Literary Journal Issue#5 2011 - Cranbrook School

Literary Journal Issue#5 2011

CRANBROOK SCHOOL Literary Journal Issue#5 2011
Published by CRANBROOK SCHOOL
Editor: Jacqueline Grassmayr
Fifth Edition: 2011
Designed and produced by Cranbrook Publications
Front cover: ‘Prime’ – Painting by William Solomon Year 12

Contents
Editorial ..................................................................... 1
Poetry ........................................................................ 3
Creative Writing ...................................................... 19
Literary and Cultural Criticism ................................ 61
Fine Arts .................................................................. 74
Languages ............................................................... 82
History ..................................................................... 95

BENCHMARK
Editorial
Welcome to the fifth edition of Benchmark which I hope will delight
and engage you over the summer months.
We were privileged this year to have poet Toby Fitch work with students
as part of The Red Room Company’s education program, ‘Papercuts’. Toby
Fitch is a talented new poet recently featured in the Sydney Morning Herald’s
‘Spectrum’. His first full length book of poems is about to be published
by Puncher and Wattman. The Red Room Company is a non-profit
organisation that creates, promotes and publishes new Australian poetry in
imaginative, inspiring and magical ways. For more information, view their
website at redroomcompany.org. Some of the poems the students created
for their anthology, attempted defiance, are published here. The boys have
swaggered along the more rebellious laneways of their minds and left a trail
of poetic musings in their wakes. I am sure that you will agree they are
edgy and thought-provoking pieces.
As always, I thank Tony Ronaldson for his wise editing advice. He and
I spend many hours reading the poems selected by teachers, and are always
delighted to see such a wide range of topics and poetic forms. Every year we
are also highly impressed by the craft and skill of the competition winners.
Thanks must also go to the English teachers who challenge, guide and
inspire their students to write the pieces that appear in the Poetry, Creative
Writing, and Literary and Cultural Criticism sections of the journal.
This year, I have published two excerpts from the ‘Write-a-Book-In-a-Day’
competition. As we go into publication, we await the announcement of
1

EDITORIAL
this year’s winners and wonder if we will match the successful entry from
the 2010 Year 8 English Enrichment team. The boys must write, illustrate
and publish a book within a twelve-hour time limit. The competition is
a literary and fundraising initiative of the Katharine Susannah Prichard
Writers Centre and Princess Margaret Hospital Foundation. This year
the proceeds from NSW go to The Oncology Children’s Foundation
(Westmead). For more information, you can view their website at
writeabookinaday.com.
Thanks also go to Anne Byrnes, Matthew Ross and Cathleen Jin for
their selections in the History and Languages sections respectively.
Thank you to the Art Department whose students are clearly motivated
by the passion their teachers radiate. Their work is adventurous in content
and professional in execution. Thank you to Rhondda Anthony, Chloe
Hodgson and the members of the Publications Department for their tireless
efforts in designing and producing such a beautiful journal. And, of course,
thank you most of all to the boys for their contributions.
This edition of Benchmark is dedicated to the memory of our dear
colleague, David Ingham (1944 – 2011) who gave the literary journal
its title. Dave filled our lives with literary quips, poetic gems, laughter,
generosity and warmth. He is greatly missed.
Jacqueline Grassmayr
Editor
2

BENCHMARK
3

POETRY
Well Groomed
Ba-ding! ‘Chris Jones,’ who the …
‘Hey just moved here lol probs coming to your school next term.’
Four hours and facebook chat really starts to grasp your social life.
Pop up. Hannah just logged on. Must. Start. Convo. Reaching for the
pack, eww Ready salted. Must. Get. Water.
Ba-ding. Not the new kid again.
‘You still there? … QUESTION MARK, QUESTION MARK.’
Can’t take it any longer …
‘Hi.’
Initial greeting must be subtle with slight hostility,
No Xs or Os for this one just yet. Ba-ding
‘How old are you? Im 16. Just moved from the country.’
OH GOD a country boy. Have to tell Jess about this one.
I bet this is his first time on a computer let alone the Internet.
‘Yeah same im 16. So how do you know what school I go to?’
Good answer. Showing interest but still slightly respectful.
Wait how did he know what school I went to …
info page that’s it, of course. Had me worried for a bit then.
Four days in, country boy won’t. Leave. Me. Alone.
Kind of growing on me. Maybe its his innocence,
his vague understanding of social networking …
or just his plain willingness to persist.
Either way convos keep getting deeper and deeper.
Jess says he’s weird. Says I shouldn’t talk to him.
SCREW HER. She’s just jealous. That’s right.
Back stabber can go die for all I care.
School started, boring as usual.
Teacher mumbles, listen, straight out the other side.
Time seems to slow down like walking through a retirement home.
Talked to Jess. Didn’t go so well. In short …
me angry. Clench fist. Bloody nose.
But we made some ground.
Preliminary social contact has to mean something right.
No country boy today,
Weird said he’d be here.
Ba-ding. ‘Sorry I wasn’t there today, I was spewin. Feel better though.
Wondering if you want to meet up?’
Contemplation. To meet or not to meet, that is the question.
Why not? Closest thing I have to a friend at the moment.
A lonely wolf amidst a pack. Sad but true.
‘Where and when?’ Ba-ding. ‘Steyne Park, four?’
An out guy hmm whatever floats your boat.
Tonight on Nine News.
Reports just in that a sixteen-year-old girl was found dead
in Sydney’s east.
Oliver Spence
Year 10
Winner of the Year 10 Poetry Prize
4

BENCHMARK
Mighty Beowulf
King of the Geats
Damaged and dying, Grendel disappeared into the darkness.
Unaware of the threat that remained, the Danes celebrated.
Yet as night fell, they felt the fury of Grendel’s mother.
She came in a rage to wreak revenge
and before dawn, they found Aschere, dead on the floor.
‘Time lost lamenting is time wasted. Let us avenge our friend!’
screamed the furious tribe.
Brave Beowulf led the way to the lake
where deep below, Grendel’s mother lay in wait.
‘Death or destruction, I will face my fate!’
cried Beowulf as he leapt to the lake.
He plummeted into the gloomy green depths.
The icy cold water grabbed his breath away.
Suddenly something tight grabbed his chest …
Beowulf was dragged into an underwater cave.
Gasping and gagging, he found himself face to face with
a hideous hag, Grendel’s mother.
The clash of steel and the striking of claws raced
through the echoing chamber.
With a silver flash of the sword, Grendel’s mother
was slaughtered.
Her bloodied head lay crimson on the dark floor.
Beowulf turned to see Grendel in shock and
With one sweep of the sword Grendel’s head rolled
beside her mother’s.
As Grendel’s blood bubbled to the surface of the lake,
Beowulf’s companions gasped in horror.
Suddenly out burst Beowulf with two heads held high.
The companions raised the head up on spears and cheered
Mighty Beowulf, King of the Geats!
Roly Storch
Year 7
5
In Grandpa’s
House
My eyes shoot open in the gloomy dark,
Slowly adjusting to the light.
I quietly slip out of the warmth of my bed,
Suppressing the urge to shiver.
My bare feet touch the ancient floorboards
that creak and groan; ready to bend and break.
As I stumble blindly to my bedside desk,
grasp a beacon of hope and
switch it on and smile,
my trusty flashlight is dependable.
I creep towards the towering obstacle,
Trying to hide my fear.
Turning the knob for all eternity …
until finally the door swings open.
this is the night, this is the night,
in Grandpa’s house,
I have waited for, all my life.
Poking my head out into empty space,
I check the coast is clear.
My body doesn’t make a sound
as I step out into the corridor.
I raise my flashlight to my next destination;
thin beams of light cut through darkness.
As I tip-toe down polished floors
my heart’s thumping loudly; adrenaline pumping.
Stopping in front of my second obstacle
I pause to catch my breath
and breathe deeply, in and out.
I press my ear against Grandpa’s door, feeling the icy cold.
My heart skips a beat as I hear the rumbling of the old man’s snores
which guarantees my success.
This is the night, this is the night,
in Grandpa’s house,
I have waited for, all my life.
I can barely contain my excitement right now,
but I need to stay focused.
The hardest part dawns and looms silently
in the darkness ahead.
I set out into the obscurity,
guided only by my flashlight.
I search and search and search in the dusty corridor
but I can’t seem to find it.
I can almost hear the laughing now

POETRY
fading in the darkness.
Suddenly, something touches me!
I nearly faint on the spot.
But yes, oh yes. I’ve found it!
The dangling cord to the attic above.
This is the night, this is the night,
in Grandpa’s house,
I have waited for, all my life.
Tugging hard with all my strength,
I conquer my last challenge.
The stairs come down majestically,
hitting the floor with only the softest of thumps.
As I grasp the hand rails, my knuckles turn white.
Torch in mouth and destiny in hand,
I slowly ascend into the blackness above,
still not believing this is happening.
I pull myself up onto the attic’s floor,
dust covering my body.
On all fours, I turn around,
and looking, I gasp,
‘I see it, I see it! It’s really here …’
The forbidden door of Grandpa’s attic.
This is the night, this is the night,
in Grandpa’s house,
I have waited for, all my life.
I stand up, full height and chest broad,
to Grandpa’s forbidden door.
It’s a good foot bigger than me.
I tingle with excitement.
I see the burnished brass knob
reflecting in the torchlight
and I can’t help but laugh.
‘I’ve fooled Grandpa, I’ve fooled Grandpa,
at last I’m finally here.’
I step forward and swing the door ajar …
The air is still, quiet as usual, as I shine my torch to the door.
But the door remains black; no light gets through!
As a great roar fills my ears and my feet are pulled off the ground,
I’m sucked into oblivion, falling and falling and falling.
This is the night, this is the night,
in Grandpa’s house,
I have waited for, all my life.
I’m hurled back out of the attic’s door.
My body is thrown across the room.
I sit up, head spinning,
dizzy beyond thought
and I lurch to my feet, holding the wall,
not thinking clearly.
I’m still in Grandpa’s attic,
just the way I left it.
I’ve lost my torch, but I can see.
Light comes from the window.
I cast the blinds open
and squint in the light …
And the horror seeps in that I’m caged.
This is the night, this is the night,
in Grandpa’s house …
I had waited for,
All my life …
Michael Turner
Year 7
Winner of the Year 7 Poetry Prize
6

BENCHMARK
Living History
I’ve got an aunt in Narrabri,
She’s 80, and half as tall as me.
I like her so; she’s very nice.
She asks me ‘round for scones and tea.
She tells me stories of her life,
Of places she has been,
Of famous people she has met
And things that she has seen.
I think her memory’s faulty,
As she’s getting on in years,
And sometimes when she talks to me,
Her eyes well up with tears.
‘Lost my son in Vietnam,’
She’ll say and shake her head.
‘I won’t forget that pointless war,’
Is all she ever said.
‘My husband used to work the land,
For farmers near and far,
But his greatest love was at the pub,
Propping up the bar.’
‘His tombstone’s in the churchyard,
Which I rarely ever see.
I couldn’t care if it was gone,
Makes no difference to me.’
What a line – that said it all,
The life that she has led,
The tough times she’s endured,
Shown in things she said.
Sometimes we wander round the back,
To a car parked in the drive.
She strokes the hood and says to me
‘It’s from 1965.’
‘A Thunderbird from Ford,’ she’d say
‘A gift when I turned 18,
I used to drive it everywhere,
It’s a wonderful machine.’
‘I’d like to drive again, someday.’
But I know she never will.
The battery’s dead, the tyres are flat
And weeds grow in the grill.
7
And each day when it’s time to go,
She says, ‘What a lovely talk.’
I nod my head, I say ‘goodbye’
And out the door I walk.
‘Come again tomorrow,
I’ll tell you something new.’
I nod my head and close the gate
And call out, ‘Tootle-loo!’
Sadly, as I leave the house,
I think, ‘Does she even know my name?’
Because I know the next time I come back
She’ll repeat it all again.
Scott Ewart
Year 9
Winner of the Year 9 Poetry Prize

POETRY
Study Fishing
You don’t want to, but you have to
Your heart sinks to your stomach
You look out the window
The birds sing, the sun shines
Every fibre screams to be outside
You glance at the papers … Maths … Oh God …
Like hacking your way through weeds
An eternal punishment
You become restless and tired
TV wanders through your mind
NO YOU HAVE TO CONCENTRATE!
You switch on the TV, some daily cooking show
You stare at the clock, beg it to stop
Time lingers
Guilt, stress, anger starts to flow
And eat at your soul
You grunt and wriggle, your face goes dry
Your mind races, you tap your feet.
Your blood boils. You gnaw your pen
You’re on the verge of tears
Until you just yell STOP!
You stare at the ceiling
Swivel in your chair
Your fingertips skim the ground
What should you do?
What should you think?
You’re stuck in quicksand
Sucked into a black hole
Powerless
You rise and step outside
The sunshine skips across your face
The fresh air fills your lungs
Cling on, life is larger
Than some dumb test
Oscar Whatmore
Year 10
The rain beats down upon the wooden roof.
We prize open our eyes, crawl from warm beds.
The dawn remains aloof.
Numbed fingers sift through tangled lines.
Lift sinkers and floats, pack lines and rods.
Leave the dog to whine.
Scuffling and shuffling down the loose slate hill,
Carrying tackle, bent double against the wind.
Hopeful despite the chill.
The rain drizzles out and the boat comes into view.
Rotting bait stinks. Exhaust fumes pervade.
The dawn receives its cue.
The cabin folds into the coastline, the boat judders forward.
The clump of rocks in sight, we wash to a halt,
Lowering our lines for reward.
Steaming thermosed coffee drunk with trembling fingers.
Sinkers strike murky water. The boat bobs.
Fish aren’t caught by malingerers.
The sun arcs overhead and still no fish are caught.
Our cradle rocks. Our cradle rocks.
Tempers are short.
The cry goes up. Fish on! Fish on!
The king has bitten. The king has fallen.
Tension released. He’s gone.
Angus Forth
Year 11
Winner of the Year 11 Poetry Prize
8

BENCHMARK
The Wharf Sand
Bursting out the door,
Sucking in delicious warm air and
the smell of the cherry blossom tree.
Laughing, we run down the granite stairs
and look up at the bright beautiful blue sky.
The slap of our thongs rhythmical as
we pass the school, cross the road, run down the street.
Finally we push open the black gate.
I kick off my thongs and stand on the edge.
I face my friends, they pressure me on,
fear pumps adrenaline through my veins,
the sparkling blue calls for me,
my body is frozen.
I can.
Suddenly the ice melts,
I jump, flipping backwards.
I hover hollow in the air and stare at my friends.
I am weightless,
I float through the warm air
and feel its gentle touch rushing up through my body.
Splash!
The water licks my legs,
sucks in my body.
Salt, the taste of summer
I open my eyes. The colour of joy.
The sun shines on the water like golden crystals.
I float in the glistening light blue
and let it wash away all my thoughts.
Eamon Hugh
Year 8
Winner of the Year 8 Poetry Prize
9
Water lapped at the sand,
swirling and churning,
filling in foot prints,
making the sand once again smooth and moist.
The fat man sat on his deck chair humming to himself.
The small tuft of hair left on his pink head danced and
swayed in the warm wind.
His nostrils flared and
his toes dug deep into the sand.
The wind brought the scent of ice-cream and hot dogs.
Over by the rocks children chirped like sea gulls,
running and hopping around a flamboyant van.
Six small children sat grinning,
slurping creamy white ice-creams as their parents fussed,
rubbing sun block into their peeling backs.
The fat man rolled over and chuckled as water licked his
feet over and over again,
washing off the sand.
How he wished he was a grain of sand,
twisting and turning at high tide,
crispy and golden at low,
stuck between the toes of children,
constantly travelling and exploring,
sitting back enjoying the ride.
Harry MacGibbon
Year 9

POETRY
Traces
Vestiges
Left in sand
Washed up by the sweeping tide
Lie in little puddles, squelching by
Wind echoes on the arid coast
Silence is imprisoned by the broken sea
Chained
Battered
Discarded in an assaulting swoop
Shells, fluttering on the surface
Driftwood bobs on the sea
Little stories
Of times gone by
Shipwrecks, floods, waste
Vestiges
Left behind.
Jack Holloway
Year 11
Eagles
They soar through the light blue,
Zooming around on strings
Held by unseen puppet masters.
As they swim through the inverted seas,
A black streak thunders toward the glossy foliage
And curves back up to its glossy flock.
Caught in its rusted iron hands,
An expensive meal,
Found only in the most exclusive of diners.
At its address,
A young calls to the heavens.
The echo shoots through the atmosphere
Striking its mother in mid-flight.
Down below the airborne crowd,
The avians’ actions are mirrored by scaly fish,
Who are born, raised and buried,
In the dark blue veins of the Earth.
Tom Roche
Year 8
10

BENCHMARK
Boat on the
Horizon
There was a boat on the horizon
Endeavour
An outsider
A people
They glow a pearly white
They’re constricted by blue and red
They speak in loud licks
Shrill as the cockatoo
Smallpox and muskets
Death and destruction
Thousands of years
Altered in minutes
They pave the land drab
They fence the land jigsaw
They cross the land black
Terra nullius
We are the nation of plenty
The land of sweeping plains
A people of open arms
A people of deep-found fear
There is a war
There is persecution
We are the haves
They are the have-nots
Inferno in Arafura
Overboard at Christmas
The island nation
Turns a blind eye
22 million
6 thousand
It is our decision
There is a boat on the horizon
James Ross
Year 10
Winner of the C A Bell Memorial Prize for Poetry
11
Perfection
Ski boots tap
Gloves fit snug
Goggles press tight
Helmet straps on
Eyes scan ahead
Blood gushes through
Breathe in … out … in … out …
Ready
1, 2, 3
Dropping!
Blood starts to rush
Skis go wider
Jump looms closer
Off the edge
Floating in time
Weightless, fearless, invincible
Descending with winged feet from the realm of the gods
Perfection.
Spencer O’Connor
Year 7

POETRY
The Meet
Anticipation,
fear and excitement build
as you arrive at a park unknown on the outskirts.
Jogging the course you assess your rivals
and the terrain you will be covering.
Time to stretch.
Starting line-up is called.
You walk calmly over
trying to not show your fear.
Silence.
Then BANG!
Nerves bounce as you sprint to the first turning.
You push people out of the way,
fight for balance.
You take the lead.
The last bend.
Cheers sound drugged in the back of your head.
All you hear is your breathing and your competitor’s
breaths.
You give a push;
he pushes back even harder.
50 metres to go.
Give it all you can.
Sprint.
Your competitor falls further behind.
Last 5 meters.
Give it all you can.
Lunge forward.
Your body pushes through the red ribbon then
slumps
with breathing problems.
You shake your competitor’s hand.
‘Where … did … I … ?’
You gasp for air
and then you see the
Shield … the CAS Cross Country Shield
And you know … you know you have won.
George Taylor
Year 9
A Noisy Escape
Bang! Bang!
The tent is erected.
Chop! Chop!
The axe is at work.
Swoosh! Swoosh!
The wind in the trees.
Ripple! Ripple!
The river is running.
Chirp! Chirp!
The birds are here.
Bounce! Bounce!
The kangas are out.
Crackle! Crackle!
The campfire’s burning.
Scream! Scream!
Marshmallows on fire.
Crunch! Crunch!
Someone’s gone for a pee.
Rustle! Rustle!
Who’s rolled over?
Buzz! Buzz!
The dreaded mosquitoes.
Zzzzzzzzzz!
Dad’s started snoring.
At last in the dead of night.
The sound of silence.
Alex Sheen
Year 9
12

