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The Ern Malley Affair

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The Ern Malley affair is still something of an embarrassment to literate Australians. Ern Malley was the creation of two poets, James McAuley and Harold Stewart, who wanted to show up what they regarded as the insufferable pretensions of an Australian literary magazine called Angry Penguins. They concocted the fictitious Ern, gave him an irresistibly romantic biography, wrote a dozen supposedly awful poems under his name, and sent off the result. To their glee, the editor Max Harris swallowed the bait and published a special issue in Ern's memory. Then the facts came out, and avant-gardists all over Australia were made to look stupid.

That would be it, except for the bewildering irony that the Ern Malley poems aren't nearly as bad and incoherent as their authors suggested. Well, not all the time. (Heyward helpfully reprints them as an appendix so you can judge for yourself.) They oscillate in the strangest way between genius and gibberish; I have one highly-educated Aussie friend who thinks that they're the most genuinely avant-garde poetry Australia has ever produced, and Heyward is inclined to agree. The Angry Penguin crowd claimed as much, saying that the authors had surpassed themselves in their attempt to turn off conscious control over their own work. They certainly contain some haunting, extraordinary lines ("I am still / The black swan of trespass on alien waters", "I have split the infinitive. Beyond is anything.") The fact that these lines were never meant seriously by their authors raises important questions about the usefulness of discussing intention in matters of literary criticism.

Heyward's story is lucidly and wittily told. There are no clear-cut villains and heroes. Max Harris comes across as appealingly open-minded and imaginative, as well as gullible. The hoaxers weren't cynical hacks but talented and serious poets in their own right. Amongst those taken in by Ern was Australia's greatest modern painter, Sidney Nolan, who (perhaps rightly) said that it didn't matter whether the poems were "authentic" or not, so long as they worked on some level.

A remarkable book, not only in its picture of mid-century Australian cultural history but also in the tricky questions it asks about sense vs. nonsense in art and the motives behind cultural battles.

A brilliantly researched and wittily written chronicle of a great literary hoax. In the nineteen forties Australia's avant-garde arts magazine ANGRY PENGUINS received a package of poems from a woman calling herself Ethel Malley, purportedly the work of her recently deceased brother Ern. The magazine's editor was so overwhelmed with the poems that he published the entire oeuvre in a special edition of the magazine. Then word began to get about that neither Ethel nor Ern Malley actually existed, and that the poems were a hoax. The hunt for the culprits was on. The is a great read: a literary detective story, an intriguing picture of the cultural landscape of postwar Australia, and a book which confronts the reader with crucial questions about the elusive nature of aesthetic judgement.

This is a true story, and an amazing one. The "Ern Malley affair" was a famous literary hoax in 1940s Australia - without doubt, the greatest literary hoax of all time. It began when Max Harris, young editor of the Adelaide-based avant-garde magazine Angry Penguins, received a package from a certain Ethel Malley, containing the surrealistic poems of her brother Ern, a Melbourne garage mechanic, who had died recently at the age of twenty-five. Did Harris think they were any good? Did he ever! Harris at once pronounced Malley a genius, and a lavish special commemorative issue of Angry Penguins was devoted to Ern's poems. Then the truth came out. There was no Ern, and no Ethel either - Ern's "works of genius" had been cobbled together in an afternoon by two traditionalist poets, James McAuley and Harold Stewart, in an attempt to discredit the avant-garde.

Up to a point, they did: Max Harris was certainly never the same again, especially after the South Australian authorities decided that the Malley poems were obscene and dragged the young publisher through a public trial. The one-time enfant terrible of the University of Adelaide ended his days not as the great novelist, poet, or even literary editor he had imagined he would be, but as a canting, boorish newspaper columnist, churning out opinion pieces for Rupert Murdoch. (He also, in fairness, ran a chain of bookshops that weren't half bad in those pre-Amazon days; Max, with his cane and floppy hat, used to trawl the world - London! New York! the dealers all knew Max - for remainders, often good ones, which he used to ship back to Australia to pile 'em high and sell 'em cheap, as you do. I still think about Max from time to time: I never met him, never even came close, but he came from the same town I did, and as a child I used to hear his name again and again. He was a legend.)

Meanwhile, hoaxer-in-chief James McAuley, following his youthful jape, became the sort of arch-right winger who would nowadays be a cheerleader for Bush-loving Australian Prime Minister John Howard, and started a horrible fascist (sorry, "conservative") magazine called Quadrant; Stewart, ever the more interesting of the two, eventually moved to Japan where he got into Zen, big-time, and made rather cool collages; interviewed in later years, he never wanted to talk about the Malley business, and said that his old life in Australia all seemed like a dream. (Hell, so does mine.) I rather like the sound of Stewart.

But the story of Ern Malley was far from over. If Ern's fame as a great poet had been brief, his fame as a hoax just kept on growing, and has not abated to this day. The Malley poems confront us with crucial literary questions. With Malley, we are by no means a world away from "exquisite corpse" poems, from The Waste Land (that great modernist echo chamber of allusions), from the cut-ups and fold-ins of Brion Gysin and William Burroughs, from the whole panoply of surrealist techniques. When David Bowie glues together random strips of words to write his lyrics ("Serious moonlight, indeed!" as a friend of mine once exclaimed), he is very much in the tradition of "Ern." Are these techniques all to be condemned? And how much, in the end, does authorial intention matter, as opposed to the words on the page? There are lines in Malley that are better (more haunting, more simply memorable) than almost anything in "real" Australian poetry: "Rise from the wrist, o kestrel / Mind, to a clear expanse"; "My blood becomes a Damaged Man / Most like your Albion" (from a poem addressed to William Blake); "Princess, you lived in Princess St., / Where the urchins pick their nose in the sun / With the left hand"; "I have split the infinitive. Beyond is anything." Are the Malley poems really rubbish - or did the compilers of this hasty oeuvre, in mimicking surrealist techniques, inadvertently liberate a deeper world of meaning? In any case, Ern took on a life of his own, and soon became a cult figure, the missing genius of Oz lit. The artist Sidney Nolan painted his portrait.

I've often thought that the Malley affair is a classic Australian movie just waiting to be made. Recently, the story has formed the basis of Peter Carey's very much fictionalised account, My Life as a Fake (2002); but that is an ill-focused, slackly imagined book, far less compelling than the simple truth about the Malley affair. Heyward's book is the one to read, not least because it also includes the full text of Ern's legendary manuscript. Almost sixty years later, the enigma remains. As Ern put it, "I am still / The black swan of trespass on alien waters."