was effective in supplementing writers’ incomes and ensuring the publication of hundreds of new voices, including many of nation’s most famous names. It was remarkably effective on a A$4m or so annual budget, and its 2014 shuttering removed fundamental policy capacity and leadership in the literary and book industry domains – even if its policy focus was perhaps too often just on the writer.
The Book Council was intended to augment the Board’s writerly focus with a industry-wide one. But now, in a real sense, it replaces the Literature Board as the senior policy agency in the literary space. Unfortunately, the BCA’s modest budget of A$2m a year (over three years) (gouged out of the Australia Council last December) means that the resources for literary and book industry development are split between the BCA and the Australia Council (whose own budget has been further depleted by Minister Brandis’s A$104m raid to create his new NPEA).
Because of the BCA’s elevation to policy prominence the question of its industry versus literary or writerly focus has become a hot one. The BCA certainly professes literary aims:
The Council will provide advice to the government on strategies to raise and strengthen the profile of Australian literature and literary non-fiction nationally and internationally, including priorities for funding through targeted initiatives, and to foster a culture of reading among the Australian public.
And so does Ms Adler in an op-ed which can be read an assurance about the ultimately cultural purposes of the BCA and of literature:
If we collectively believe in the principle that telling our stories to ourselves and to the international market matters as much as it ever did, then fresh thinking is required. The Book Council, with representatives from all the lead organisations involved in the business of reading and writing, has a new opportunity to ensure the community’s collective imagination is fuelled by Australian writing … [Australian writers offer us] the chance to contemplate who we are and how we live. Reading, thankfully, is not yet obsolete, nor is it odd or quaint or deviant. There is every reason to ensure it continues to flourish as both a private pleasure and a public good.
Yet many of the smaller literary organisations feel as though, no matter what the stated aims of the BCA, its composition suggests that it is defending an old literary model rather than embracing the new.
And there certainly are “new” forms of literary life following digitisation and the arrival of a Gen-Ys on the literary space. As well as e-books and online bookshops, the capital cities, particularly Melbourne, are awash with new kinds of literary entities and activity: small digital publications, real and virtual festivals, and literary podcasters. These ventures are often helmed by a generation of emerging writers – often creative writing graduates.
This new digital belletrism often forsakes books entirely for smaller and more mobile forms of literary production and consumption. It is the players in this group that seem to feel most at the margins of what has been sketched out by the BCA – and not represented in its membership.
Sam Twyford-Moore, former director of Melbourne’s Emerging Writers’ Festival, and a key drafter of the Open Letter of September 3, has been particularly active in questioning the focus of the BCA and also Ms Adler’s role in it. While the publishing industry happily accepts Ms Adler as its representative – or mostly so (she has enemies as well as supporters) – Twyford-Moore sees Adler as compromised by the broad range of positions she holds, including her propinquity to Tony Abbott.
Adler certainly plays hardball in most things, but on balance it is much better to have Adler, in all her effectiveness, inside the tent. Twyford-Moore, playing the role of tyro, is keen to challenge Adler to a public debate – which would bring out the younger members of the Melbourne literary community in large numbers.
But the faster way forward here is for the minister and the BCA to recognise the literary sector’s fundamental point that the future of small digital publishing, event and socially based literary activity, and Indigenous literary activity, need to be represented on the BCA – even if they have been outside the discussion until this point.
Until included, the BCA risks being rejected by some of the communities that should welcome it. It will suffer sniping from the very generation that will inherit caretakership of the industry from Adler and others in the coming decade.
In the background to all this is Minister Brandis’s partial reclamation of decision-making about policy and funding from the realm of the Australia Council – where arm’s-length mechanisms have prevailed for four decades.
Brandis has ushered in a new type of ministerial activism or interventionism in the arts space. But having entered a space that was previously the province of the artists and writers themselves, he needs to ensure that there is policy and funding contiguity between the old Australia Council and his new Ministerial mechanisms: the NPEA and BCA.
This is just good government. It will require greater dexterity than has been shown to date.