BENCHMARK
Sachsenhausen Hymn to Apollo
I see the bodies: carcasses
heaped, dead, mountainous.
arms and legs like sticks, rib cages protruding from chests
straining to break the skin,
desperate to escape the misery and terror of their owner.
I too am a skeleton, a ghost of the man I once was.
I’m trapped,
encircled by the grey walls, grim guns and ghastly
grinning guards.
Only God can help me but
what God?
A God who has forsaken us,
who lets his people perish.
Satan has won
Like zombies, we work, we sleep, we work, we sleep.
We are rubbish, dumped
to rot en masse.
We are vermin,
filthy and unwanted
slaves.
They make us stand in the freezing cold and
watch us die.
Hell’s destruction could not outdo the death camp’s
horrors - nothing could.
We approach the building,
the one with the chimney
from which no one returns.
Mothers screaming, children crying.
I surrender.
Samuel Atkinson
Year 8
13
You chase away the clouds with piercing gaze,
And we below live by your constant light.
You bring what warmth there is on dying days,
Yet not the earth alone does you give sight.
You gave us music with your golden lyre,
And oracles predict the changing flow
Of fate to kings and men; yet in your ire
Send plagues, strike heroes down with quick strung bow.
Without your presence we would dwell in dark,
And live with baser instincts holding reign.
Phoebus, hear this paean, shoot your spark,
Your sacred arts someday we may attain.
Chased by time, a brief and fleeting shade,
Are we, who by your godly chords are swayed.
George Polonski
Year 11

POETRY
The Painter
At midnight, in my dreams behind my eyes
in the last fragments of sunlight-staining
like a broken cathedral window,
the colours dance for me.
When I was young,
the deep blue, the corn-field yellow, the fiery red
of a setting sun
tore me from my business
and bade me worship
with my brush.
To the right, scarlet singing
from the canvas with a shriek of delight
meets, from the left, yellow!
Up and down:
Tears from the rose, warmth
from the moon, serenity.
Turquoise, like a fog upon a winter’s afternoon,
swirls, careens, tumbles like an acrobat.
Every starry night:
eternity in my eyes, on my tongue
my very blood, my all.
But the colours are cruel.
They scream at me:
in every daub, a shading out of place, a mutiny.
You weak, sentimental little man!
We’re crying when you should’ve made us bleed.
You’ve ripped us when we should be still.
Your heart, your soul, your will: dependent on your needs.
We’ll make you beg and kneel for release.
It is too strong a rebuke
to plant the seeds of my destruction in meagre happiness.
Too hard.
I cannot but chastise myself with paint-flicked fingers
and join the laughter of the villagers.
There goes the mad, red-haired painter with a blinded muse,
the lyrist of some one-stringed instrument that wails
night and day with no relief,
critiquing himself with his one torn ear.
I can feel the moment when the colours speak
and ecstasy fills me once again.
It fills me with the raucous laughter of crows,
behind their beaks a promise of grace
I cannot touch or see.
My soul the palette, my madness paint.
Joss Deane
Year 11
14

BENCHMARK
Pfft, Poetry:
Who Needs It?
I’ve never quite gotten the hang of poetry.
It has never really clicked.
Below are just a couple of phrases
Of bad examples I have picked.
Awful attempts at alliteration
Are all I can achieve.
And despite desperate degrees of effort
My assonance is still naive.
My similes don’t come to a point,
They’re as nonsensical as Swedish rye bread.
And as for my personification,
Why, the words have simply fled.
Oh the difficulty with rhyming words
They never seem just right.
As can be seen by my last sentence,
Which doesn’t even rhyme.
Edward Clarke
Year 10
15

POETRY
The following poems were created by Year 10 Enrichment students as part of the Red Room Company’s
education program, ‘Paper Cuts’. They appear in the anthology attempted defiance edited by Toby Fitch.
Fly the Coop Like the Hyena
Slightest breeze ruffles his hair
Sandstone cracks and crumbles below foot
The sun crisps his skin
His wings unfold
Green, grey, blue
The colours of Sydney envelop him
Shuffling over edge
He flies the coop
A moment of pure stillness
He is not land
Not water
But it rushes through him
The world accelerating
Gale plasters his face
Chaos reigns free
Brace for impact
James Ross
Year 10
Winner of the C A Bell Memorial Prize for Poetry
He traverses suburbia
Claws wrapping spray-can
He slinks the fence
Glances the corner
Taxi coasts by like a shark
He dives to ground
Punches ink to Coke ad
Paint oozes, blood from a gazelle
Launches and scoots
Success running through his veins
Wild smile torn across his face
Like a hyena
James Ross
Year 10
Winner of the C A Bell Memorial Prize for Poetry
16

BENCHMARK
Secret Scenes
There’s a picture of Justin Bieber
In my drawer, on my desk, above my bed.
I have all his tracks,
But I pretend I hate him when
My friends talk about him.
***
Mr Fitch asks for my homework,
I tell him I handed it in
Even though I forgot I even had
That assignment.
I convince him that he lost it.
***
Mum glares at me, who
Took the Jack Daniels?
Sweat rolls off my forehead,
My legs turn to clouds
I also took the cookies.
***
Chasing Sarah down the alleyway,
Smiles break across my face,
Another girl playing
Hard to get.
I double my efforts.
***
Virtual eyes follow me,
The door invites me in, and I oblige,
Demolishing the toilets:
Bang! Bang! Bang! Walk out
As if nothing happened.
Jonathon Li
Year 10
17
? Do
others wonder what I think?
Does an ember think about the ash?
Do the waters stare at the sky, feel empty
if the stars don’t show?
Where will the pebble reach the bottom of the lake?
Are green clouds jealous of rainfall?
Do shadows always follow?
What is it like to be the shiny shell in the sand?
Does time have colour?
Is there a reason to ask in the first place?
Jack Rathie
Year 10

POETRY
A Rebel
From the moment I wake to the second I sleep
I’m suffocated by rules and caged behind the law
Engulfed by the commands of others
But not today no I’m taking a strike and taking a stand
Saying no to being quiet in the library
I’ll talk when I want and as loud as I want and you can’t
reproach me
Refuse to write out the question before the answer
And reject washing and scrubbing what menial chores!
What do I care if mould colonises the sink
If we run out of plates and revert to our hands
Who says I don’t know what’s best
Who says that food is expired because of a date on a can
These imprudent rules grip you suckers
Model citizens of good hygiene upholding your cherished law
You can lecture me day and night like a wretched machine
But deep down I know you’re as dirty as me
Finn Hugh
Year 10
The Frozen
Moment
It’s when we’ve gone under
When we’re all tucked in and cosy
When we lie in bed content and dreamless
When the static of the day has faded
Shielded from the frozen moment
It’s then that he walks the streets
That he confides in the moon and stars
Fighting his unending war
Through valleys of darkness
And he wonders where the plunge began
Mackenzie Baran
Year 10
18

BENCHMARK
19

CREATIVE WRITING
Write-a-Book-in-a-Day
An excerpt from
Terror Amongst the Trees
Chapter One
A cacophony of drills and machinery saturated the air
around Joe. However, he was oblivious to the sounds
around him, his mind singularly focused on the timber in
front of him. With experienced care, he pressed the drill
in again, creating whirlwinds of frayed wood with the
powerful machine.
Absorbed in this task, he barely noticed when his mobile
phone began to ring. The vibrations, however, snapped
him out of his trance. As he reached for it, his hand
slipped and the drill tumbled out of his hand. As it fell,
it carved out a deep channel into the timber.
‘Bollocks!’ Joe shouted. He lunged for the drill as the
phone bounced out of his hands and catapulted into the
air. He snatched the drill out of its plunge before it could
do any harm. His phone, however, did not receive the
same treatment. It hit the ground and shattered into
hundreds of pieces. The ringing died out. ‘Bugger!’
He cursed and swept up the broken pieces with his boot.
Behind him, he could feel eyes turning towards him. He
tried to cover up the mess even though it was now too late.
‘Mr Landers,’ a voice said behind him. He turned
disgracefully around to meet his boss’ eyes. ‘My office.
Now.’ Like a lamb to the slaughter, Joe did as he was told.
The office was cool compared to the sweltering heat
outside, the boss sat down and motioned for Joe to
do likewise.
‘It has come to my attention that you have been, shall we
say, a little clumsy. This is not the first time but has been
repeated several times over the last week. I do not want to
have to make this decision, but I’m afraid that I have no
choice. I would like you to look for another job,’ the boss
stated. Joe was taken aback. He couldn’t believe what he
was hearing.
‘But I’m your best worker. I’ve been working for you for
over two years now. You can’t just fire me!’
‘I’m afraid we can, and we must. You have been very
careless lately and have often jeopardised the project.
We feel that it is time for you to move on. Our decision
is final.’
Broken, Joe left the office. A cloud of despair billowed
behind him and followed him all the way to his
apartment. It was a mess; clothes were strewn all over
the floor and his bed. The only surface, a small table in
the centre of the room, was littered with half-eaten food.
The television was on full blast, even though Joe wasn’t
watching it. The sink was leaking and dirty dishes were
piled up in the sink. Solemnly, he stepped over the
disgusting mess and took a can of beer from the fridge.
Taking a sip, he pushed a week-old singlet off the chair
and sat down in front of his computer. Joe sighed,
wondering where to start. Jobs were scarce these days and
he knew what trials were ahead of him to secure another
occupation. Soberly, he opened up the web browser and
began searching.
***
Three days later, after several hours searching the Internet,
he heard his home phone ring.
‘Joe Landers here.’
‘Gerald Fitzroy. I have been looking for a builder of
your qualifications for some time. There is a particular
assignment I believe would be right up your alley. My
aunt Elizabeth currently lives in a house of poor living
standards outside Nettletown, in the Bullwinkel Woods.
I need a well-experienced builder to renovate her home
to a more safe design. I hope that you will be able to
complete this project.’
‘Why, um, yes. Certainly!’ Joe was astounded. A job offer,
finally! He was ecstatic!
‘I’ll email you the address now. I shall contact you later
this week to sort out any complications.’
Then the call ended. Joe placed down the phone, still
dazed by the brilliant situation. He picked up the phone
again to tell his friends of the good news.
***
The old house creaked and moaned against the relentless
wind. Inside, however, the room was dimly lit by an open
fireplace. Two figures sat opposite each other on well-worn
armchairs. Eventually, one of them broke the silence.
20

BENCHMARK
Write-a-Book-in-a-Day
An excerpt from
Terror Amongst the Trees continued
‘Aunty, you really cannot continue to live here. The walls
are old and weathered and the floorboards have become a
safety hazard,’ Gerald insisted.
‘Nonsense, dear, I’m perfectly happy here and have no
intention of moving,’ Elizabeth responded, ‘Besides, your
uncle and I have lived here for many years now, longer
than you’ve been alive, and nothing has ever happened
to us in that time.’
‘Albert has been dead for 15 years now.’
‘He still lives here, you know. He keeps me company
sometimes.’
There was a long silence. Nothing could be heard except
for the crackle of the fireplace. Shadows shimmered in
and out of focus on the peeling walls. Outside, the
gnarled branches of a tree scratched against the frosted
glass of the window pane. A wolf howled in the distance.
The low buzz of cicadas enveloped the quiet room. Finally,
after much contemplation, the nephew spoke.
‘We need to renovate this house. Perhaps some concrete
beams could secure the roof …’
‘Fiddlesticks! You simply don’t understand. This house
means more to me than it does to you or that silly wife
of yours. Modern replacements would wreck this
wonderful home.’
‘I’m afraid the matter has already been settled. I’ve
contacted a bricklayer to strengthen your foundations.’
‘That’s preposterous, dear! I simply won’t allow it. These
modern bricks will wreck the atmosphere of this place.’
‘I shall hear no more of the subject. Like I said, a bricklayer
has been contacted and should arrive later this week. I do
hope that you’ll be accommodating; he may need to stay
the night.’
21
The young man got up to leave, then turned around.
‘Of course any time you would consider moving to a
retirement village I would be only too happy to help.’
Then he left, leaving Elizabeth bewildered.
Hal Crichton-Standish, Blake Bullwinkel, Laurence Nettleton,
Jack Mowbray, Christopher Christian, Joseph Rossi
Year 8 Team – Mentos in Coke

CREATIVE WRITING
Write-a-Book-in-a-Day
An excerpt from
The Lecture
‘That’s all for today. Tomorrow we’ll go over prevention
of tooth decay and gum disease,’ the professor announced,
adjusting his glasses upon his nose. The room let out a
collective sigh of relief after a two-hour lecture.
Sarah’s hand was sore from intense note taking. It wasn’t
that Sarah didn’t enjoy her dentistry course; in fact she
was really passionate about her studies, but hours upon
hours of studying plaque had taken its toll. She was also
unbelievably hungry. Her stomach was groaning and
growling, pleading for food.
After packing her books and returning her glasses to their
case, she left the lecture hall. An animated group of girls,
whom she had met a few days earlier, asked her if she
wanted to grab a drink after the lecture. However she was
too tired, and rejected the offer. She preferred to spend
some nights alone and returned to her college room.
A strong wind was building and Sarah swept the brown
hair from her face. She held her books to her chest,
providing warmth and a wind barrier. Her tired eyes had
lost their usual blue glow, and had sunk into her head.
Small red pimples had found a home on her forehead and
cheeks. Late nights and little sleep were evident in her
physical features.
As she made her way across the university grounds, she
noticed a threatening dark cloud on the horizon. It
seemed to be growing in the sky as she approached the
quadrangle. As she drew nearer to the quad, she noticed
all the usual university activities in full flight. There were
a few guys kicking a hacky sack, an alternative-looking
guy playing the bongos and some couples holding hands
and lovingly staring into each other’s eyes. This typical
university behaviour was to be expected. What was
unusual about the scene was the fact that a peculiar
individual was standing on a bench, as if giving a sermon
to an invisible crowd.
‘I am Father Charles McGregor and I speak to you! The
rapture is imminent! I have seen the way and the way is
with me! Tomorrow a greater power will descend on us!
Join and you will be saved! Follow the Way and you will
be forgiven! Follow the Way and you will be saved from
the impending doom!’
He dressed top to toe in a creaseless white garment. A
rugged beard flowed from his chin. He was the spitting
image of one’s depiction of God. His voice echoed in the
compounds of the quadrangle. A pile of leaflets stood at
his feet. He was handing them out to passers-by who took
one look before discarding them into the nearest bin.
At first Sarah was taken aback by the unusual presence of
this man. Of course, this was not an everyday occurrence
in the university. Despite this, crazy people did crop up on
the campus from time to time, so anything this guy said
should only be taken lightly. Sarah dismissed the preacher
and continued back to her dorm.
***
After showering, Sarah made her way to the empty dining
hall to satisfy her hunger. She was too hungry to care
about the quality of the meal. For the third time this week,
the college chefs had prepared a hearty beef stroganoff for
dinner. She took a plate of the brown mess with rice and
didn’t bother to question where it came from. After a
quick glance around the hall Sarah couldn’t find any of
her friends, so she decided to retreat to her own room.
She didn’t feel like being social anyway.
The journey back to her dorm took her through the
courtyard. From there she could see the dark cloud
brewing, nullifying the sun and casting a foreboding
shadow on the university buildings.
Sarah let herself into her room and collapsed on her small
bed and turned on her miniature television set. She flicked
through the channels and upon finding nothing even
slightly entertaining, settled for the local news broadcast.
The anchors presented the mundane evening news,
starting with a road accident that caused a major traffic
backlog. He then continued on to sport, business and
finally weather. Sarah was drifting off now, catching
fragments of the report as the need for sleep began to
overcome her.
‘Strong wind … Dangerous storm … Unpredictable
conditions are to be expected ...’
That was the last she heard before she was enveloped by a
dream filled sleep.
Mackenzie Baran, Jonathan Li, Jack Rathie, Lewis Cooksley,
Anthony McDougall
Year 10 Team – Dragon Warriors 2
22

BENCHMARK
Jarrah
In a European-dominated school in outback Australia, an
aboriginal boy takes refuge behind a water tank. Regularly
persecuted because of his race, he increasingly retreats into his
own imaginary world. A chance encounter with another boy,
bullied because of his religion, sparks the most unlikely
friendship.
47 Ext – watertank – day
Jarrah runs into shot. We hear boys shouting in the
distance. As the voices fade Jarrah wipes a tear from his
eye. He leans with his back against the water tank and
dejectedly slides down the side of the tank onto the
ground. He wraps his arms around himself and rocks
back and forth. Beads of sweat trickle down his face as
he remembers the previous events.
CALLUM: He doesn’t belong here …
GEORGE: Can’t even speak properly …
HENRY: Should’ve stayed in the bush.
We hear the ticking of a clock to symbolise time passing.
Voices can be heard outside.
TEACHER: Where is he? You say he ran past the
classrooms, then where?
CALLUM: Who cares, he’s a stupid loser anyway.
TEACHER: Don’t say that!
CALLUM: You know it’s true!
TEACHER: The principal won’t be happy. If I catch
that boy …
CALLUM: He doesn’t belong here, why can’t we get
rid of him?
TEACHER: Just get to class!
We hear the sound of footsteps and the voices dissipate
into the distance. Jarrah curls up into a ball. We hear the
clock again, getting louder and louder …
48 Int – foster home kitchen – evening
Pan across to Marian cooking in the kitchen. She is
a European woman in her fifties with graying hair. The
kitchen is small and under-furnished, but it has a warm
23
feel about it. The door opens in the background and
Jarrah enters with his school bag slung over one shoulder.
Marian puts her cooking pot down and turns to Jarrah
with her hands on her hips.
MARIAN: Well?
JARRAH: Well what?
MARIAN: How was your first day of high school?
JARRAH: Okay. I guess.
He dumps his bag at the front door and is about to head
up the stairs.
MARIAN: Now what have I told you about property
dear?
Jarrah picks up his bag and places it down gently. He then
races up the stairs. Marian shakes her head.
MARIAN: Oh Jarrah. What am I going to do with you?
But she’s smiling to herself.
49 Int – foster home dining room – night
Eight other children around Jarrah’s age sit with him at
the table. Marian takes the seat at the head of the table.
MARIAN: I have some news for you all. I am getting a bit
old for all this volunteer work and have decided to leave
you in the capable hands of Miss Kensington.
DARREL: But you can’t leave! You’ve been here eleven
years!
MARIAN: I know dear, and it’s been lovely looking after
you all. But I can’t look after you forever.
DARREL (Muttering): I bet she’s a witch.
50 Ext – schoolyard – day
Jarrah walks through the school gate. As soon as he enters
the school, five boys come out of the shadows. One of
them is Callum. Callum is a small boy with fiery red hair
and a quick temper. Jarrah tries to ignore them.
CALLUM: So you’ve come back again?
JARRAH: Leave me alone.

CREATIVE WRITING
CALLUM: You shouldn’t be here. This is our school. We
don’t take boys from the foster home.
EDWARD: You’re so pathetic even Marian is leaving the
foster home. She’s gotten sick of you.
JARRAH: Why can’t you just drop it?
CALLUM: Didn’t you hear me, idiot? We don’t take your
type in here. This is our school. It was the same with your
parents, wasn’t it?
Jarrah stops dead in his tracks. Callum senses that he’s
hit home.
CALLUM: They couldn’t keep themselves out of other
people’s business. No wonder they were bludgeoned; they
shouldn’t have come to our church.
Jarrah slowly turns around and faces Callum, clenching
his fists. Callum’s friends encircle the two and a chant
begins. Jarrah runs at Callum and punches him in the gut.
Callum is winded.
CALLUM: Stupid … abo …
HENRY: Get him!
The four boys close in on Jarrah, but he slips through
their closing net. He runs behind the classroom block and
his pursuers lose his trail. He races behind the water tank
without being seen.
51 Ext – watertank – day
Safe behind the water tank, Jarrah begins to cry. Silently,
his small body shakes uncontrollably. Callum’s voice
echoes in his head.
CALLUM: … They couldn’t keep themselves out of other
people’s business … … they shouldn’t have come to our
church …
Close up on Jarrah’s eyes, smudged with tears.
FLASHBACK SCENE: Jarrah’s parents laughing,
holding hands.
FLASHBACK: Jarrah going on picnics with his parents.
FLASHBACK: Waving, as they went off to church that
fateful Sunday.
FLASHBACK: Television headlines the day after they died.
NEWSREADER: An aboriginal family was bludgeoned
to death with a crowbar due to a fierce argument …
Jarrah slips into a state of semi-consciousness.
Fade to an image of a bloodied crowbar on the pavement …
Hal Crichton-Standish
Year 8
24

BENCHMARK
The Watcher
All there was, all there had ever been, was the window.
The dripping concrete walls, the white bathroom, the iron
door from which his food and his nightmares came, were
irrelevant, artificial, unchangingly fake. Though this was
all he could touch or move through physically, it was the
world in the window that was the source of all his
thoughts. Looking down upon the world that was outside
the room and the tower, he watched the twisting, erratic
lives of the people below. He understood that once he had
been one of them, and the thought brought tears of
longing to his eyes.
His view of the world below was limited. He could not
hear the people speak or see them when they went into
buildings, save when he saw them through their windows.
Understanding the purpose of their daily movements only
grew more confusing the more he followed their daily
lives. At first they simply seemed to move in and out of
vehicles and buildings, never for any apparent purpose.
After a while though, he saw that individual people
followed a nearly identical pattern each day. Most would
emerge from the same vehicle, enter the same building at
the same time each morning and sit by the same window
each day, before departing each evening for areas
unknown. The reason for these routines was impossible to
determine, and the small variation in behaviour puzzled
him further. Yet the first decision he ever remembered
making was that one day he would understand these
people below him.
Much of their behaviour was explained when he learnt to
read. He could at first gain no meaning from the strange
symbols that covered the outside world but, over the
course of several months he realised there were
connections between certain sequences of characters and
the picture on billboards and shopfronts. After that
teaching himself was easy. He would read newspapers or
books over the shoulder of people in the streets. He never
gave thought to his ability to distinguish the small text on
the pages of the book 100 storeys below, or the fact that
he could read an entire page with a glance whilst the
readers below would stare at a page for several minutes,
just as he never gave thought to what was in the grey soup
that appeared through a slit in the iron door every day.
25
What he did think about was how much more he could
understand through reading. He learnt so many new
words and their meanings, how they related to the
seemingly pointless routines of those below. He learnt
about jobs and money and work. One interesting word
that kept popping up was freedom. He learnt about that
when he saw the two sign-wielding mobs converge on
each other in the park. They seemed to be very angry
and were shouting at each other. Both groups seemed to
believe that the other was trying to take away their
freedom, and they all considered freedom to be very
important. It seemed that freedom was the ability to do
what one wanted, when one wanted. So it confused him
when, after the riot, everyone returned to following the
exact same daily routine they had before; it seemed to
defeat the point of all the shouting and waving of signs
for the sake of freedom.
The first of the nightmares came when he was five years
old. Faceless men in white coats came through the iron
door and dragged him, screaming, down the white
corridors beyond. When they arrived at the glass room he
was tied down to a table. The men in white coats attached
tubes and machines to his body and the world disappeared
into a whirlwind of shocks, lights and pure pain.
He was never sure if the nightmare echoed something that
had actually happened all he knew was that from then on
he could follow people beyond where he could before. His
eyes followed them into buildings and watched them
through the walls of their homes. He saw all. There was
so much that went on behind walls. He learnt of families,
of work and of sex. Each explained a lot that had
previously confused him about the behaviour of the
people outside. Yet, at the same time, it made the world
below even more complex and difficult to understand.
Why did the woman who worked from dawn to dusk in
the highest offices, wearing a bright smile and beautiful
clothes, break into tears every time she stepped through
the door of her empty apartment? Why did the man who
rode the garbage-collecting truck every morning and who
waited outside the shopping centre in uniform with his
head hung every night, suddenly gain a spring in his step
the moment he saw his children?

CREATIVE WRITING
He could now hear them too. It was difficult, often, to
find interesting talk over the incessant buzz of millions
of people gossiping about nothing but he found that the
more serious and interesting conversations, few as they
were, were generally had privately, and sounded generally
more hesitant, as if talking about something serious was
something to be ashamed of. He also learnt the power
words had over people. Over several weeks he saw a man
beat a woman each night, each night she picked herself
off the ground, seemingly unchanged. One night he heard
her speak, screaming words like ‘failure’ and ‘nothing’.
The man had turned without a word, ascended the
stairwell of their apartment building and flung himself
from the roof. Then there was the young olive-skinned
girl in the headscarf who laughed when she spoke and
skipped when she walked until she first came to one of
the buildings the people called schools. The Child in the
tower heard taunts of ‘Paki’ and ‘terrorist,’ follow her
through the day. He never saw her laugh again.
The second nightmare came three years after the first.
Once more the figures in white coats took him through
the iron door. This time the glass room was occupied
by a great whirring machine in which was embedded a
chair. Remembering the pain of before he struggled and
scratched and bit at the men, but they would not let go,
and forced him into the chair. As the machine began to
move around him he started to hear whispers coming
from everywhere and nowhere. He looked out but the
men in white coats had their lips sealed. The whispering
grew louder until it screamed through his mind, blotting
out everything. Yet each individual whisper sounded no
louder than it had before. It was like more and more tiny
voices were beginning to speak, asking for something,
anything, but he could not hear what. After the whispering
came the feeling and it was like nothing else in the world.
Each whisper came with an emotion, a taste, and as he felt
them he understood them. Longing, despair, pity, sadness,
hope-ambition-anger-joy-jealousy-lovehatesatisfactionlustfearcarewantdisgusthelplessnessavaricealienation
… It was
too much. The last thing he saw before he fell into blissful
nothingness were the burning, black eyes of one of the
men in white coats, the last whisper he heard was, ‘Soon.’
When he woke in his room, deathly cold and aching, the
whispering and feeling still remained, just weaker. When
he looked down from the window he found that it was the
people below who were whispering. Whispering without
moving their lips, even as they said aloud something
completely unlike what they whispered, whilst their
emotions rose from them like a scent.
He understood. This was what was in each person’s
mind. That was when he knew the world was wrong.
The people’s spoken words rarely, if ever, matched the
whispers and the feelings. It was clear too that no one
knew what they wanted, let alone what would make
them happy. All around him he felt warm sparks of love,
contentment, resolve or hope rise up, only to disappear
with the reading of a report from a teacher, a conversation
with an employer, a phone call from a lover, a headline in
the papers or an announcement from a judge. And there
were so many who were just so wrong in what they
thought they wanted. Office workers infuriated him. Each
person had a feeling of something missing, and believed
they could find it in one of the offices on the floor above.
The strange thing was, those in the offices above felt
exactly the same about the offices above them, only
the feeling of emptiness seemed for the most part even
stronger. He did not like looking into the hearts of the
men who sat at the long tables at the top of the office
towers. They were completely empty, often cruel or
miserable; and seemed to want to eat everything. And yet
everyone below them seemed desperate to become like
them. The boy in the tower pitied these people the most.
Yet they were everywhere, sucking the life from
themselves and others; in the offices, in homes, in the
parliament building, everywhere.
On 21 December in the year 2012, at dawn, the boy in
the tower had a visitor. The iron door opened once more.
The Child was not afraid; he had felt the fear of billions
and knew what was worth fearing and what was not. The
man with the black eyes greeted him. The Child heard
every thought in his head before he said it. The man
spoke with the feverish excitement of one whose entire life
had been dedicated to that moment. ‘You understand now,
why we did this to you? We needed someone who saw
what we saw even more clearly than we did, one who
26

BENCHMARK
The Watcher continued
could find the answer. The world is broken, and must be
fixed. Do you know what must be done?’ The Child
looked down on the suffering world below him and for
the first time in his life, he spoke. His voice was like a
great crowd speaking in unison, telling of an end and a
beginning, radiating terrible knowledge and an utter,
terrifying power. The man with the burning black eyes
shivered as a single word reverberated through the room,
shattering every window, reducing the iron door to dust.
‘Yes.’
Nick Pether
Year 11
27

CREATIVE WRITING
The Unseen Foe
Amun turned his head from the harsh sting of the desert
wind, his dark, powerful legs shifting painfully in the
sand with each laboured step he took. Sucking the dry
air through his coarse tunic, relief overcame Amun as the
steady rattle of heavily laden saddles finally ceased, the
weary camels squatting in the golden sand to let down
their riders and rest what were undoubtedly exhausted
legs. Slumping to the ground like the animals, Amun
emptied the last of what had once been a bulging
waterskin into is mouth, his parched throat throbbing
with pain as he swallowed and observed the other men.
Garbed in the dark blue robes of the royal warriors, the
eight men stood tall; black silhouettes against the distant
sun, their ghostly shadows streaked across the desert as
they exchanged glances, waiting grimly by their respective
animals. Only one camel remained on its feet, its golden
saddle glinting with the touch of loose rays of sunlight, its
rider perched seemingly motionless atop its humped back.
Engrossed by what appeared to be a thin, tattered scroll
and its miniscule glyphs, the King’s eyes scanned the page
with intense fixation, as if searching for some crucial
detail he’d missed the last million times. Comparing the
gaping, stone entrance to one of the faded symbols, the
King dismounted, smiling as he rolled the fragile paper
up for the first time in many days.
The life of a slave was not, traditionally, an adventurous
one, and looking back at the vast horizon that extended as
far as the eye could see, Amun was acutely aware of how
far the King’s journey had taken them from the land they
called home. Though the kingdom held little opportunity
for Amun, the familiarity of his simple room and palace
duties were daily comforts he was learning to live without.
As one of the luckier royal slaves, Amun was to be at the
beck and call of the divine Prince, and had seen the
younger man grow up into the strong and admired King
he had become. Although nobody knew with certainty,
some speculated that the King and his leading slave had
developed a relationship, over the course of years, which
was almost akin to friendship. Though merely rumour,
just the notion of befriending a slave, let alone one of dark
skin, was enough to trigger a strong sense of disapproval
amongst various members of the community. Amun was
regularly insulted when the King’s back was turned, and
had long grown to be grateful for his just master’s
unwavering sense of integrity.
Only when thinking back to those days gone by,
remembering the young King and their close friendship,
did Amun appreciate how much had changed as they’d
matured. Despite the King’s broader shoulders and ageing
face, Amun was one of the few to see that the greatest
changes were invisible to the eye, observing his friend on
a daily basis. The signs had been subtle at first: a declined
meal or a sad glance at his reflection. Yet it wasn’t long
before the shroud of mystery was raised from Amun’s eyes.
Known as a great and fearless warrior, it seemed that there
was no foe that struck fear in the heart of the King, but
Amun was astute enough to know that not all foes rode in
speeding chariots, spears brandished high. For some, the
enemy took the form of the setting sun, the passing of
numbered days, and the feeling of time slowly slipping away
like sand in an hourglass. Time was the foe which even the
fiercest warrior and wisest king were subject to; a concept
that Amun could see his friend struggling to accept.
Even as his youth inevitably took flight, the King pursued
it valiantly, remaining impressively fit and perceptive,
while meeting regularly with his healers and priests.
Though the King had been able to slow down the clock,
Amun could see that he knew he was fighting a losing
battle. Though it was not in the nature of their
relationship to talk about such issues, Amun often
wondered if the obsession with youth stemmed from the
absence of children in the King’s life, a respected son or
a beautiful daughter. Though he had held many titles,
‘Father’ had never been one of them. Whatever the source
was, Amun would look into his friend’s eyes more and
more to find defeat, and too often would he hear him
speaking about what would become of the kingdom
without him. Though Amun had seen otherwise, the
King assured him that his worry was for the people and
the future of the kingdom, not for himself. So grew an
increasing curiosity in immortality, and cheating the bite
of death.
Seeing his once lively friend withdraw into himself, Amun
refused to help his master for the first time, as the King
searched the palace archives, uncharacteristically
28

BENCHMARK
The Unseen Foe continued
frantic, for an ancient scroll that promised saviour
from sure doom. Awoken one night, by the echo of a
triumphant cry, Amun’s memory was still burnt with the
image of the deranged King, his crazed eyes wide open
with hungry focus, on his knees, filthy robes sticking to
his clammy skin. His eyes darted across the scroll’s tiny
lines of symbols. The royal warriors had been summoned
at once, to prepare for a journey that was to commence
the next morning.
‘This is it Amun. The solution is within reach,’ the King
said and his voice filled with hope, ‘You must come Amun,
This marks a new era in the kingdom’s history!’
‘I will not, Master,’ replied Amun, his deep voice
brimming with conviction, his heavy brow framing
firm eyes.
‘You will not?’ hissed the King with feigned hurt, ‘I think
you forget your place, Amun.’
‘As a friend, I cannot condone this, Master. That which
you desire can only lead to evil,’ Amun murmured,
disturbed by the mocking tone in his friend’s voice.
‘You misunderstand Amun. You WILL come,’ the King
interrupted bitterly, his bearded face creased with disbelief.
‘Remember you are first my slave, and second my friend,’
he finished dismissively, turning his back on Amun.
Stunned by the King’s outburst, Amun silenced himself,
sensing that this was not the man he had once known and
called brother. The next morning, no warm citizens, or
grand spectacles saw them off, but only the dappled light
of the rising dawn sun. The company of ten left in secret,
a silent string of camels disappearing into the distance on
the scroll’s bearing. Unworthy to command his own steed,
Amun had grudgingly agreed to take turns riding with
the warriors, silently wondering what was in store for
the company.
Woken from memory by the sharp whistle of a muscular
solider, Amun raised himself from the sand, steadying
himself on a nearby camel as he saw the King take the
first step into the ominous, columned entrance.
29
‘You will stay here mud-skin!’ the solider barked cruelly, as
Amun also began to walk towards the entrance. ‘Stay with
the animals, where you belong.’
Ignoring the insults, Amun obeyed the order, waiting
until the glow of torches had completely disappeared
into the blackness before pursuing them with tired legs.
Padding into the recess, the rough, stone ground was cold
and hard against Amun’s bare, calloused feet, as he
followed the echo of men’s voices. Turning a corner,
Amun saw light appear as the narrow tunnel arced out
into a vast, empty cavern. Cutting the blackness, a wide
beam of light cascaded from what must have been a hole
at the top of the chamber, illuminating a small silver altar
which the King and royal warriors approached, dropping
their torches. Tempted to emerge from the shadows,
Amun controlled the impulse, muscles tensed as he waited
to see what would unfold. As the blue warriors backed
away, the King approached the altar slowly and seized
the small, shining orb that floated above it. His eyes filled
with blatant awe, the King gazed into the orb, his
reflection distorted by his desires as he looked into the
eyes of a younger version of himself.
‘Youth,’ the King said, the word barely floating from his
open mouth as the orb began to glow, its light reflected in
his glazed eyes.
Amazed, Amun watched on speechlessly as the orb burned
with the intensity of the sun, filling the vast cavern with
bright, golden light. As a current of wind began to circle
around him, the King could feel warmth spreading
through his body, as he felt the weight of age lift from his
shoulders. Overcome with astonishment, Amun barely
dared believe his eyes as he saw the King’s golden skin
tightening over his muscular frame, and his greying hair
return to its original black, catching the light like the
midnight sky. Then, turning his eyes to the eight warriors,
Amun witnessed the horror which the obsessed King had
been blinded. Their eyes wide with shock, embedded in
sagging eye sockets, the warriors wheezed with pain as
their youth was sapped by the glowing orbs and
channelled into the King. With their athletic bodies
thinning with rapid age, the warriors fell one by one
collapsing into dusty husks of their former selves, as

CREATIVE WRITING
Amun finally burst from the shadows and the glow of the
orb began to fade.
Eyes filled with the glow of youth, the King’s hypnosis
was shattered by the slapping of bare feet against smooth,
black stone. Absorbing the scene around him, the joy
faded from the King’s eyes as he dropped the orb. Amun
came to rest by his side and placed a comforting hand on
his shoulder. Falling to his knees the King’s eyes brimmed
with sorrow, as he stared into the hollow eyes of his
obsession’s victims. Having conquered his unseen foe, the
King felt no joy in victory as he was overcome with a guilt
that remained as fresh as his youthful body for many
years to come.
Nicholas Bucci
Year 11
30

BENCHMARK
An After Dinner Speech
Soon after the party had gathered in the drawing room
and the footmen had gone to work returning the dining
room to its usual appearance. After the men had smoked
their cigars and indulged in a post-prandial brandy. It may
seem strange that this was not just a house party but the
scene of a murder, but of course the victim was an
Englishman, and the last thing he would have wanted was
to make a scene, especially in someone else’s house. And
so the guests and the servants carried on as usual, the fires
were lit, the pheasants were shot, and at breakfast, the
morning after the body had been discovered, the eggs and
kippers were laid down on the sideboard.
The only change had been the presence of an extra man
around the house, neither servant nor guest, destroying
the rather feudal comfort of the guests upstairs,
reminding them of the changes of the world outside.
Tonight this detective, dispatched from the local
constabulary, having shuffled around behind the curtains,
inquiring and investigating, took centre stage. He had, he
believed, arrived at a conclusion; after just a few days of
feverish work he knew the identity of the murderer.
It was a fairly ordinary group that weekend at Mulcaster
Hall. Earl Montfort, our host sat closest to the fire, his
wife Countess Montfort was perched on the sofa, her
brother, had rather inconveniently died from the shot of
a pistol through the head. Next to Lady Montfort on the
sofa was the Honourable George Standish, who had
brought his wife, Constance to the shoot. Charlie
Carmody was admiring a Gainsborough, as Mr Meeks,
a Fellow at Worcester College, Oxford, a mathematician
and an amateur historian who was writing a history of
Mulcaster Hall, tried to tell him some story about the 4th
Earl, who evidently had suffered from gout. Lady Honoria,
the Earl’s daughter sat at an angle to a mirror, glancing at
herself when she felt she wasn’t being watched. The final
guests Sir Richard Jenkins and Lady Pamela sat opposite
their hostess.
At the centre stood Inspector Johnson, an impressive man,
with a great mane of brown hair, and the assured
confidence of one who believes himself to be eminently
capable. ‘I think it’s time I began.’ The assorted guests
took their place, Lady Honoria checked her watch, and
Mr Meeks lowered himself slowly onto a padded footrest
31
and placed his hands in his pockets as he sat, rather
awkwardly.
‘As you know, three days ago Mr John Beechman, the
Oxford Don, and brother of Lady Montfort was shot
through the head as he read a copy of Country Life. Mr
Beechman was a noted scholar of mathematics, a pillar
of his local parish and yet at the very prime of his life this
fine gentleman was cut down, as he enjoyed a solitary
moment, in this very house.’
‘Could we do away with the melodrama, Johnson? We
know who he was.’ Sir Richard was known as a man with
a low tolerance for time wasting after nine o’clock, when
his bed beckoned.
‘Of course Sir Richard, of course, yes, right, I was just
about to … yes. Ladies and gentleman those of you
familiar with the sort of work I do will know that the
detective looks for motive and means. And while the
murder weapon has yet to be found, and no one was seen
around Mr Beechman’s room at the time of his death
these are all we are left, with which to consider.’
‘Then who do you suppose to be the murderer, Mr
Johnson?’ Lady Montfort tilted her head slightly to one
side as she spoke to the man standing in front of her.
‘Well, if I may say so Your Ladyship, you have struck at the
very heart of the matter. I don’t think that it is a secret
that Lady Montfort and her brother are the only children
of a Mr Robert Beechman, a man born to limited means
who established himself in South Africa, built up a great
shipping company and at the time of his death was
rumoured to be worth millions of pounds.’
‘What of it, Mr Johnson?’ Lord Montfort spoke slowly as
he queried the police man.
‘Well, my Lord, many of those here would know that your
wife’s money came very much in handy at the time when
your father’s death duties had to be paid.’
‘I would prefer it Johnson if you did not discuss my private
financial affairs, in my own drawing room, in front of
my guests.’
‘It pains me to say it Lord Montfort but I must continue.
It was in a conversation with Mr Standish that I