A prize-winning New Zealand novel for teenagers has been effectively banned because of complaints from Christian lobby group Family First. After the decision by the country’s Film and Literature Board of Review, Bruce Dawe’s Into the River is now subject to an interim ban that prohibits its supply, display, and distribution.
Into the River is the first book to be banned since the current law was enacted in 1993. The novel confronts important subjects like bullying and racism through its narrative about a Maori boy. As the winner of the 2013 New Zealand Post Children’s Book Awards, it is in some respects a surprising target for censors.
Into the River has been classified in several different ways. It was initially judged suitable for audiences over 16, then received an R14 classification at the beginning of 2014 (making it an offence to supply the book to a child younger than 14), which was overturned last month.
On making the R14 determination, the Board of Review acknowledged the book’s “useful social purpose”. The Board concluded it was “likely to educate and inform young adults about the potentially negative consequences that can follow from involvement in casual sex, underage drinking, drug taking, crime, violence and bullying”.
Nevertheless, the Board felt that younger readers without a sufficient “level of maturity” were at real risk of being shocked by “powerful and disturbing scenes”.
In 2013, Family First sought an R18 classification and shrink-wrap covering because of the book’s sexual content, representation of paedophilia and drug taking, and use of swear words. Leader Bob McCroskie must have been busy with the search function on an ebook, as he noted that “it’s a book that’s got the c-word nine times, the f-word 17 times and s-h-i-t 16 times”.
When most people think of book censorship, they imagine political regimes and potentially book burning in Nazi Germany. What is little considered is that most books that have been challenged or banned are books for young people.
Book burning in Nazi Germany
The American Library Association’s list of the Top 100 Banned/Challenged Books of 2000-2009 includes dozens of books for young people. Eight of the books or series named in the top 10 are children’s or young adult titles.
JK Rowling’s Harry Potter series occupies the number-one position because of its depiction of magic. Christian schools across the United States, United Kingdom, and even some in Australia, have refused to allow the phenomenally popular novels about the boy wizard to circulate in their libraries.
What Harry Potter shares with four other titles in the top 10 is that it is a series. Series books for young people are typically understood as having little educational value or literary merit.
L Frank Baum’s Oz books, for example, were removed from numerous public library shelves in the United States throughout the 1930s and 1940s. As Laurie Langbauer explains, librarians believed that series fiction like Oz was:
mass-produced, commercial, interminable, formulaic, and repetitive […] had no redeeming value and would harm any children exposed to it.
Books for young readers are often challenged or banned because they conflict with adult perceptions of childhood innocence. Depictions of sex pose the most obvious threat to adults’ understanding of the sacred space of childhood.
Judy Blume’s teen novels were highly sought after in my primary school because of their discussion of puberty and developing sexuality. Four of her novels appear on the challenged books list from 2000-2009, even though the most recent of these was published more than three decades ago.
Blume began publishing in the 1970s and has pointed out that this period was more open to discussions of teen sexuality. Her controversial novel Forever, she explains, was:
used in several school programs then, helping to spur discussions of sexual responsibility.
Blume laments that her novels would never be used in this way today. In 2013, she used her fame to assist after The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky (number 10 on the ALA banned list) was removed from one Chicago school district after a complaint by a parent about sexual content.
Into the River has received literary awards and praise that distinguish it from popular series fiction. The New Zealand Review Board even highlights its potential to educate young readers. It has been reclassified and now banned because sex troubles adult ideas about what young people should be exposed to in fictional stories.
While age recommendations for disturbing content in books for young people are potentially useful, legal restrictions and bans are mystifying and fruitless for several reasons.
For one, young people can readily access adult fiction in public libraries and via ebooks. An obsessive focus on the books specifically marketed to young people ignores the mature themes, such as sex, drugs, violence, and horror, that they are free to explore elsewhere.
Second, young people access mature content in a range of formats, including largely unregulated internet sites and videos, and in video games, which aren’t usually expected to have an educative function.
Finally, through gritty realism and challenging content, books such as Into the River attempt to appeal to a demographic of teen boys who are reluctant readers. If the harshness of life for Indigenous, working-class, or sexually abused teens is too disturbing for adults to accept, then we would be better placed to improve these lived realities than condemn their representation in stories for young people.