CREATIVE WRITING
discovered that your lordship has in recent times, despite
the wealth of your wife, been caught out.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sorry my Lord, this is difficult but apparently through
a combination of bad luck on the horses and the recent
troubles on the stock exchange, you have found yourself
rather short of cash.’
‘You vulgar, little man …’
‘But your brother-in-law was a bachelor, and as a result
of his father’s industry, a man of considerable means. Is
it not true that your wife was the heiress to his wealth?’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting that I would murder my
wife’s husband?’
‘Sir, you have a strong motive, and as you keep a
considerable collection of guns in the house, you have
the means.’
‘Well, ask the gamekeeper, he has the key, ask if I’ve taken
a gun out in the last few days.’
‘A man employed by you sir. Hardly a reliable witness, I
think you’ll agree.’
‘This is truly ridiculous. I wouldn’t kill a man and what’s
more I’m not in any serious trouble on the markets, just
down a few beans. What would Standish know anyway?’
‘I’m sorry sir but you have means, and you have motives.
You must understand my situation,’ as he spoke Inspector
Johnson slowly moved towards the supposed murderer.
‘I’m afraid that I have …’
‘He couldn’t have murdered John,’ from beside her
husband Constance Standish said in a squeaking voice,
‘He couldn’t have.’
‘Why not? May I ask …’ the inspector had stopped
midstride.
‘Because, because, that night he was with me.’ An uneasy
silence settled over the room, Constance maintained eye
contact with Inspector Johnson, Lord Montfort studied
the ceiling, and his wife her nails. Finally Johnson spoke.
‘I see, I see … the whole evening?’ Mrs Standish, with a
tiny motion nodded. Beside her, her husband shook, but
remained silent.
‘Well, Lord Montfort, I apologise.’
‘What’s more, Uncle John didn’t have any money did he
Daddy?’ Lady Honoria said to her father, ‘Mummy’s
father left him nothing after he went into mathematics,
rather than shipping.’
‘Well then, well then, it appears I was wrong. I can only
apologise again Lord Montfort, and of course to you
Lady Montfort.’
‘It appears you will need more time Mr Johnson, or
perhaps it would be for the best if another detective were
to continue this case.’ Lord Montfort addressed the
portrait of his ancestor on the wall as he spoke.
‘Perhaps that would be for the best my Lord.’ Once again
silence returned to the room, as the unpleasantness settled
among the guests. Only Mr Meeks seemed oblivious to it,
turning from face to face, trying to make eye contact, to
read unspoken words. Soon he began to stand up.
‘Well what an odd evening, an odd evening indeed. It
rather reminds me of that story about the sixth Earl after
the Battle of Waterloo. Do you recall it Lord Montfort?’
As he spoke he removed his hands from his pockets, and
with them a small revolver fell to the ground.
Luca Moretti
Year 12
32

BENCHMARK
Chess
A short gasp, then the crowd, as one, exhaled. It had only
been a matter of time before Vladimir Aronian yielded,
before he ended his own misery, and now the time had
come. Again Thomas Adams, the British Champion, had
played brilliantly against his Russian opponent, and with
checkmate imminent, Aronian ungraciously resigned,
murmuring ‘game,’ resetting his king, then swiftly
departing the floodlit stage. Adams had an enormous 5–1
lead in the best of twelve games of the World Chess
Championship final: an hour later, he was dead.
At the post match news-conference, journalists launched
into extravagant comparisons with Bobby Fischer, focusing
on Adams’ place among the greatest of all time.
‘It’s been said that your play has brought in a whole new era
of chess,’ said one. ‘Would you agree?’
Thomas Adams opened his bottle of water and drank, as
much to give himself time to think as to quench his thirst.
He took a long draught, and then froze. The bottle slipped
from his hand and crashed onto the table and, as though in
slow motion, he slumped forward. That was the image
flashed around the globe by the world’s news media. First
reports speculated that Adams had died of a heart attack.
It took less than twenty-four hours to discover that he had
been poisoned.
Scotland Yard’s Chief Inspector Richard Dadswell was
given the case after an autopsy revealed that Adams
favourite water bottle had been laced with a lethal quantity
of hydrogen peroxide, a colourless, odourless substance
often found in common bleach.
Dadswell had little more than a rudimentary
understanding of chess. He knew, of course, the
Championship was underway at London’s plush
Savoy Hotel.
He soon discovered it was a much grander affair than he
had realised, taking place on a specially constructed stage
in the hotel’s grandiose ballroom, viewed by hundreds of
people who paid good money to watch. There were just
three men on the stage, Adams, Aronian and a nervous
little East-European gentleman who was the Arbiter.
Each move was projected onto a huge screen behind the
competitors, and there was serious betting on the outcome.
33
Aronian was hostile when Dadswell spoke to him.
‘Adams is a fraud, a pompous patzer. So far he has won
four games and we have drawn two. But he is not that good.
I know he is not. I am glad he is dead because he doesn’t
deserve to be World Champion. I know.’
‘Winning means so much to you?’
‘Of course. It is my whole life. I am a chess player and this
is the World Championship. But, I did not kill Adams. I
would like to shake the hand of the man who did, though.’
Dadswell got little further with the Arbiter who seemed
terrified but at least gave him some background into the
event.
A chess game could take up to six or seven hours, he told
Dadswell. Between moves the players, accompanied by a
security guard, could retire to their own rooms for comfort
breaks, food or even just to get away from the bright lights.
They were forbidden, however, to talk to anyone or to
access any electronic devices.
Dadswell’s chat with the security guard produced its own
shocking revelation: Aronian was right: Adams was a cheat.
‘I’m only telling you this because if I get done for cheating,
well that’s one thing, but I had nothing to do with his
murder,’ Emma Jacks told Dadswell.
‘How did he cheat?’
‘A few days before the match, his manager, Albert Tindall,
offered me a lot of money to pass on information to Adams.
You see Tindall was working with a computer and would
text me moves. I’d write them down on toilet paper for
Adams who read them and then flushed them away.
Tindall was betting on the games and raking in millions.
Funny thing is that I don’t think Adams was all that
interested in the money. He cared about winning.’
‘Who else was in on the scam?’
‘Adam’s playing partner, Tim Keene may have been, but
I don’t think so. He’s always short of money.’
‘One last thing. Who had access to Adams’ water bottle?’

CREATIVE WRITING
‘That water bottle! They say sportsmen are superstitious.
Well, Adams was too. He always had to have that particular
water bottle. Anyone in his room after the day’s play could
have picked it up.’
Dadswell shook his head meditatively as he left the security
guard in the charge of a uniformed officer. Chess players
were difficult people. He knew how they could predict
moves in advance; he only wished that he could do the
same. He understood what to look for, however, and what
types of evidence to use. Whenever he was given an
unusual assignment, Dadswell often found that the best
place to start was with the basics, those elements that are
present in every crime … An idea came to him and the
detective made a quick phone call to his office before
interviewing Adams’ playing partner, Tim Keene.
‘I was told that you left the room about an hour before the
end. Why was that?’ Dadswell asked.
‘My job was to help Adams prepare. I could see that he was
going to win that game, and I wanted to get ready for the
next one.’
‘What about the betting and cheating?’
‘You know about that?’
‘The guard confessed’
‘Tindall was the only one betting. Adams just wanted to
win. In fact before yesterday’s game they had a big blow-up
about it. Adams wanted Tindall to stop betting in case
someone found out about the cheating. They were really
vicious.’
‘Where were you after the game?’
‘In Adams’ room. We all were.’
When Dadswell confronted Tindall with the cheating
allegation he denied it vehemently, even threatening to sue
if such accusations were made public. When Dadswell
made it plain that both Emma Jacks and Tim Keene had
confessed, he changed his tune.
‘Don’t make it public. Please. That will end my career in the
chess world. I was never a great player, but I am a good
manager. This could finish me.’
‘This will be public and you won’t just be finished. You will
be in jail,’ came Dadswell’s reply. ‘At this stage a charge of
murder is likely to be added too.’
‘Okay. We cheated and I made money. But I didn’t kill him.
How would that help me?’
‘Keene said that Adams promised to lose the last game if
you didn’t stop betting.’
‘I knew Adams wouldn’t do that. I know him well. He cared
too much about winning to do that. He would never throw
a game. But how did Keene hear him? I didn’t even know
that he knew about the betting.’
‘Of course, of course …!’ Dadswell slammed the table with
his fist.
Picking up the telephone he called his office again, barking
out a few quick orders. Dadswell could sense the important
pieces of evidence: some fitted together, others stood out
and seemed incongruous. He needed some final
information, he needed to confirm his suspicions, but if he
was right, he would be able to form the whole picture. Then
he turned to Tindall.
‘A uniformed officer is outside your room. You will stay here
under guard until my investigation is complete.’
With a certain sense of theatre, Dadswell gathered all
concerned in the murder beneath the chandeliers of the
Savoy Hotel’s ballroom. He always took care in his
denouement: he found it important to describe the case bit
by bit, teasing out the solution for his audience with shrewd
logic. Thomas Adams’ team was there, as was Vladimir
Aronian’s, although not all by choice.
‘Firstly, I am charging Albert Tindall, Emma Jacks and Tim
Keene with illegally profiting from cheating on the World
Chess Championships.’
‘I knew it,’ shouted Aronian. ‘I said he was a swindler.’
Dadswell raised his voice.
‘I am also charging Tim Keene with the murder of Thomas
Adams. A few days ago Adams had an argument with
Tindall about him betting on the games, and demanded
that he stop. He threatened to lose his next game if it didn’t
cease. He was worried that there would be a money
34

BENCHMARK
Chess continued
trail leading back to the team. Keene only heard that part
of the conversation, and he doesn’t know Adams the way
Tindall does. Tindall knew that game was too important
for Adams to throw, but Keene borrowed a large sum to put
on a bet against Adams. It seemed like a good way of
making money since Aronian was at such long odds to win.
It was only when he realised that Adams was going to win,
he was enraged because he thought he’d been tricked, and
wanted revenge. Keene left before the game ended. CCTV
footage shows him entering a convenience store at Charing
Cross station and buying a bottle of bleach. After that it
was a simple matter of pouring a deadly amount into
Adams’ favourite water bottle. Your entire team was
involved in a daring gambit, but Adams is dead and you
three are going to jail.’
Rupert Coy
Year 12
35

CREATIVE WRITING
An excerpt from
The First Branch
Coke wasn’t the right choice. Apparently neither was
Schweppes or Pepsi, as the customer, Jack, kept opening
and closing doors, and pacing about the back corner of
the shop. He was nervous, that was plain enough, with
sweat starting to bead on his face and the beginnings of a
twitch. The dark jacket he wore wasn’t helping. It was
barely reasonable to be wearing even a shirt in the heat, let
alone something like that. It was one of those modern
attempts at innovation. This one had ended up with the
zipper at a slant. After a while the shopkeeper lost interest
and turned back to his newspaper, certain that if
something was stolen the cameras would record it.
The surprise came when the man ripped the newspaper
away from the shopkeeper and started to make demands.
‘Give me all the money in the till!’ Jack tried to follow this
with a threatening glare. It amounted to a scrunched face
and didn’t help him hide his desperation.
The man behind the counter faced two opposing
reactions: the urge to laugh, or to recoil in shock. The
result was a look of confusion. He was not particularly
worried. There were no weapons waving at him, and his
father’s bed time stories of the ‘old country’ had prepared
him for worse than this. Company policy was to just hand
over the money in the till and let the insurance worry
about the consequences. It was cheaper than hospital bills,
or worse, the legal nightmare of a court case. However, he
couldn’t help but imagine the reaction his grandfather
would have had in his position. No manager’s lesson about
occupational health and safety would have stopped him
from slamming the rude stranger’s face into the counter
and making a story that would tour the local bars. But the
shopkeeper was a different man, and this was a different
age: he was dressed in a neat uniform, with a name badge
that said ‘Yuri’ in elegant blue writing, sucking away all
feelings of aggression he might have had as defender of
the shop. Even his sculpted beard looked ridiculous in the
outfit. That was the worst of it.
‘Well? Are you going to give me all the money that
Armaguard van dropped off, or will I have to make you?’
Jack prodded again, struggling to maintain some
semblance of a serious threat. The mantra ran through his
balding head: Be confident, be confident, this is your
chance.
The younger man behind the counter rolled his eyes and
began to open the cash register, while thinking about the
notes in his back pocket. A few months ago he had
decided to start anew. His family had been close enough
to people like Ratko Mladic in Bosnia to induce a conflict
of loyalty in an Australianised boy. Mentioning the war
was extremely taboo, but the same madness was buried in
the family’s daily habits. It’s not that they practised
genocide on bunnies or anything, but that the way they
looked at the world, at justice, was different to everyone
else, and even most of their homeland. The two
perspectives could simply not merge. At first, Yuri hadn’t
been sure how he might avoid his likely fate. He’d only
ever worked as a manual labourer, shovelling, stacking,
performing jobs that presumably helped keep society
running, and it seemed that all escape routes had been
barricaded at birth. But one day a gun fell into his hands,
and he knew it was time to leave. He hadn’t been near a
gun since.
He made a trip to Melbourne to find the place called
Craigieburn where Australia’s banknotes are printed and,
after quite a lot of explaining, and more than a little luck,
he got a set of freshly printed denominations. He then
moved to Sydney with his sister, and used a pin to poke a
tiny hole through each bill in exactly the same place, a
mark of ownership. His theory had been that since he now
owned a symbol for opportunity, money, he was, in some
way closer to owning opportunity itself, and being in
control of his own life. No one he’d explained it to
understood why.
Although this act was purely symbolic and sentimental, it
had proved to be powerful enough to help him into a new
stage of his life. He had changed his friends, met his wife,
found this job, and occasionally, along the way, had given
out notes from his collection to those he cared about,
hoping to pass on his good fortune. There were only two
left, the fifty and hundred dollar bills. The robber was
impatient, but managed a smile when all the shop’s cash
was put into a plastic bag and handed over. He wasn’t sure
how to react to the ease with which it seemed to be
36

BENCHMARK
An excerpt from
The First Branch continued
going, but habit found him in his moment of need.
‘Thank you.’ As soon as he’d said this the absurdity of the
situation struck him and he blushed. At this the employee
was convinced of the man’s need, and brought out the $50
bill, holding it for the stranger to take. ‘Take this. I know
it’s just money, but it helped me when I needed it. It can
become your chance at the life you want. Please, just
think about it.’
‘What…?’ Jack said, intrigued that his own mantra was
coming from a stranger. He stifled the rest of his reply,
realising that the more time he wasted, the more likely
jail became.
Hurriedly, the robber took the note, said goodbye and
walked out of the shop as casually as he could. He paced
up towards the intersection the enormous Coca-Cola sign
guarded, considering what had just happened. Jack looked
at the note, then over his shoulder at the convenience
store’s employee. He’d come out of the shop’s door to
watch Jack’s getaway. The man looked confident and
relaxed, much more than he could say for himself. To run
would be foolish, so Jack kept his pace and tried to
understand Yuri the shopkeeper. Maybe there was
something to this ‘gift’? What was more sobering was
Jack’s certainty that no police had been alerted and thus
no one would punish him for this crime; all from the eye
contact they’d shared.
The corner came and went, leaving it all to memory.
The next corners after that did the same, until Jack found
himself on a bench in a park. There were so many parks
around Sydney that the novelty of somewhere colourfully
peaceful amidst the dense throng of urban concerns was
lost. This one had the characteristic grass, trees, neat
design, but was all on top of a car-park.
Oliver Lotz
Year 12 English Extension 2 Major Work
37

CREATIVE WRITING
Conversations with Jane
Part 1
Lachlan Macquarie, a young and ambitious Scot, enjoyed a
meteoric rise in the British Army. Despite humble beginnings,
by the age of 38 he was a Major at the battle of Seringapatam
near Bombay in 1799.
1
‘She was laid to rest on the 16th day of January 1797. To
those who knew her modest worth no panegyric can be
necessary: and to those unacquainted with her, suffice it
to say that she possessed in a most eminent degree all the
virtues that adorn the female character and render it
worthy of universal admiration. In her manners, she was
mild, affable and polite; in her disposition sweet and even;
in her opinions, liberal; and in her appearance elegant
without extravagance. True Christianity gave a superior
lustre to all her virtues: and those of her sex who make her
their pattern may with confidence anticipate a glorious
immortality – and look forward with pleasure to virtue’s
best reward – the applauding smile of Heaven’.
Jane Jarvis Macquarie’s tomb inscription, 1797
2
Smoke swirled from the walls of the rebel fortress. Grey
with debris, the cloud engulfed the red stone castle. The
smell of charred wood and blood hung thick in the air as
the heavy artillery powdered the weakest part of the wall.
It had to fall at some point. It was only a matter of time.
The familiar squares of red-coated British soldiers pushed
forward. They appeared to swallow the ground over
which they remorselessly advanced. Their Indian
opponents fought without fear, but were losing their will.
Many disappeared under the slow moving red mass as if
they had dissolved into the earth itself. Lord have mercy.
Tippoo Sahib, Sultan of Mysore, the Indian rebel leader
who had eluded capture through a number of temporary
treaties and lucky escapes, had finally been cornered.
Crouching behind the walls of the fortress, he had to
know that it was not long until his final defences would
be undone. The storm of sound, a combination of gunners
firing at the stone battlements and soldiers screaming
directions or crying out in anguish, grew louder and
louder in Tippoo’s ears.
Under the tall black regimental cap and above the stiff red
collar of his tunic, Major Lachlan Macquarie squinted as
the rays of sunlight fell on his face. His large frame cast a
long shadow on the hill from where he watched the battle.
Here he was, only able to ‘observe,’ as his prized British
forces tried to take the stronghold of Seringapatam from
Tippoo’s rebels. Seven long years had passed since the last
time he had stood here, and it was eight years since he first
set foot upon the soil of India. This time, however, he was
not a low ranking Lieutenant, having control of fewer
than two hundred soldiers. Now he was a Major,
reporting to Cornwallis himself, the Commander-in-
Chief of the entire army. He would surely be rewarded
with a large share of the booty from this great victory that
was soon to be won. He should have been satisfied, yet
still he sighed.
‘I am only a spectator,’ he thought. ‘A mere spectator.’
Another dry, heaving fit of coughs racked him.
‘It looks as if we have the upper hand. Don’t you agree,
Macquarie?’
Arthur Wellesley, the zealous Colonel who had been
grazed on the knee by a rebel bullet a week earlier, had
been advised by his doctors not to take part in any
fighting. Noticing his friend’s heaves, Wellesley continued
before Macquarie could answer, ‘Are you quite well,
Major?’
Macquarie nodded and fixed his gaze on the battlefield.
His eyes locked onto Major General David Baird leading
his men closer to the walls of Tippoo’s final refuge. How
he envied him. Baird’s raised sword shone as he urged on
his men. The bright steel was a beacon. His men
responded by surging forward, surrounding their
blood-splattered leader as he slew yet another rebel.
‘He may be a scoundrel, but there is nowhere found a
better fellow to have in battle,’ said Macquarie.
Wellesley snorted. ‘I have been informed that even his
own sweet mother doesn’t defend his name.’
The two men laughed.
Macquarie gazed beyond the battle below, to the dry
Indian landscape. The rough footpaths in the distant hills
brought back painful memories of the labour he had
38