Last month in The Guardian, with a piece headlined Get Real. Terry Pratchett is not a Literary Genius, literary critic Jonathan Jones claimed Terry Pratchett’s books should not be read, because they are not literature:
Everyone reads trash sometimes, but why are we now pretending, as a culture, that it is the same thing as literature? The two are utterly different.
Jones informed us that he hadn’t read anything by Pratchett, because his time was better spent reading Jane Austen. In presenting Pratchett and Austen as polar opposites, Jones made certain lazy assumptions about both the nature and function literature, which deserve to be challenged.
Jones’ article irritated many, and has drawn criticism for reinforcing an elitist and exclusionary definition of culture, based on the assumption that there is a singular definition of “literary” fiction independent of the reader’s individual experience of either life or reading.
Yet the definition of “literature” is changeable, and inextricably linked with fashion. As the author Christopher Priest has pointed out, works now considered classics were not necessarily defined as high culture when they were written, and works considered literary when published do not always survive over time.
Priest also observes that many classics began life as popular publications – the story of Americans waiting at the wharf to discover the fate of Little Nell springs to mind. What is missing from this debate is direct engagement with Pratchett’s work and its relation to literary high culture.
So what is high culture? And what do we mean when we call something “literary”? According to Jones, “actual literature” is “harder to get to grips with than a Discworld novel, but it is more worth the effort”.
As this definition is not particularly helpful, let us consider some characteristics commonly considered “literary”: the elegant and adventurous use of language, engagement with themes of universal significance, inventiveness of style, defiance of genre classification.
Jones accuses Pratchett’s prose of being “very ordinary”, missing Pratchett’s delight in locating the extraordinary within the ordinary: his writing is simultaneously clear and complex, much like Austen’s. Both are masters of aphorism; compare for example:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife (Austen, Pride and Prejudice).
To:
The presence of those seeking the truth is infinitely to be preferred to the presence of those who think they’ve found it (Pratchett, Monstrous Regiment).
Both are wry observations of human nature, and both make the reader stop and think.
Pratchett seldom allows language to exist unchallenged; words are stretched and twisted by new and surprising contexts, opening the reader’s eye to the arbitrary relation of signifier and signified, often eliciting surprised laughter.
The Truth (2000), the 25th Discworld novel, reflects on the meaning of “truth” and people’s propensity to look for it, structured around the aphorism that “a lie can run around the world before the truth has got its boots on”.
William, a compulsive truth-teller, sets up the first newspaper on the Discworld, and discovers that the truth is hard to find. He is horrified when readers assume everything printed in the paper is true, assuming “otherwise they wouldn’t let them put it in”.
The novel concludes with the statement that “nothing has to be true for ever. Just for long enough, to tell you the truth”. This challenges readers’ assumptions about objective truth, but positions it as ephemeral rather than non-existent.
Pratchett’s writing style is economical, elegant and adventurous. In The Truth, he takes the same approach to chapters as Joyce takes to punctuation in the final chapter of Ulysses (1918): he doesn’t use any. Instead, a multitude of episodic narratives fit together like scenes in a film, jumping between characters, location and time without losing the narrative thread.
The Truth begins by tracing a rumour flying through the city of Ankh-Morpork: “The dwarfs can turn lead into gold”. As different characters hear the rumour, (alchemists, wizards, thieves, the dwarfs themselves), the image of both city and world emerges. The rumour, like a panning camera, stops when it reaches William.
Pratchett’s work is often underestimated because it is classified as “genre fiction” rather than literary fiction. Yet Pratchett’s relationship with genre is complex and adversarial. He does not reproduce genre stereotypes, he sets them up to be deconstructed, or at least affectionately mocked.
Rincewind, the original Discworld hero, is represented as completely un-heroic: a cowardly wizard who cannot do magic, or, indeed, spell the word wizard. He is joined in his adventures by Cohen the Barbarian, now old, toothless and suffering from lumbago, who nevertheless is still a more successful hero than Rincewind.