BENCHMARK
Conversations with Jane continued
been assigned in 1792, the last time the British had
attempted to defeat the rebels. His company had gouged
makeshift roads for heavy artillery up the rough
escarpment. It had seemed an endless challenge: to carve
a flat surface into the rock hard land. It had taken them
weeks. At times Macquarie had felt the task was
insurmountable.
The roads had been for more than just the soldiers
heading into battle. Thousands of camp followers made
the trip from Bombay to the fortress. Each soldier had a
convoy of servants, chefs and families, as well as all the
materials that they would require for war: cannons and
canvas, gunpowder and swords. Continual rain and
several unannounced attacks from small groups of Indian
rebels had made the journey arduous and nigh on
impossible. But Macquarie, with his band of sixty men,
had brought glory to themselves and England.
He remembered with pride when he was entrusted with
the duty to build a battery base from which eighteen
pounders could fire onto Fort Avery, which they had
encountered on their way to Seringapatam. Without any
weaponry and the majority of his men being
inexperienced soldiers, he had the battery built in one
night and by morning the fort had been taken. The young
men had worked exceptionally well, obeying all of his
commands without hesitation. It was the day he truly felt
he had become a leading officer. All night the rebel
musketeers had hurled heavy assaults at Macquarie’s men,
and only one soul was lost. Laying the final sandbags onto
the battery emplacement, a young sepoy he knew only as
William was mortally wounded. Upon his return to the
main column, Macquarie’s superior officers told him not
to worry about the young Indian: he was expendable. But
Macquarie had mourned when the boy died of his wounds
early that following morning.
Macquarie continued to scan the landscape above the
tumult and his eye drifted onto the tall trees in the
distance. They reminded him of Macao, where he had
spent his last moments with Jane.
Beautiful Jane.
39
The very thought of her made Macquarie step back and
compose himself. It had been three years but his loneliness
and depression were still with him, the hurt still sharp.
When they had first arrived in Macao, Jane had seemed so
joyful. Yet there had been little hope. Her doctors had
recommended the voyage, assuring him that the clean,
crisp sea wind would be beneficial to her consumption.
Macquarie had hoped that perhaps it was the heavy
Bombay air that was promoting her disease. But he had
been wrong. In truth, even before they had advised them
to embark the doctors probably suspected the worst.
Macquarie did not resent them for lying; they were just
trying to offer him a chance that she could recover. In
retrospect, he was thankful that they had not told him
that the consumption had already done its worst. Had he
known, he might not have been able to bear her last days.
He never left her bedside. He did not sleep. He missed
meals. Friends urged him to go swimming or riding –
anything for a few hours respite. But he could not leave
Jane. Not until the night that took his love had passed.
Only then had he left her side.
It still hurt in his bones when he thought about her death.
Most nights as he lay in bed, Macquarie wondered
whether he’d ever recover. And now to his depression were
added angst and frustration because he was not on the
battlefield with his men. He had waited so long for this
opportunity. There was little glory in what he was doing
now; standing here, watching from a hill, safe from
danger. He felt like a child who was not allowed to go on
an adventure with his more courageous brothers. He
touched the black armband on his left arm. He still
couldn’t take it off. His friends had even stopped
mentioning it.
‘Is it my fault you’re not out there?’ Jane’s voice was soft.
Although it had been three years, he could still imagine
her voice perfectly. And he still heard it, always when he
needed her most. He realised that if he told anyone about
her visitations they’d think his mind addled. But what
could he do? He never wanted her to leave.
‘Of course not. I’m just ill, my dear. The doctors thought
it best that I not take part.’

CREATIVE WRITING
‘Then why are you filled with such anger?’
It was true. As he watched his comrades win glory, waves
of fury swirled and spun in his stomach. They threatened
to burst out like they had that first night when he had
cursed the doctors after they demanded he not lead his
men into battle.
‘Because … because I want to fight.’
Macquarie stared into the distance and Wellesley noticed
that he was preoccupied. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling well,
Major? I can summon your doctors if you like.’
‘I’m fine.’ Macquarie nodded absentmindedly. Wellesley
was sweating profusely as Macquarie turned to him. He
looked uncomfortable.
‘There are some trees over …’
‘ … I’m fine. I assure you.’
‘Well,’ Wellesley pointed out. ‘I am most certainly not.
The heat is scalding. I need to find shade before I expire.’
Macquarie nodded as the Colonel left. He hadn’t really
noticed the heat until Wellesley mentioned it. He tried to
pick out Baird in the fighting but the smoke blocked his
view, his mind wandering away again, as it often had in
the years since Jane’s death. In an instant, he was back
with her, on her favourite chair, as he wrote in his journal.
His loose, almost illegible scrawl constantly interrupted as
she asked him questions about Scotland and about the
war and about whatever her young mind was interested in.
She had travelled more than most people he knew. She
was well educated and yet still knew very little about the
world. But it was this very naivety, this innocence that
Macquarie remembered and cherished. She had always
believed the world a place of goodness just as she
had always believed she would return to health. Even
when there was no hope left, she had still seemed bright
and angelic.
When the sickness first struck, they had both thought she
was pregnant and carrying their first child. Macquarie
had been full of joy and passed an entire day writing in
his journal. But his happiness soon soured into his worst
fear. His sadness compounded by the fact that he had also
lost the dream of a child he so desired.
‘Please forgive me,’ Jane whispered from her bed once she
knew of her condition.
‘Of course, my love. Nothing to forgive. Nothing.’
The days when she didn’t have the strength to walk or
even rise from bed had been the most heart-rending. She
tried so hard to prove to Lachlan that she was getting
better. But the tears welled in her eyes when she didn’t
have the ability to stand and Macquarie’s spirit broke
every time he saw it. For months after her death, he never
wrote in his journal, his thoughts too grim to be allowed
to share the pages with the entries before she passed. And
even if he had written, the tear stains that would have
marked the journal would have meant his already hurried
scrawl was even more difficult to read.
Just as he was about to sink further into melancholic
daydreams, an almighty crash shook him and he looked
up. The artillery had finally broken through the walls of
Tippoo’s castle. The shrieking English soldiers stormed
the fortress, earning the glory that Macquarie and Jane
had dreamed of. He would still receive wealth and earn
reputation from the success of this conflict but they
weren’t the things that he, or the most honourable of men
in England, valued. He wasn’t gaining the glory that came
with leading the charge into battle. No one had ever
doubted his courage but since he had not been able to
fight, this would leave its mark in years to come when
people debated his involvement in the war.
‘Oh yes … he was there, I think,’ they would say back in
England. ‘But he didn’t take part in the storming of the
castle, did he? I wonder why?’
Macquarie knew this would be their response to his lack
of involvement and there was not anything he could do to
stop them from entertaining such thoughts. The English
are honourable people, but they are also very critical.
Especially to one not born into rank or wealth.
‘Is it over, sir?’
George ran up the hill as fast as he could, his eyes
glistening with excitement. Macquarie looked down at
his young servant. He was clever, especially for an Indian
boy, and Macquarie was glad that he had chosen to
purchase him.
40

BENCHMARK
Conversations with Jane continued
‘I believe so,’ Macquarie whispered, so quietly that the boy
was not quite certain what he had said. But out of
courtesy, and also some fear, he didn’t ask the Major to
repeat himself. Macquarie had never been angry with him,
but George had seen him argue with others. His master’s
temper was quick to begin and ferocious once released.
A messenger stumbled up behind Macquarie and George,
knocking the boy over out of ungainliness but also a little
on purpose, showing the dominance he assumed over the
small Indian boy.
This infuriated Macquarie. ‘Watch your step, soldier,’ he
said with calm ferocity. ‘What have you come to tell me?’
Red-faced, the messenger stammered out his response,
‘Ti - Tip - Tippoo has been killed, sir. The r - rebels have
laid down their arms and the battle is c - concluded.’
Macquarie turned and muttered to himself, ‘Victory is
ours, Jane.’
Only George heard him.
Macquarie never got the large share of the winning spoils
that he had hoped for after Serigapatam. He received only
1300 pounds, almost 1000 less than what he expected.
After India, he spent time in Egypt fighting under Baird
for a few years, before returning to England to find a new
wife.
Part 2
Macquarie was ordered to New South Wales in 1809 and
was selected as Governor in 1810. His first six years were the
most successful in the colony’s history and Macquarie’s policies
towards convicts and Aboriginals were unique and liberal.
But in 1816 a violent disturbance from a group of natives
had forced Macquarie’s hand.
He had to react to what they had done.
1
‘I therefore very unwillingly felt myself compelled from a
paramount sense of public duty, to come to the painful
resolution of chastising these hostile tribes, and to inflict
terrible and exemplary punishments upon them. I have
this day ordered three separate military detachments to
march into the interior and remote parts of the colony, for
the purpose of punishing the hostile natives, by clearing
41
the country of them entirely, and driving them across the
mountains. In the event of the natives making the
smallest show of resistance or refusing to surrender when
called upon so to do, the officers commanding the
military parties have been authorised to fire on them to
compel them to surrender; hanging up on trees the bodies
of such natives as may be killed on such occasions, in
order to strike the greater terror into the survivors.’
Macquarie laid down his quill, closed the leather cover of
his journal and leaned back in his chair.
2
Macquarie stumbled through the maize fields; the vibrant
yellow ears of grain pattered against his thighs and tickled
his side gently. He let his arms dangle slightly so that the
taut skin on his palms could glide across the silky tips of
the stalks. He was not looking forward to what he was
about to see. As he went further, red blotches stained the
yellow of the corn and a crimson tinge seemed to fill the
air. Fifty metres ahead Captain Wallis stood.
‘Over here, sir.’
The maize that had been brought from Europe was
stained with the natives’ blood. Just as he was now stained.
The irony was not lost on Macquarie.
He took a deep breath, pressed his handkerchief, which
was drenched with sweat from his hand, to his mouth and
preceded onwards. The smell hit him well before the
actual sight; it engulfed him and made it nearly
impossible to move. He saw a child’s arm to his left, a
woman’s dismembered corpse next to it, and through a
clearing in the corn, a group of bodies, some headless and
covered in flies. They were huddled together as if
searching for warmth. Strangely, they seemed peaceful
amidst the savagery.
And for some reason, Macquarie thought of Jane.
‘Their heads have been taken to Sydney to be exhibited as
an example of what befalls those who break the law, sir.
You made the right choice, these black savages deserved it.’
‘Deserved this?’ Macquarie fumbled for words. ‘Why, in
God’s name, did you take the heads?’
‘You asked for severe punishment, Governor.’

CREATIVE WRITING
‘Yes. But ... ’
‘They killed a British family. This is what they deserved.’
‘But these natives did nothing,’ Macquarie pointed at the
dead women and children lying in the maize, the blood in
pools around them. ‘It was a small, rebellious group of
men who murdered the family. I only wanted those
natives to be ...’ He ran out of words.
‘You wanted an example to be set. That’s what you said.
That’s what we’ve done, sir.’
Macquarie turned and walked away, the sight too
gruesome for him to contemplate any further. He felt the
dull weight of regret fill his spine and entomb his whole
body. He gazed out towards the cliff that formed the
boundary to the farm. He thought he heard a griefstricken
moan from over the edge, but dared not look to
see if anyone was actually there.
3
Macquarie slouched in his chair and pushed back his
silvery hair. He felt the leather upholstery and ran his
hands over the red bumps, allowing his fingers to drift
over the contours. It was two hours since he had returned
to Government House and still his mind was preoccupied.
He had hoped that getting back to his study, his most
cherished room, would give him clarity and clear his
thoughts. But it had not.
‘George!’
The servant walked in, his Indian skin almost black
against the crisp white of his shirt. ‘Yes, sir?’
George, whom Macquarie had ‘bought’ as a boy in
Bombay, was now a man and his de facto secretary. They
had been together for twenty years but their relationship
remained formal - one of master and servant.
‘How many … of the natives perished?’ Macquarie was
barely able to form the words. He knew the answer was
certain to disgust him.
‘Thirteen bodies have been found, but no one has been
able to get a clear view from the top of the cliff so …’
George’s voice trailed off.
‘So it’s more than thirteen?’
‘I would only be guessing, sir.’ Macquarie shot the younger
man a look. He didn’t like people talking in roundabout
ways. ‘Yes. I would imagine quite a few more, Your
Excellency.’
‘Quite a few?’
‘At least as many as have already been found. One of the
soldiers said that he saw only half of the blacks escape.’
‘Thank you, George.’
The young man exited as Macquarie pondered his
dilemma. A family of colonists dead, and their crops
raided. What else could he have done? He had always
been an advocate for the fair treatment of the natives, but
he had been forced to action. If he had done nothing then
there would no doubt have been scores of letters from
settlers to Lord Bathurst, the Colonial Secretary in
London. Angry words. Threats and righteous indignation.
Red-faced and shocked politicians.
Yes, he had acted.
But every link of trust he had gained with the Aborigines
was now broken. He was no longer sure if he could repair
the relations he had formed with them. When he had
taken the helm in New South Wales, Macquarie was
aware that the natives were suspicious of him, of all white
men. But his generosity, especially when compared to
previous Governors, had surprised the black inhabitants.
They had slowly cooperated and slowly learnt to trust him.
There had been a significant decrease in violent incidents
with freed settlers.
And now this.
A group of six Aborigines had attacked a good, Christian
family. Brutally. Not even the three small children had
been spared. Why?
Perhaps they were simply not an intelligent race. Perhaps
they were capable of behaving irrationally for no reason
and without remorse. That is what Reverend Marsden
preached, right from the beginning, and he was already
gloating about it. Before Macquarie had become Governor,
Marsden had attempted to ‘civilise’ the Aborigines but
had been frustrated by their lack of interest in trying
42

BENCHMARK
Conversations with Jane continued
to better themselves. To own a horse or a house, they did
not want to own anything.
‘I told you there was no hope for them,’ Marsden had said
the day after the colonists were killed, his face filled with
satisfaction. ‘They don’t accept responsibility or
ownership. They will never be able to live alongside us.’
‘I refuse to believe that! The man is a fool, an arrogant
fool,’ Macquarie thought angrily, and then shook in his
chair when a soft response came from the empty corner of
the room.
‘Calm down, Lachlan. Anger has never helped you.’
Jane had not appeared to Macquarie in a long time.
Before the maize field he had almost stopped thinking
about her. Almost.
‘I don’t know what to do, Jane. It feels like … everything’s
gone backward.’
‘Maybe try treating the natives as you would one of the
settlers.’
‘I tried that as best I could. As best as would be accepted.
And look what happened.’
‘Don’t lose faith. Try again.’
Macquarie turned away as he heard footsteps from the
hall. His new wife, Elizabeth, entered the room and stood
next to him.
‘It will be all right, dear,’ she said, consolingly. ‘I know
how you had such hope for these natives. But we must put
the issue behind us now. You know it will cause nothing
but conflict with Marsden if you still try to reconcile with
them.’
Macquarie hummed in agreement and rested his head
against his wife’s waist. She was right, but he was not sure
if he agreed with her council. She was an intelligent and
modern woman, and very sweet. In many ways she was
similar to Jane. But she had harder facets to her character
that blinded her judgement on some matters. He knew
that Jane’s reaction would have been different to
Elizabeth’s. Softer. She always managed to see the best in
people, as she had with the natives in India. A very naïve
young woman to be sure, but she had schooled Macquarie.
43
Ever since meeting her, he had tried to treat all people as
equally as he could, however foreign the notion seemed to
the world.
He wondered if her innocence had rubbed off on him.
4
Two weeks later, as they walked through the garden,
Reverend Marsden told Macquarie, ‘Your men did an
exemplary job in Appin, Your Excellency.’
‘I suppose they did.’
Marsden did not pick up the regret in Macquarie’s voice.
Marsden had invited him to his estate to discuss the
colony and what had transpired at Appin. Macquarie was
surprised when Marsden had asked him to visit. He had
never done so before.
The response to the Appin affair from the other powerful
families in the colony had been just as positive as
Marsden’s. They had all praised Macquarie for the acts of
butchery and violence, which Captain Wallis and his men
had conducted on his order. Macquarie had expected
praise but was surprised by their joy. It made him so angry.
At least a score of natives killed, relations shattered. The
Aborigines of course no longer ventured close to the farms
as they once did. How could anyone find joy in that?
Macquarie took in his surroundings as he stood in the
Reverend’s garden, the great eucalypts rising to his right
and left, their chipped and weary bark contrasting against
the pale green of the grass. The dry leaves of the towering
trees cracked in the heat. Macquarie felt one in his hand.
It had the same feel as an old builder’s hand, rough and
warm from years of handling wooden planks and stone
bricks. It was comforting.
On most everything that should be done within the
colony Macquarie had often held similar views to
Marsden. They agreed on decisions involving the settlers,
and on land distribution and religion and construction.
But not about the natives. On the Aborigine they rarely
agreed. Macquarie was frustrated by Marsden’s inability
to treat the natives with any kind of respect. Marsden was
convinced they could never be trusted. And Macquarie

CREATIVE WRITING
was beginning to realise that most of the influential men
in England agreed in full with the Reverend.
This was a delicate issue and Macquarie was sure to tread
cautiously whenever he spoke to his superior about the
natives. He knew that Marsden held great influence in
Britain and could put the Governor’s job in jeopardy if he
saw fit.
‘You’ve done a great deal while you have been here,
Lachlan,’ Marsden stressed the word great. Still, there was
criticism not well hidden in his tone. He could never give
Macquarie the unfettered congratulations that he truly
deserved. ‘But there is more to be done. You know this as
well as any man.’
‘There is always more to be done,’ thought Macquarie.
But he held his tongue and stayed silent as Marden
continued to wander through his garden.
Macquarie could never admit to liking Marsden. The
Reverend was a firm and stubborn old man, rarely offering
praise and quick to ‘enlighten’ someone of their faults. But
he had many friends in England, as most wealthy free
settlers did, and would often tell Macquarie of his deep
longing to return to his homeland and spend his last years
with them.
‘But I have too great a responsibility in this new land, to
these new settlers,’ he had told Macquarie more times
than he cared to remember. ‘For the good of these people,
for the good of King George, I will sacrifice my own
pleasures.’
In truth, Marsden did little for the colonists now but still
he received the accolades from England for the good work
that was being accomplished in New South Wales.
Accolades that Macquarie deserved. The Governor tried
not to let this jealousy poison him. He was content with
the certain knowledge in his heart that he was making
a difference.
Marsden had started to talk again and Macquarie had
missed the first few words, ‘... after that crook Bligh,
you’ve been a needed change for the colony. We required
a stable Governor, especially for the welfare of the free
settlers. They had begun to lose trust in me.’
Governor Bligh had preceded Macquarie as Governor and
stirred up an enormous amount of trouble. He had fought
too hard for the rights of the poorer settlers and taken
away the privileges of the wealthier families. Macquarie
agreed that inequality in the colony was rife, but Bligh
had been much too aggressive in his approach. He had
alienated his superiors. Macquarie hoped not to do the
same.
‘When Bligh was deposed in 1808 there were calls for a
sensible leader, with the right ‘values and ideals’ to come
in and take over as Governor,’ Marsden continued. ‘You
were the right man for the time.’
As Marsden spoke unrelentingly, Macquarie remembered
everything that he had done since becoming Governor.
Roads were no longer uneven and crooked. The monetary
system had improved tenfold, and the way of life was no
longer as harsh. All these things were because of his doing,
and Sydney was now a desirable place to live. But he had
heard of whispers back in England that Lord Bathurst and
his superiors were complaining, saying that the colony
was now too prosperous.
‘Try not to make things too good here, rather,’ Marsden
said, ‘Lord Bathurst sent me a letter which I received a
month ago. I’m surprised he did not send it to you. I know
he trusts my judgement, but you are the Governor.
Apparently there has been an increase in crime in England
so people can come here and start a new life. We must
stop this thinking. What would be the end if we did not?
A land of criminals.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macquarie responded, once he realised that the
other man was finally done talking. He tried to smile. ‘I’ll
try not to make the colony too appealing.’
‘You can’t win, even when you’re winning,’ thought
Macquarie.
He shook his head and looked up to the sky. He began to
wonder why he had ever respected Marsden and the men
of his ilk so much.
44

BENCHMARK
Conversations with Jane continued
Part 3
Macquarie’s tenure as Governor had run into its toughest
period. He had been drawing criticism from influential men
in both Australia and England and was getting tired of his
life as Governor. In late 1819 tensions came to a head.
1
‘It will be impossible for us all to become a reformed
people, unless time be given us to breathe, contemplate
and amend … I cannot avoid saying that this country
should be made the home and a HAPPY HOME to every
emancipated convict who deserves it. But now my time
here is done.’
Macquarie in a letter to Lord Bathurst, 1821
2
Macquarie looked out the window. The sky blackened,
sparks of electricity jumped from cloud to cloud,
mirroring the frustration that grew inside him. He looked
down the length of Bridge Street as far as he could see; the
weather-beaten track was abandoned except for a cart that
Macquarie presumed had been forgotten. He was tired of
arguing. He was tired of fighting stubborn men who knew
nothing of justice or acceptance. His friend, Doctor
William Redfern, sat in an armchair across from him and
rubbed his eyes wearily. His black coat was unbuttoned.
From Macquarie’s perspective it seemed he had already
accepted defeat, no longer willing to push for what he
deserved, for what he wanted.
‘They can’t take this position away from you, William.
I’ll find a means to make sure they agree with my decision.
You will be a magistrate.’
‘I know you’ll try, but I don’t think even you can promise
me that. These foolish men will not budge. You know it as
well as I. Their sense of pride,’ Redfern stressed the word
and paused, ‘it … will never allow them to concede,
Lachlan.’
Lord Bathurst, Reverend Samuel Marsden and many free
settlers had never been supportive of freed convicts. They
did not believe that these men could transform their lives,
nor would they admit that the crimes many had been
exiled here for were petty and not worthy of life long
45
penalty. Doctor Redfern had been sent to the new land
after taking part in the mutiny on the HMS Standard. He
had never drawn a weapon. He had merely encouraged
the sailors to be independent. But the judges in the courts
of England had not received this news well. Through the
influence of his friends in London, Dr Redfern had barely
escaped the death penalty and had been banished to the
new land as punishment.
Even with the knowledge of his past crime, on the journey
to New South Wales, he had been awarded the position of
doctor after the Captain realised his talents. He was one
of only a few doctors in the new country and his skill and
dedication had proved invaluable on countless occasions.
He had served the state for fifteen years and only last year
was nominated to become Surgeon-General. D’Arcy
Wentworth had retired and Redfern had been his assistant
for ten years. His appointment should have been the
natural choice. A worthy man making the next logical
step. But Dr Redfern had been impeded from the
beginning.
Macquarie had been forced to offer his friend the inferior
position of magistrate as consolation for all the service he
had done for the colony. But the same men, who had
prevented Redfern becoming Surgeon General, were now
trying to stop this selection. Marsden and Macarthur
were at the forefront. The irony of Macarthur arguing
against his appointment almost made Macquarie laugh.
Dr Redfern had saved the life of Macarthur’s most
treasured daughter, Elizabeth, from a strange form of
consumption. At the time the thankful father had
commented on how he hoped he could repay the doctor
for what he had done. And now fourteen years later, he
had forgotten that debt and was wilfully making sure that
Dr Redfern did not get what he deserved. No, it was not
humorous. The irony was sickening.
Macquarie felt deeply sorry for his friend. They had
worked together for years. Dr Redfern had delivered
Macquarie’s first son. He was a loyal, honourable man
who deserved more. Yet Macquarie knew he would need
to fight as hard as he could to convince the others to allow
Redfern to be a magistrate.

CREATIVE WRITING
Macquarie smiled, his expression as confident as he could
muster. ‘Do not worry, William. They will not be able to
deny me.’
3
‘No! He is just not trustworthy, Governor.’
‘But the man is perfect for the position,’ Macquarie
pleaded his friend’s case to Commissioner Bigge, the man
who had been sent by Lord Bathurst to report on how the
New South Wales government was performing.
Macquarie felt the anger he knew so well rise within him.
Bigge was younger than Macquarie by twenty years and
this frustrated the Governor. So young and so sure of
himself. So youthful looking in truth that Macquarie had
thought he was Bigge’s son when he first saw him. Not the
man himself. Macquarie tried to breathe slowly.
‘I’m afraid I don’t agree, Governor. He is not trustworthy.
First there was the incident on the Standard that got him
sent here. And then there was that incident with Bligh’s
daughter …’
‘What incident?’
‘He … ‘consoled’ her when her father was being rightfully
removed from his position. He consoled the daughter of a
proven scoundrel and a liar. It demonstrates the company
he surrounds himself with.’
‘Just because she was Bligh’s daughter, it doesn’t mean she
is undeserving of human sympathy,’ Macquarie replied
incredulously.
‘I think a bad seed runs in families. I’ve seen it often. If the
father is a cad, it is always passed on to the children.’
Macquarie was about to shout his reply when George
appeared at the doorway of the study. He coughed.
‘Excuse me, Your Excellency. Mrs Macquarie begs to
remind you that dinner is upon us.’
Elizabeth had organised one of her highly anticipated
parties. Macquarie had dragged Bigge up to his study
fifteen minutes earlier to discuss Redfern.
Bigge smiled. ‘I think our lovely hostess is to be obeyed. I
am no longer inclined to discuss this. We shall talk more
on it tomorrow … if you insist.’
It was Bigge’s sense of complete confidence in everything
he said that infuriated Macquarie. He didn’t trust this
young man, and was worried about the report that he was
scheduled to give to Bathurst at the end of the year. If he
wanted, Bigge could tarnish Macquarie’s reputation,
something the Governor could not let happen.
‘We will see, we will see,’ Macquarie muttered to himself
as he followed the Commissioner downstairs to the dining
room.
Elizabeth hurried forward as they reached the bottom of
the staircase. ‘What were you discussing? Surely nothing
too serious, I hope.’
‘Nothing of any importance. The issue has been resolved,’
Bigge replied as he moved into the dining room, greeting
with a bow some of Sydney’s elite.
‘In truth, is everything fine?’ Elizabeth whispered to
Macquarie, as they lingered at the foot of the stairs.
She could sense her husband was angry.
‘That man is a fool. He will not listen to reason.’
‘Is he still opposing Doctor Redfern’s appointment?’
Macquarie nodded. Elizabeth sighed and patted her
husband on the shoulder, ‘Please, Lachlan, no arguments.
Not tonight. For me.’
He knew she had to return to her guests and he had to act
as host. He smiled as she turned and gestured for one of
her servants to announce that everyone should assume
their seats. Dinner was prepared. Guests admired the
portrait of the host on the front wall of the dining room
as they walked inside.
‘You look so young, Governor,’ the architect and
emancipist Francis Greenway said, smiling. ‘And much
leaner. When did you have this painted?’
Elizabeth answered before her husband even realised the
question was asked. ‘In 1805, back in London. A
wonderful artist named John Opie did it on the request of
my mother.’
Greenway nodded and then lead his wife to her chair.
Seeing that everyone had sat down Macquarie composed
himself and took his place at the table.
But he was not finished with Bigge.
46

BENCHMARK
Conversations with Jane continued
4
Macquarie knew there were many things that Bigge could
write that would shock people in England. Macquarie’s
fraternising with the natives and his ‘weak’ policies
towards the convicts could certainly be exploited in
Bigge’s report to denigrate the Governor’s
accomplishments. Macquarie could not let this happen.
He had overseen the modernisation of the colony in a way
no previous Governor had even attempted. He had built
the Military Hospital, and had laid down hundreds of
roads throughout Sydney. He had improved the system of
currency and had turned the colony into a respectable and
comfortable place to live. But that might mean nothing
to Bigge.
He felt the anger again. The possibility of Bigge writing
an unfair report swirled around his head like a thousand
buzzing flies. He knew he had drunk too much wine at
dinner. And now as he glanced across the table at Bigge
who smiled and spoke warmly to Reverend Marsden,
Macquarie wanted nothing more than to continue the
conversation they had been having earlier. He knew he
should not speak. And yet, he did.
‘Commissioner Bigge,’ Macquarie called out. ‘I would like
to confer with you once more in my study.’
Bigge mumbled to Marsden and then turned. He shot the
Governor a dark look as he placed his glass on the table
and followed Macquarie up the stairs again to the second
floor of Government House.
‘There is no point arguing any more tonight, Governor. I
said we shall speak of Redfern tomorrow. If that is what
you wanted to discuss now then there is nothing more to
be said.’
Macquarie bit his tongue and allowed the rage to trickle
away before responding. ‘I can assure you there is no bad
seed in Dr Redfern’s case.’
‘Well … I have spoken with the man on many occasions
and in my opinion he always seemed …’ Bigge paused, his
lips moving as if trying to find the word he was looking
for floating in the air, ‘… a little off.’
‘A little off?’ Macquarie felt the buzzing begin to return
but once again composed himself. ‘I am not ashamed to
47
admit it, Mr Bigge. Dr William Redfern is one of my
dearest friends, and I can again assure you that he is the
most respectable and trustworthy fellow I have ever met.
Bar none.’
Bigge’s eyes lit up when he heard Macquarie and he took
the comment as a personal offence. Unlike Macquarie,
Bigge now held nothing back, ‘In my opinion this doctor
does not deserve to hold any position in this colony nor in
any colony within the British Empire. I cannot stop you
from making this unworthy man a magistrate, as it is your
obligation to choose them. But if you will not listen to my
advice, do not believe that I will forget this day when I
write my report for Lord Bathurst.’
There it was. The threat was out.
Bigge stormed out of the study and left Government
House, red with indignation, before dessert and port.
Macquarie felt like chasing the young man and cursing
him for his inability to be fair. He almost got up to do so
when a voice seemed to force him down into his chair.
‘It shows weakness, Lachlan. If you want people to respect
you and treat you with deference … you must change.
Not pursue them … like an animal on a hunt.’
Macquarie nodded. He hadn’t seen Jane since Appin.
‘You won’t be able to help the colony if Bigge gets you
deposed. Try to reason with him.’
‘I’ve given this colony ten years of my life! I’m not sure I
can give it anymore.’
‘But Lachlan, it is your life.’
And with that, she was gone. As quickly as she had
appeared
‘What happened, Lachlan? Mr Bigge is not one to forgo
his port.’ Elizabeth’s face was worried as she hurried into
his study, ‘You did not …’
‘No, my pet. No need to worry. All is fine’
5
‘Congratulations, Dr Redfern. You are the newest
magistrate of his Majesty’s colony, New South Wales,’

CREATIVE WRITING
Macquarie offered his hand to his friend after the small
ceremony had concluded.
‘Thank you, Lachlan. I know how much you risked for
me,’ the doctor replied as he entered the carriage
Macquarie had organised to take him home.
‘I did nothing. You were the best man for the position.’
The Governor waved goodbye to his friend as the carriage
rattled away. It was 1819 and he had just sent his third
request for resignation to Lord Bathurst, the previous two
having been denied over the course of the last three years.
Macquarie was sure this time it would be accepted. Bigge
had been trying to push him out for months. Bigge, of
course, had been at the ceremony today. He had come
with Reverend Marsden and John MacArthur to watch
the Governor bestow on his friend a position they all
swore he did not deserve. They had smiled and acted as if
they believed him to be the most justifiable choice. It had
amused Macquarie to listen to their congratulatory
speeches as they contradicted everything they had said
over the last three months.
Macquarie wandered back through the maze of rooms
that made up Government House. He found his way into
his study and took up his well-worn journal. He let his
hand run over the cover. Flipping it open, he was again
surprised by the messiness of his scrawl. He read the first
few lines of an entry and understood why it had been even
more illegible than usual. It was written years ago, after
an argument with Marsden over his treatment of the
convicts. Macquarie had allowed some to be made
freedmen only a year after they arrived at the colony.
Marsden, of course, did not agree. He had offered the
tired, oft-heard argument that men were now purposely
committing petty crimes back home so they could be sent
to live in the comfort of New South Wales. Comfort
indeed. This land was still harsh and soon proved the
worth of any man. Macquarie’s entry that night again
demonstrated how passionate he had been. He truly
believed everyone deserved a second chance.
Macquarie looked up. Through all the turmoil and
discontent, he had survived. But he looked forward now
to returning home with his family. Raising his sons to be
good men, and leaving them with money to start a life
when they grew older.
He closed his eyes, finally at peace. He had fought against
men he once believed to be truthful. Men who were
stubborn and could not forget traditions. He had fought
for new ideas in a New World.
‘And we won, Jane. We won.’
Lachlan Macquarie returned to England in 1822 where a
scathing report from Bigge had already sullied his reputation.
As a result, the pension he received was considerably less than
expected. In classic Macquarie style, he challenged the report’s
findings and eventually proved that his Governorship in New
South Wales had been a success.
But it took a toll on him. Macquarie died in 1824, leaving
behind only a relatively small sum of money to his family,
and, in his lifetime, having never received the true
recognition he deserved.
Macquarie was the Prince of men!
Australia’s pride and joy!
We ne’er shall see his like again;
Bring back the OLD VICEROY!
Song sung at Founders’ Day celebrations in Sydney in 1828
Zach Monjo
Year 12 English Extension 2 Major Work
48

BENCHMARK
The Detective and Me
This story is about Sherlock Holmes, but if you’ll forgive
me I’m not going to talk about him yet. Right now I’m
going to talk about Superman.
In 1992 Superman died, exchanging blows with a
terrifying villain by the name of Doomsday. But a year
later The Man of Steel was back, standing for Truth,
Justice and the American Way in his amazing four colour
escapades. Granted, there was a need for a miracle
regeneration pod and a few people with amnesia, but he
was back! Thereby making the entire saga practically
redundant. The only thing that ended up actually
changing was a massive increase in issue sales for the Man
of Steel. But it didn’t stop there. Since then almost every
man or woman in a cape, from Batman to Green Arrow,
has died only to rise from the grave.
Death always leads to popularity, even in the real world.
How many artists’ record sales have gone through the roof
shortly after their unfortunate demise? But with fiction,
readers fall into grief and despair over someone who
wasn’t real. If the character was never real, who’s to say
that the death was?
In 1891 Sherlock Holmes died, falling off Reinbeck Falls
while locked in struggle with his nemesis; Professor
Moriarty. Strangely, his so-called nemesis was only
introduced in the same six-page story in which he died.
That was how Arthur Conan Doyle bid one of the world’s
most popular characters farewell, with a six-page story
and a nemesis who came out of the blue. The reader
wasn’t even given the courtesy of witnessing his death; it
was merely assumed that an empty cliff meant his demise.
Unlike Superman, Holmes didn’t have a secret stasis pod
to bring him back to life. In fact, Doyle intended for the
detective to remain dead simply because he had grown
tired of writing about him. Because his author didn’t have
the stomach for continuing with one of the world’s most
popular characters, Sherlock died.
But Doyle couldn’t keep him dead. There was a public
outcry against his decision to kill his own character.
Meanwhile, his other works lacked the same success.
Bringing Holmes back became the only option.
49
Fiction sometimes becomes inescapably real.
***
My involvement within this strange escapade was not
chosen, but rather thrust upon me by unknown fates.
Technically it would remain entirely voluntary. I needed
to settle some affairs at the Charge Office when I
discovered that we held a new prisoner within our holding
cells. Upon enquiring of Sergeant Winston, the officer
who processes every suspect who comes in, I found out
that the man had been brought in, not only for theft, but
also for interfering with police business, and intruding on
a crime scene.
‘What was the manner of his intervention?’ I asked.
‘You’ll need to ask Williams. He wouldn’t tell me much
about the case, but apparently it’s a bit of a queer one.’
Winston sparked my curiosity, so I decided to find
Williams and see what kind of a case he was dealing with,
and the nature of this stranger’s intrusion. He proved easy
enough to find. A visit to the first Circular Quay pub I
came across yielded success. As decent an officer as
Williams was, upon entering the tavern I was reminded of
his fatal flaw. Williams sat with a drink in his hand,
reasonably inebriated, bragging to an interested group of
dockworkers who were feeding him a steady stream of
whiskey to ensure the completion of his story. As I walked
in, the stevedores began to fall silent one by one. Williams
himself continued to tell his yarn until he realised the
spirits of the pub had dropped. Upon seeing the cause he
too fell silent.
‘Sergeant McMurphy,’ said he, trying to keep his good
spirits despite the obvious potential peril to his career.
‘Good morning to you.’
‘Constable Williams,’ I replied, as the other patrons of the
bar began to retreat to darker sections of the tavern,
‘might I remind you of the seventh rule of the New South
Wales Police Code of Practice?’
‘I am aware of the …’
‘An officer must practise most complete sobriety,’ I said,
quoting the wooden plaque mounted on the entrance of

CREATIVE WRITING
the office. ‘One instance of drunkenness will leave an
officer liable for dismissal.’
Williams looked down at his feet. He pushed his drink
away from him in the vain hope of hiding his
misdemeanour. ‘However, you are in luck,’ said I, ‘I
haven’t come to lecture you on the police code of conduct,
but rather to learn a little about our friend in the holding
cells.’
Williams stared at me in shock, before chuckling
nervously. ‘Well, sarge, it all began earlier this morning,
when I was called out to Watsons Bay …’
***
There’s an international organisation with chapters all
around the world, which pays worship to a single godlike
figure. This nefarious cult has successfully infiltrated
every nation, while its books and manifestos have been
systematically placed into every library and bookstore on
earth. In front of me lies the Sydney cell of this sinister
group: the Sydney Passengers, a chapter of a much larger
worldwide Sherlock Holmes enthusiast organisation.
The horror.
I’m here in Headland Park overlooking the old submarine
base, to penetrate the seedy underworld of literary
enthusiasts. They have gathered here today to celebrate
the birthday of their idol. Unfortunately due to the
foreboding threat of rain only six people showed up.
‘Usually there are twenty to thirty people,’ a woman by
the name of Katherine tells me, ‘and we’re the less
neurotic ones.’
The people I’m sitting with have been sleeper cells for
years. Almost all of them discovered Sherlock when they
were around seventeen, making some of them long time
devotees. These are the ones who won’t let go. There’s
something about the character of Holmes that makes
them need to reach out for more, even when the pages run
out. Almost every member of the Holmes society has
written an adventure of his or her own. Mandy, sitting to
my right, with her husband and excited dog, has even had
a book published. These are the plunderers of the public
domain. Like Victor Frankenstein they reach out for any
piece of the Great Detective that they can get their hands
on, to create a monster of their own.
Except for me, of course. Looking around the group, I
know what sets me apart from them. Aside from a few
abridged versions I picked up when I was little, I’ve never
read a Holmes story. I’m not interested in the fictional;
I’m a serious journalist. Which is why I’m meeting with a
literary enthusiasts group, to publish my column in a
magazine for people to read with their coffee when they
get sick of the heavy stuff in the real newspapers. That’s
the fourth estate at work, ladies and gentleman.
I did do a bit of reading before I came. Maybe I can push
these people’s buttons a bit. First I dip my toe in the
waters and ask a watered-down version of the unforgivable.
‘Is there anything about Conan Doyle’s’ writing that you
don’t like?’ A fairly simple question, but of course I need
to start out with subtlety.
Shock grips the group, and they are slow to come up with
an answer. Some suggestions do arise. Katherine begins by
mentioning the obvious, the dreaded Reichenbach Falls,
which is met with a groan, followed by nods of agreement
from the group while I rub my palms in excitement.
Mandy then admits, ‘It was so uncharacteristic of Holmes
to leave Watson alone on the cliff and then simply appear
after letting Watson think he was dead for three years.’
This is good, very good. These poor brainwashed fools can’t
be pulled out of their state of mind in an instant. They
need to gradually wake up to what they’ve submitted to.
This could make a very interesting article indeed. ‘Lone
Reporter Liberates Brainwashed Holmes Fans’. To hell
with my editor’s desire for a ‘mild account,’ this is real life
damn it!
But this hope is crushed when Mandy becomes the voice
of reason. ‘Really, you’re not permitted to have a grievance.
The fact remains that he did it the way he did. If you’re a
fan, you like what you’re reading.’
The smile drops from my face. These aren’t the radicals
I thought they could be, they’re fans of Arthur Conan
Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, and to them that means being
a fan of Arthur Conan Doyle.
50