Austen often flirts with genre in a similar way. Northanger Abbey (1817) is a mock-Gothic romance, which satirises the stereotypes of Gothic fiction by reproducing them and then allowing reality to intrude. The novel begins with a discourse on Catherine’s unsuitability as heroine, listing the characteristics one expects of heroines and locating their absence in Catherine.
When visiting Northanger Abbey, Catherine goes looking for manifestations of Gothic tropes, and is disappointed at every turn: the hidden papers she finds are laundry receipts, the old Abbey has been restored and redecorated, and her love-interest’s mother was not murdered, after all.
Austen’s novels are no harder or easier to read than Pratchett’s; both use wit and satire to carry out social critique, and in both cases people who don’t find them funny tend not to enjoy them.
Reading Pratchett, like reading Austen, requires commitment, and a willingness to look under the surface. It’s a shame Jonathan Jones was unable to do so before writing his follow-up article on Pratchett – for which he had, belatedly, read one book by the author – this past weekend.
Reading instruction in the classroom is a key concern for all teachers and there are many ways to go about it. However, is our determination to achieve excellence in reading skills in our children killing their love and enjoyment of a good book?
In my work with parents, I am frequently asked the best ways to encourage and motivate reluctant readers to be engaged with books. Parents report that their children return home from school with no inclination to pick up a book and read.
Any avid reader will gladly talk about the joy of curling up with a good book to read away the hours on a cold, rainy afternoon. Reading a good book is one of life’s greatest pleasures. We need to share these experiences with our children and adolescents in order to assist them in developing into strong and capable readers.
How widespread is this concern about the destruction of reading enjoyment?
As I have written previously, the use of boring, mass-produced home reading texts in children’s early years at school can be seen as the beginning of this negative cycle.
As children progress through their schooling life, there are many other instances of learning reading skills that don’t help to celebrate or foster reading development. As NAPLAN tells us, getting the reading skills required simply to access these assessments isn’t always an enjoyable experience for students. Frequently, teachers feel the pressure to give their students “just enough” in terms of reading strategies to be able to access the test, which leaves little time to focus on reading for pleasure.
Kelly Gallagher, a high school teacher from the United States, outlines the term “Readicide” in his book by the same name. He says it’s:
the systematic killing of the love of reading, often exacerbated by inane, mind-numbing practices found in schools.
It is clear that the destruction of reading for pleasure is not contained to US schools. When introducing my first-year pre-service teachers to the amazing collection of literature by Australian author Shaun Tan, audible gasps of displeasure are frequently found.
Kids should know this about books. demotivation.us, CC BY
The Lost Thing is a multilayered visual text recommended by the NSW Board of Studies for students in years seven through to ten. Students recount their experiences of weeks spent analysing the key themes, ideas, imagery and concepts within the pages of this text.
The Lost Thing is an excellent example that illustrates all of these concepts; however, students comment that the length of time studying and analysing different components discourages them from looking at it or anything similar again.
Recent research also indicates that many pre-service teachers are inclined to follow the traditional literacy practices that they have experienced in their own education, which can often have negative connotations for their future students.
While teaching children and adolescents key concepts for analysing and evaluating texts is important, the manner in which it is done and time that is spent on this can lead to disengagement.
As Donalyn Miller notes in her book Reading in the Wild, schools aren’t to blame when it comes to not arresting students’ lack of interest in reading, but they have an important role to play in fostering reading enjoyment.
How do we encourage our children to read for pleasure?
Children (and adolescents, and adults) need to know that it is okay to read whatever they want, when they have the opportunity to do so. Giving children the chance to read whatever they like when shopping at the bookshop is a great place to start. If you are picking up a book to take home to your child as a gift, purchase a few, so they can choose something that interests them.
When parents are avid readers and actively talk about books with their children, they are establishing a climate at home where books are valued. Discussing your favourite books and parts of books with your children can lead to the discovery of new reading material about shared interests.
When your children bring home required reading, whether it be home readers or a set text for class, make sure that this isn’t the only reading they do. Provide incentives for your child to want to return to books of their own choice, in order to foster their interest in reading.
By helping our children and adolescents recognise the need for reading practice at school and the joys of reading for pleasure at school and home, we are giving them the best possible opportunity to develop the skills that they will need to be literate, passionate readers.
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