BENCHMARK
The Detective and Me continued
‘You’re wrong!’ I want to tell them. ‘You could do better!
Arthur Conan Doyle has let you down! Readers of the
world rise up!’
However, I don’t. If these people are to regain their senses,
they’ll need to do so on their own terms. I merely sit and
eat my cake, feeling pity for these sheep. In the distance a
kookaburra cackles. The sun beats down.
I get up to visit the public toilet and when I return, the
subject of their discussion has moved from literature to
the real world. I suppose there is still hope. As I retake my
seat, their attention returns to me.
‘So are you much of a Sherlock Holmes fan?’ asks an
elderly woman by the name of Patricia.
Now what? I don’t want to offend these people, but sooner
or later they’ll realise where I stand.
‘As much as I can be, without having read any of the
books,’ I say.
‘Oh well, that’s a shame,’ she replies.
The illusion of comfort has been shattered. They’re now
aware that an outsider, a potential heretic, is amongst
them. I don’t have nearly enough for the column but I
can’t think of a single question I actually want answered.
I decide not to whip a dead horse, so I finish my cake,
and then I leave.
***
‘As you know, these past few days brought an ungodly
storm; winds, rain and lightning the like of which I’d
never before experienced, but by this morning it had
subsided. I arrived at the Watsons Bay Catholic Church,
where around the base of its looming steeple a crowd had
gathered, whipped up into a fury more powerful than that
of a Pentecostal Church. The crowd had formed a circle,
and in the middle of the circle lay the body of a priest in
dog-collar and black surplice. He was on his back in a
pool of blood. My immediate conclusion was that this
man had committed suicide, an act not uncommon to the
location. Now, I was lucky that none of the onlookers had
moved the body, and so when I turned the body onto its
side, everyone present, myself included, was shocked by
the revelation.
51
Along the back of the body was a long sickle-shaped burn
mark, scorched through his clothing and onto his back,
leaving one conclusion; this priest had been struck by
lightning. It was as I looked upon the body that he
showed up; the man whom you are no doubt eager to
meet. He was dishevelled and obviously insane. He barged
his way in and, bludgeoning me with insults, demanded
access to the body. I was prepared to let him off with a
warning, but then as I escorted him out, I noticed the
contents of his pockets. They were filled with syringes,
making me recall the recent barrage of reports we had
received, of a thief who had been nicking medical supplies,
namely cocaine, from medical practices. Indeed, it made
sense that this was the sort of desperate man who would
steal to feed his own addiction. This man was guilty, not
only of intervening with police business, but also theft.
Thus, I had just cause to arrest him.’
***
I walk out of the park and through the leaf-covered
footpath. This was a pointless assignment. ‘Do an article
on literary societies,’ my editor instructed me. With riots,
terrorist attacks and new civil wars breaking out once
every five minutes, I had a choice between covering a
meeting of either the Charles Dickens, Jane Austen or
Sherlock Holmes Society. Then it turned out the Dickens
Society was cancelling its meeting that week, so my only
real option was the Sherlock Holmes Society. To hell with
the landed gentry.
That’s what happens when you’re a columnist, not a
journalist.
I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for that bastard in the red
cape. People always say ‘do what you’re good at,’ and so,
fresh out of university, I decided to do an article on him.
‘Lies, Injustice and the American Way,’ it was titled. An
eight-thousand-word rant on modern pop-culture
breeding ultra-nationalism. The editor read it, laughed
and hired me. Now, what I wanted was a soapbox, where
I could enlighten the neo-conservative right-wing fascist
media with the truth! But no, my editor had something
different in mind. He stuck me on the literature column,
since ‘I could write so eloquently about fiction’. But I had

CREATIVE WRITING
to keep the stories inoffensive, and I couldn’t write about
comics since they ‘don’t count as literature’.
My job is to be the man on the inside. I get the scoop on
the future of the latest young adult series, or how this
year’s pop-culture-fest is looking. I look at how fan bases
react to their favourite characters being killed off, what
current sales tell us about the teen vampire trend and
who’s suddenly getting angry over a rumour about their
favourite series. And yes, during a slow week I write about
literature enthusiasts’ meetings.
At first it was easy. Hell, it was even kind of fun. Within
my columns existed a world I controlled. I wrote about
the fans, while knowing more about the business than
they did. Of course, the movie was going to be made.
Of course, publishers aren’t going to fund another book.
Of course, some major character was going to die just to
improve book sales. It’s just the way the business works.
But then I realised that nothing changed. Sure, the titles
were different and the fads came and went, but the stories
stayed the same. That’s because the people I write about
are all the same. They’re like the Sydney Passengers; they
can’t let go. My columns worked and I was good at what
I did. My readers didn’t seem to notice the cycles and
repetition, just wanting something bland and inoffensive
to digest with their morning coffee. So, like in an old
Three Stooges episode, instead of passing through the
door, I got wedged in.
As I walk, my musings of self-pity are interrupted when
I bump shoulders with a man whose presence I had barely
acknowledged, and vice-versa. ‘Oh excuse me,’ he mutters.
I prepare to drift back into my train of thought when he
interrupts me once again, ‘This is Headland Park, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. Looking at him, I can recognise another
poor fool. ‘Are you looking for the Sydney Passengers
meeting?’
‘Yes I am. Why?’
‘I was with them a couple of minutes ago; they just packed
up.’ They’re probably still there, but I’m doing him a
favour in the long term. He looks at me curiously.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you, or are you a new
member?’
I desperately want to tell the man that I’m actually an
investigative reporter following a group of international
arms smugglers posing as literary societies. It might get an
interesting reaction. Then again, I would end up with a
story too tempting not to publish, but provocative enough
to instantly get me fired.
‘Actually I’m a columnist writing about the society.’
‘Oh, how’s that working out?’
‘About as well as I pictured,’ I admit.
‘Oh, are you the one who writes the literary reviews in
The Chronicler?’
‘Well, actually I don’t review the books, I just … write
articles about them.’ Right now I feel like a lawyer whose
client just took a swing at the judge. The career that could
go nowhere but down is now taking a full-blown final
nose-dive. Meanwhile I’m talking to a man without the
respect to even acknowledge the name of my column
(Page by Page, page 42 of the Sunday Chronicler, behind
the cooking tips).
The man’s eyes suddenly and inexplicably dart from side
to side before he says, ‘I need to see if there’s anyone still
at the meeting but I have a proposal for you.’ He decides
to keep me brimming with anticipation by telling me he’ll
send me an email. Then he rushes off.
***
When Williams had finished his tale, I was stunned. I
hadn’t expected such a bizarre escapade. I left Williams
and proceeded back to the charge office, before reaching
the cells. I unlocked the iron door and pulled it open to
find the stranger sitting upon his bed in the far corner.
Williams was correct in labelling this man as dishevelled,
for everything about him suggested that he had no care
about his appearance. He was a tall man. However, he was
pale and sickly looking, as if he were on the verge of
starving. His hair and beard were short, yet scruffy and
unkempt and while he had strong cheekbones and a
curved hawk-like nose, his eyes betrayed any sense of
strength in his character. They were bloodshot, with
shrunken pupils and dark circles underneath. It seemed as
if this man had been locked away for months, instead of
mere hours, which would also explain the poor
52

BENCHMARK
The Detective and Me continued
condition of his dirty brown cloak. He squinted at me
with bloodshot eyes.
‘Who are you?’ he murmured.
‘My name is Sergeant McMurphy, and I’m here to
understand why you thought it was in your place to
meddle in the business of the New South Wales police.’
‘I pray that you’re not all as incompetent as your associate.’
As he said this I recognised his accent. ‘Are you English?’
‘Yes, I am,’ he replied, ‘but right now, that’s not important.
In fact, I’m not important. What’s important is this: I’m
the only one who can solve this little mystery of ours.’
This comment took me by surprise. So too did the next
thing he said.
‘Tell me, Sergeant McMurphy, would your associate by
any chance be a drunkard?’
‘How would you assume that?’
‘You know, sandstone truly is a funny thing, I marvel at
how widely you people seem to choose it over the
brick-and-mortar typical of England. The peculiar thing
about sandstone is its ability to trap and reflect within a
room. Sounds and smells have a unique tendency to travel
within it. The footsteps that signalled your exit from the
front office could easily be heard less than ten minutes
ago. Also, your shoes have been caked with a layer of mud
and sand. Finally, I can smell the distinctive scent of beer
and whisky that tends to linger around one after their
departure from a pub. So I know that you have recently
paid a visit to a tavern, one that is close and near the
harbour, most likely in Circular Quay, and upon hearing
your conversation with the sergeant at the front desk, it is
apparent that you embarked upon this journey after
gaining an interest in my intervention in the case of your
partner.’
I was left in awe. ‘How did you do that?’ I stammered.
‘Elementary, my dear Sergeant,’ he replied, a smile
appearing on his face.
53
***
I’ve found myself in a very odd meeting place, faced with
an equally strange proposal. We agreed to meet in the
Sydney Crime Museum, built out of the old Charge
Office. It still contains a preserved front office as well as a
series of holding cells. My waiting was timed by a small
clock mounted on the wall, and as naïve as it sounds, I
couldn’t help but wonder whether this is a clock that has
been ticking since the turn of the century.
When the man, who had earlier introduced himself as
Derrick, arrives and makes his proposition I am taken by
surprise. It was reasonably simple really. I needed
something to write about and he needed something to fill
his apparently monumental amount of free time, and so
we could easily help each other out. His proposal was that
we write a Sherlock Holmes story ourselves, or to be more
specific, I write his.
I want to tell him that the idea is absurd. I’m a journalist
(well, columnist) not a novelist! Bad enough I’ve been
sidetracked into writing about fiction, now I have to
actually write it.
‘I’m not sure about that,’ was all I actually said.
‘But you need to hear me out,’ Derrick said, ‘I’ve read
some of your articles and with all due respect, they’re just
not that good. I know how you could do better.’
‘All right how?’ I ask, angered at this little bastard’s
arrogance.
‘What you need is immersion. You can’t just be some
bored observer occasionally chiming in with questions;
you need to be part of the story.’
‘You’re asking me to defy the laws of journalism,’ I
interject with my best holier-than-thou tone. ‘I’m meant
to be the detached observer simply recording the events.’
‘But you’re not a journalist.’ As he says this I keep on
expecting some kind of a sly smile on his face, but he
offers none. Hurt, I decide to just ignore the comment.
For a few minutes we just sit there, neither of us able to
think of anything to say. ‘Well, I’m not a novelist either.’
I say, hoping my lengthened dramatic pause hasn’t
disrupted the flow of the conversation.

CREATIVE WRITING
‘You don’t need to be,’ Derrick says, perking up with the
same enthusiasm he had at the start of the meeting. His
eyes have a strange glazed look as they stare wide open at
me, like when a dog pays more attention to you than he
should. ‘I have the idea for the story already. Every plot
point, characterisation, twist and turn is mapped out,’ he
says, tapping the side of his bald head.
Christ, I probably should have said something about this
guy. He’s bald, I’ve already established that, but in a
respectable shaved way. He has a five o’clock shadow that
looks more fashionable than unkempt. Otherwise, he’s
reasonably bland looking; pale skin, casual clothing and a
reasonably cheap looking wristwatch. Not exactly the
saviour I had always dreamed would come in and rescue
my career. Unless this story will require us to infiltrate a
biker ring, or actually solve a murder, this probably won’t
end well.
‘All you need to do is take the notes I give you and turn
them into prose; that’s why I brought you here. This is
where it’ll all begin.’
‘But why would you want to do this?’
‘Simple. I think I, that is to say we, can do it better.’
‘Do what better?’
‘Sherlock Holmes.’
Now this is getting a bit interesting. Has this man been
de-programmed?
‘You do know about The Final Problem, don’t you?’
‘I suppose it was a disappointment.’
‘Disappointment? It was a disgrace. After five years, two
books and twenty-three stories, it all ends with a
showdown that we don’t even get to see.’
I feel a strange apathy. All this would have been a bit
useful back during the Passengers Meeting, but now I just
don’t care anymore.
‘But he did come back …’ In saying this, I am interrupted
by Derrick’s smirk. ‘You don’t think Doyle managed to
undo his mistake?’
‘You can’t undo the irredeemable.’
Maybe I’ll just push him a little bit. ‘So you think that
you can do better?’
‘No, I know we can do it better. We’ll make Sherlock the
kind of character he should have been. We can make him
darker, more complex; for once he won’t always land on
his feet. Arthur Conan Doyle has lost his right to write
Sherlock’s stories. Now it’s our turn.’
‘But why don’t you just write the story yourself?’ He
pauses when I ask this, trembling a little.
‘Because this could be an actual story,’ he finally replies.
‘You write so many articles about other writers. Now you
could shift the focus onto yourself. Gonzo journalism!
Where you are the story ...’
Gonzo journalism. As he mentions those words, I fear my
eyes will widen and my pupils will dilate like in some
cartoon. Maybe I was wrong to judge him. This could
revolutionise my bland and pointless column. It could
actually be a story, and I could actually be a journalist.
***
I don’t know what overcame me that day, perhaps it was
amusement, or perhaps I truly was swayed by his display
of skill and intuition. Whatever the reason, I had decided
to humour him and take him to the scene. We had no
idea where to go now. So it seemed like there was nothing
to lose.
‘It was the bells.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the one detail that your partner failed to notice.
When he interviewed the first man on the scene of the
crime, a butcher by the name of Will Harris, it was
revealed that the bells had rung for five minutes that
morning. However, your partner chose to ignore this
detail. If he was struck by lightning as you two seem to
believe, why on earth would the bells ring for five
minutes? The lightning might have caused a seizure but
that wouldn’t have caused him to continue ringing the
bell for another five minutes then take a step backwards
off the steeple.’
‘So what do you propose?’
54

BENCHMARK
The Detective and Me continued
‘Well, for one thing, the nose is broken,’ the man gestured
to the body where, sure enough, his nose was misshapen
and of a dark blue pallor. ‘Now why would his nose by
broken if he landed on his back?’
‘Perhaps the bell hit him in the face after he was struck
by lightning.’
‘Perhaps, but what about his perspiration?’ As he said this
I looked and could see a cluster of water droplets on the
priest’s face. ‘Now if this was a death that occurred in an
instant, why was he sweating like that? The fact that
droplets remain on his face, after a fall and the pathetic
manhandling that idiot gave him; shows that he must
have been sweating tremendously. Granted that might
have been caused by the seizure, but then we have
seemingly three different causes of death that just so
happened to occur simultaneously and none of which
explain the ringing bells.’
As I looked at the man, I realised that he had a strange
way of responding to the excitement of the case. He was
trembling, to the point of his shakes becoming violent.
Indeed, it seemed he could not keep a single muscle still.
The man walked to the body, turned it to its side, bent
down and inspected the burns. He reached into his dirty
coat and brought out a smudged magnifying glass. He
then breathed on it and wiped it on his coat before
bringing it to the burns.’
As he inspected the body, his shakes became more and
more violent.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
He paused, and stood up, his skinny legs wobbling as if
they would not support the weight of his body.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I have a solution for this.’
At this, he pulled off his shoe and ripped out the sole.
Embedded within the sole was a syringe. I then realised
that this was indeed, not only a man of great skills, but
also of tremendous weakness.
***
It was weird, writing someone else’s story for them.
Derrick sent me the story chunk by chunk, but I could see
55
it all from the beginning. It’s the basic story of
redemption; the seemingly unstoppable protagonist fallen
from grace, now in need of those he once scorned to help
him rise back up. We start out with a middle finger to
Arthur Conan Doyle. Holmes survived and rather than
having all those weird and convoluted escapades in India,
he goes into hiding in Australia. This seems like the
perfect place to lie low, but then Holmes falls off the
wagon a bit. A year has passed and now he’s suffered a
complete remission to his drug addiction. Derrick’s plan
merely said, ‘Holmes is introduced in a dishevelled state,
stumbles into crime scene’. When I wrote this part I
remembered all those Sydney Passengers and wanted to
create an incarnation not even they could love; an insane
drug-addict rudely intruding on police business. All the
dark thoughts I felt towards all my damned readers began
to flow through my fingertips. I wanted Sherlock to fall
further into the abyss, commit acts that go beyond moral
greyness, past the point where the reader could still define
him as a hero. Derrick decided to give me the notes piece
by piece, and so I still don’t know where this story is
headed but I know that he wants some neat wrap-up to
the story. The bad guy goes to jail, our hero gets better, he
goes back to England and everyone lives happily ever after.
But perhaps I can guide this story myself. I think, one way
or another, Holmes’ will not leave Australia with a clear
conscience.
I didn’t want him in my house, and I could only imagine
the kind of home Derrick lived in. So we agreed to meet
in a small café, mostly empty café. Sitting here and
waiting for him, I’m genuinely excited. This story’s
actually getting interesting. ‘Ambitious Columnist
Destroys Beloved Public Domain Character’: great
headline. Then again, the actual Holmes story itself could
get some attention. Rather than their usual garbage,
readers could get a taste of my ‘Counter-Literature’. This
could be the beginning of a new stage of my career: fiction
and journalism simultaneously. The destructive, selfreflective
journalist with a bone to pick with public
domain fiction. No character is safe!
When Derrick finally shows up, he doesn’t seem to share
my enthusiasm. In fact he looks slightly nervous.

CREATIVE WRITING
‘Did you get my email?’ I ask him, to which he nods.
‘So you read the first few parts of the story?’
He nods again, pausing and thinking about what to say.
‘It’s … not exactly what I thought it would be.’
‘Well, of course it’s not, I wrote it after all.’
‘Yeah, I guess you did,’ he says, glancing around nervously.
Sensing something wrong, I ask the question, ‘Did you
like it?’
He stares at me. ‘Well, like I said, it’s not what I was
expecting.’ He then leans over the table and whispers to
me, ‘You made him a drug addict.’
‘No I didn’t. He was already an addict,’ I say, ignoring his
strange desire for secrecy. Derrick looks at me confused.
‘He wasn’t an addict. He took cocaine but he wasn’t an
addict.’
‘But you said in your own notes.’ At this I actually took
them out, ‘Holmes enters scene, trying to recover from his
bout with drug addiction and sees the case as potential for
redemption.’
‘Yes, and when I wrote that, I meant that he was actually
recovering from the addiction. He was meant to enter as a
man who had overcome his demons and was ready for his
old adventures.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing; this man has no idea
what he wants. He said he wanted Sherlock Holmes to
be darker and more complex. Yet now he’s appalled by
my sacrilege.
He wants the harm to be heard of but not actually seen.
Doesn’t he know that you’re supposed to ‘show not tell’
when writing?
‘But you said it yourself; you didn’t want him to land on
his feet.’
‘Yes, but you had him land flat on his face. Look, I’ve
thought about and I know what you can do. I’ve picked
some of the original stories where Sherlock actually takes
cocaine. If you actually start reading some of the stories
you’ll have an idea of how he deals with the drug.’
‘Research? But doesn’t that defeat the purpose of …’ I’m
suddenly left speechless as I realise why he wanted me to
write this story.
‘Do you just want another Arthur Conan Doyle story?’
I ask. He looks at me with shock.
‘No, of course not. That’s why we we’re doing this whole
project, because we want to write a story that’s better than
anything he could’ve done.’
‘That’s not what I mean. Did you want this story to be one
of the real ones?’ It all makes sense. He wants a story that
meets his specifications. But if he writes it, he would know
it isn’t real. I’ve just been the scribe for a weird fanatic.
‘You’ve wanted this story for a while haven’t you? A new
Sherlock mystery which followed all your personal
prerequisites. But if you actually wrote it, all the joy and
mystery would be gone.’ Derrick is speechless; I can see
him start to shake, attracting the attention of a few
couples in the café. ‘So you were prepared to lie to
yourself. So what if you might have inspired the story’s
creation? Even better. Then it would be a testament to the
one man who actually understands Sherlock Holmes.’
And he almost got away with it too.
Derrick leans back into his chair, closing his eyes then
glaring at me. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ he finally asks
me, leaning in. ‘Let me tell you something. On 221 Baker
Street there used to be a bank, and in that bank there was
a man whose sole job was to reply to all the letters that
they received addressed to the building’s previous
occupant; you-know-who. So why did they go to all that
effort? Hiring someone just to humour the poor saps who
refused to accept what wasn’t real?’ Derrick leans closer
and smiles. His focus is making me uncomfortable.
‘Because, there was something beautiful about it. Those
people who wrote the letters knew they were just sending
them to a bank, but playing along was something too easy
to get swept up in.’
I take on his glare; leaning in and looking him in the eyes.
‘But then why do it? Why all the clubs? Why all the fan
fiction? Why all the dedication to a lie?’
‘Because it’s a lie we can believe in. Why do you have such
a problem with that?’
56

BENCHMARK
The Detective and Me continued
I can’t believe I let this man use me for his sick, sad
delusion. ‘Because I’m sick of humouring you people. If
you believe in the illusion and are so desperate to preserve
it, that’s fine. But I’m not going to write just to satisfy
your kind. To hell with your delusions. I want you to
realise that you’re not the only one with ulterior motives.’
Now Derrick looks scared. I have no idea why. I’m acting
perfectly reasonable. He’s the obsessive one.
‘You can’t write without me. I haven’t even given you the
rest of the plot.’
‘Just because I don’t know where you want the story to go,
doesn’t mean I can’t do something interesting with it.’
‘So, what are your motives?’
Why should I reveal everything to him? If he’s allowed
to keep secrets, so am I. ‘To create the story I’ve wanted
to read for a while, maybe the kind that you’ve always
dreaded.’
I get up and walk away with that mischievous grin on
my face.
‘But you can’t do that,’ Derrick shouts from the table,
his voice echoing throughout the nearly empty café.
‘It’s my story!’
‘I don’t see your name on it,’ I reply, before taking
my leave.
***
I had received a wire from Holmes demanding my
presence. So I made my way to the provided address with
utmost haste. The address was a hovel on the edge of the
Sydney Naval Yards. I opened the door and was instantly
confronted with a rank odour. Inside the barely lit room I
could see Holmes lying on the floor next to a man sitting
on a chair. As I approached the duo I arrived at three
conclusions. First: Holmes was enslaved to his substance
addiction, made apparent by the needle, which I presume
was originally filled with stolen cocaine, lying on the floor
next to him. Second: the man on the chair was also
restrained by rope. Third: the man had been shot in the
head. The sight didn’t horrify me. However, I decided to
leave the room before I became nauseous. As I started to
57
make my way out, Holmes lifted himself off the floor.
‘What happened?’ asked he, with slightly slurred speech.
‘I think I should be asking you that.’
‘Oh!’ said he, finally recognising me, ‘This man is a
suspect in the case. I believe that the priest was murdered
because of his involvement in a drug smuggling syndicate,
The White Tigers. You see, the members all carry the
same tattoo of their namesake. In my investigations I
came across this.’ Saying this he pointed to the man’s
ankle, which did indeed depict a fierce white tiger on the
verge of attack. ‘So I brought him here for interrogation.’
‘Then why is he dead?’
‘I decided to use fear as the tool for interrogation. The
trick is simple; have him believe I mean only to kill him,
bring an empty gun to his head and fire. Then, pretend
that the gun accidentally misfired and proceed to
interrogate the suspect. In his state of terror and
adrenaline he’ll be willing to divulge anything.’
Already I could see why his plan had gone awry; the gun
was loaded.
‘Did you get anything out of him?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you doing this?’
***
Why am I doing this?
It’s stopped being fun. The more I write, the more I feel
like a parody of myself. The story’s dissolved into a series
of pointless incidents obstructing the actual plot as
Holmes tries to solve this mystery. I’m the worst kind
of writer; the kind with a short attention span. Did I
mention that I decided to keep him as a drug addict?
He’s also now borderline insane. After the meeting with
Derrick, I felt like going further and further with the
story. This story was originally being written out of spite
towards Arthur Conan Doyle. Now it’s being written out
of spite towards someone who’s actually alive. Well,
actually it’s being written out of spite towards a general
kind of person alive. The mystery itself isn’t going
anywhere. Holmes ends up killing one of the witnesses

CREATIVE WRITING
who fled the crime scene. So they’re back to square one.
I still haven’t heard any word back from Derrick. I keep
sending him segments from my story, a constant journal
of my destruction. But I think Holmes has won. I can’t
write a story that destroys the character, I can only write
one that reflects badly on myself. Bad writer, bad story.
Then one day an epiphany strikes. I check my email
hoping to see an anguished reply from Derrick, possibly
even a plea for me to stop my torture. All the while, I
avoid the messages from my editor. By the time I finish
this story, I’ll have lost my column. It will be missed.
Then I stumble upon an email from my old friends, the
Sydney Passengers. Maybe they caught wind of my little
act of sabotage and tried to stop me. However, the email
isn’t directed to me personally. It’s a newsletter for all the
members, which they must have sent me for the article I
should still be writing.
How nice of them.
The newsletter mainly just gives some reviews for new
Sherlock pastiches and essays, as well as a few articles on
Arthur Conan Doyle by the Passengers themselves. But
something catches my eye; a little box on the last page
listing notable anniversaries. The last date catches my
attention. Twenty-one years ago to this day the Sydney
Passengers had their only claim to fame. According to the
section, they protested against the 1989 film Without a
Clue, for the inexcusable crime of portraying Holmes as a
bumbling idiot. My initial reaction is excitement. I can
improve my assault on their beloved character by learning
from those that have done it well. One more nail for their
coffin. I instantly send an email to one of the members,
practically demanding information about the protest.
Their response doesn’t exactly meet my hopes. While the
group did indeed picket outside the theatre, there was no
malice behind this act. They were actually trying to
parody the protests against The Last Temptation of
Christ, which had occurred that same year. As Bill writes
‘It was all pretty tongue in cheek’.
It takes me a while to comprehend this revelation. These
people actually have a sense of humour, about both
themselves and the man they revere. This makes no sense.
They can somehow take their passion and make a public
display out of it for pure fun. That means they know it’s
all just fiction. There’s no illusion present.
So why does Derrick take it to a degree of humourless
obsession? Then a new revelation burns in my mind,
leaving me incapable of action.
Why do I take it even further?
Suddenly an email pops up, from Derrick. ‘Meet me at
Reichenbach, midnight’ it says. He’s referring to the Gap,
where Sherlock was due for his showdown with the
murderer. I feel uneasy. I have an idea of what this lunatic
is planning. Maybe I should just ignore him, or maybe I
should call the police. But when I look at it, this is my
fault. Whatever toxic obsession Derrick has, I’ve only
made it worse. The standard code of practice for a
journalist is objective detachment from a story. Simply
report on the event, and then let it play its course. But I
have a personal responsibility to Derrick, as a columnist.
***
He knew that confrontation was the only option, he had
been called out to the hazardous cliffs, and now a
showdown awaited Sherlock Holmes.
***
It’s a bright night when I arrive at the cliffs. The stars and
moon illuminate the deserted cliff and surrounding park.
A little to my left stands the lighthouse. Illuminated by
ground lights, it stands as an orange obelisk casting light
out onto the ocean. As I walk, the dark outline of a man
in a deerstalker hat is visible. The light glow from his pipe
illuminates his face. He is standing on the opposite side of
the safety fence that separates the park from the cliffs.
I walk up to the fence and lean on it. ‘You know, he never
actually wore the hat,’ I say. He continues to stare off into
the grey ocean below us, as I climb over the fence.
Derrick takes the pipe out of his mouth. ‘I think it looks
better this way.’
I’m still tightly gripping the fence; only a few metres lie
between its safety and a long fall. ‘Derrick, I’m done with
the story.’ He stands at the very edge and still refuses to
turn around. He wants me to come closer. I let go
58

BENCHMARK
The Detective and Me continued
of the fence and take slow, careful steps towards the man.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You’re an angry bitter man, and you wrote an
angry bitter story,’ he says, before pausing. ‘I always
wondered about Moriarty, the nemesis who only stepped in
to end the detective’s life. Some of the Passengers think that
he was just a cocaine-induced hallucination, others call him
lazy writing on Doyle’s behalf. I think he was necessary.’
‘Necessary? I thought you hated the death of Holmes.’
‘Indeed I do. But Holmes needed a nemesis, someone who
could truly pose a challenge, if only so that Holmes could
stand victorious as the great detective that he is. Moriarty
should have been the beginning, not the end. Maybe he
still could be.’
I had feared as much. Obsession has breached into
delusion. ‘Are you the detective?’ I ask.
‘No, I’m not. But what’s stopping me? A boring job? A
monotonous daily routine? A series of unfulfilled dreams?
There always comes a time when we accept that whatever
plans we had for the future won’t come into fruition. We
won’t be rock stars, or politicians or astronauts.’
‘Or detectives,’ I add.
‘We won’t become famous and we definitely won’t change
the world. We’ll just wind up another boring face in the
crowd. We’ll be ordinary.’ Derrick finally turns around
and stares at me with a terrifying passion in his eyes. The
face I originally thought bland now holds terrifying
determination. ‘So we write stories. We put our dreams on
paper in the hope that somehow they’ll become real. If
there’s someone who actually has managed to reach the
fruition of our dreams, we latch onto them. But that’s not
real enough.’
‘So that’s why we’re here. You want to pick up where he
left off.’
‘Imagine it like method acting,’ he says, as he starts to
approach me. ‘I’ll be Sherlock, and you’ll be my nemesis.’
‘For the love of God, just stop this,’ I shout. ‘You can’t live
your life believing in fiction.’
‘Then why do you?’ he asks.
59
Before I can take a moment to contemplate the insult,
Derrick drops the pipe and runs towards me.
***
I watched, as Holmes and the killer stood on the cliff’s
edge as thunder crackled around them.
‘How did you know?’ the killer asked.
‘Simple,’ replied Holmes. ‘When I inspected the priest’s
broken nose I realised that the blood around it didn’t
belong to a human but rather a cow. It had been left on
your boot when you kicked the priest while he was down,
breaking his nose. And who else, other than a butcher,
would have encountered cow blood recently enough for it
to be left on his shoe? The same butcher who had
originally reported the murder, so as to scare the future
victims.’ I found myself in awe of his conclusion. It all
made sense and made me feel shame for doubting him.
‘You knew, and yet you waited for a week to catch me?’
The detective smiled, ‘I had to confirm my hypothesis.
My run-in with your associate confirmed the conspiracy.
He pulled out a note stained with cow’s blood. You really
ought to wash after you work,’ said he.
The butcher took some steps towards him, and Holmes
realised his mistake. This man had a knife, and Holmes
had come unprepared. He only had one option. As the
butcher approached, a bright light suddenly shone upon
him from the lighthouse, blinding him for a second. This
second was all that was needed. The butcher made a
misstep and lost his footing. In an instant he slipped and
fell off the cliff. A crack was then heard, that was not
thunder. The man’s fall had been broken by a low-lying
rock. So too had his spine. I couldn’t believe it. Holmes
had done it. He had solved the case!
***
So now we’ve reached the end of this strange story; well,
both of them. Sherlock Holmes returned to England and,
after a brief (four-page) reconciliation with Watson to
account for the three years of absence, continued his
adventures.
Then of course, there’s the matter of Derrick.

CREATIVE WRITING
When Charles Dickens wrote his Great Expectations, it
originally ended with heartbreak and loneliness for Pip,
the protagonist. Dickens then gave the story an alternate,
and happier, ending. This ending became more popular
and even Dickens would admit that he thought Pip
deserved the happier ending. However, both endings exist
and in the end, who’s to say which one’s real? They are
both fictional, after all.
I decided this time, to take a page out of Dickens’ book.
Derrick died in hospital that night; I decided not to go to
his funeral. Or maybe he pulled through and is currently
recovering, and hopefully rethinking his life’s direction.
In the end, it doesn’t really matter. This story, just like the
death of Superman, and the happiness of Pip, and the
death and resurrection of Sherlock Holmes, is just a
collection of words on a page. That’s all you’ll ever find,
and there’s no point in hoping for more. That’s the one
lesson I’ve learnt from this insane experience. I’m done
with writing fiction and I’m done with believing in it.
Whatever you decide to take away from my strange
exploits, I’ll still be here, writing every week. You can find
me on page 42, tucked behind the cooking tips.
Charlie Martin
Year 12 English Extension 2 Major Work
60

BENCHMARK
61

LITERARY AND CULTURAL CRITICISM
The Real Inspector Hound Essay
Crime writing, perhaps more than works of any other
genre, is famous for the degree to which it obeys generic
conventions and formulae. This makes it a particularly ripe
target for subversion and parody, and Tom Stoppard’s play
The Real Inspector Hound is a prime example of this. It is
heavily based on The Mousetrap, a play written by the most
famous of all the Golden Age writers, Agatha Christie, and
has echoes of Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles,
one of the most famous crime texts of all time. Its unique
blend of parody, absurdism and existentialism is a clearly
identifiable product of the tumultuous time in which it was
created, and it represents both a break from and evolution
of the conventions of the crime genre, combining a parody
of the traditional elements of the genre with commentary
on contemporary issues.
In order to understand how The Real Inspector Hound
subverted the crime genre, it is first necessary to
understand the state of crime fiction, and society in
general, at the time. When this play was written in 1968
there were two established branches of crime writing;
Golden Age writing, based in Britain and hard-boiled,
based in USA. Other styles, such as spy fiction, were just
being developed. Since this is a British play, however, it is
Golden Age and, to a lesser extent, classic crime writing
that is relevant. Golden Age crime writing was and is
known for its highly formulaic style, specifically its
stereotypical, almost cartoonish characters, its closed
setting and its extremely contrived plots that hinge on a
string of coincidences. Above all, it is connected with
escapism and the British gentry. These features are
themselves derived from classic crime fiction, which is less
escapist and isolated but features even more convoluted
plots. The writers of these styles, particularly Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie and Dorothy L Sayers
(who is herself mentioned in the play alongside the likes of
Shakespeare and Dante) were towering figures in British
crime fiction, and most crime fiction stuck to the
guidelines these writers had laid down as closely as
possible.
This was, nevertheless, a time of political upheaval in the
western world, particularly in Britain. Establishment
values were being undermined both by mass movements
and by intellectuals. Various movements were developing
amongst the young, whilst postmodernism and associated
schools of thought were becoming increasingly influential
in artistic and literary circles. Government control of the
arts, either direct or indirect, was being reduced; in
Britain for example the Lord Chamberlain’s office lost the
power of censorship over theatre in the same year that The
Real Inspector Hound was published. This issue of change
was particularly acute in Britain which, unlike Australia
or the US which were enjoying great booms, was in the
midst of a prolonged period of decline. In particular the
loss of the empire made the traditional upper classes seem
to be irrelevant anachronisms, whilst the arrival of large
numbers of non-white migrants was beginning to change
the social dynamic. The result of these changes was that
the sort of people who played leading roles in earlier crime
writing particularly the Golden Age, and the world in
which they existed now seemed out-of-date. Between the
wars the readership had known that such people did exist,
and thus the stories were loosely connected to reality but
by the 1960s texts about such people seemed to be
complete fantasies, historical texts or comedies.
It is into this last category that The Real Inspector Hound
loosely fits. Its central premise, that of the audience
becoming involved in the crime story itself, is a
challenging and innovative idea that nevertheless is
perhaps more suited to crime fiction, which always relied
on audience involvement to some extent, in that they had
to try and solve the crime, than other genres. By
establishing not one but two realities which are clearly
fantastical, Stoppard mocks the pretension of realism that
is contained within so much of the preceding fiction of
the genre; whereas Doyle has Holmes develop ridiculously
complicated ‘logical’ solutions to bizarre crimes, Stoppard
has a nonsensical solution to a nonsensical crime.
Stoppard heightens this sense of unreality, and thus the
subversion of the norms of crime fiction, by exaggerating
the silliness of both the play within the play and the
critics, for example Moon and Birdboot’s detailed
discussion of chocolate and Mrs Drudge’s speaking style,
which sometimes seems to mimic stage directions: ‘Hello,
the drawing room of Lady Muldoon’s country residence
one morning in early spring?’
62

BENCHMARK
The Real Inspector Hound Essay continued
Such characters, together with the plot of the play, give it
a strongly absurdist element. Absurdism was a movement
that had developed during the previous 60 or so years,
including movements such as Dadaism. Its incorporation
into a work of crime fiction represents a substantial
challenge to the conventions of the genre, which is
supposedly based upon fact. By mixing these two,
Stoppard shows how improbable many of the contrivances
included in the average crime story actually are. Examples
in this play include the amount of time it takes for the
body to be discovered and ‘the strangely inaccessible
house’ in which the action occurs. Of course the most
absurdist aspect of the whole play is the reversal of roles
between critic and actor, which itself causes the viewer to
question some of the fundamental assumptions of crime
genre, such as how the audience is supposed to solve the
crime using only the invariably inadequate information
that the author chooses to provide, or, indeed, why the
audience should care.
For all this subversion of the crime genre, this play also
represents an evolution of the genre. For one thing, the
idea of humour is more or less foreign to earlier crime
texts, and yet it abounds on many levels in this text, from
a parody of pretentious critics to double entendres:
Cynthia: Did I hear you say you saw Felicity last night,
Simon?
Simon: Did I? – Ah yes, yes quite – your turn, Felicity.
Felicity: I’ve had my turn, haven’t I, Simon? – now, it
seems, it’s Cynthia’s turn.
The influence that this humour has had can be seen in
recent adaptations of pre-Stoppard texts, which introduce
humour through banter between the detective and his
offsider or something similar. In addition, the characters
in many modern crime texts are no longer simply
stereotypes, as they were in the Golden Age and classic
crime fiction, but are rather parodies of stereotypes, so
stereotypical that they are humorous. The Real Inspector
Hound is full of such characters, and was one of the first
crime texts to be so. Far more important, however, is the
idea of embedding social or political criticism within a
crime text. This is something which was studiously
63
avoided by earlier texts which were mostly just escapist
fantasies, particularly the Golden Age work. In this play
however, critics are portrayed in a very harsh light – they
have affairs with actresses, review each other’s reviews and
so on – and some of the elements of contemporary
intellectual thought such as existentialism are somewhat
tainted by their association with the critics, and in
particular their arrogance and verbosity, especially in
Moon’s rants about his relationship with Higgs and
Puckeridge. The importance of this idea of commentary
from within the text is evident today, when even those
texts which are fairly close to being direct descendents of
the Golden Age, such as Midsommer Murders, seem
compelled to offer comment on contemporary issues.
Thus, through texts like this play, the crime fiction genre
went from being apolitical to political.
The Real Inspector Hound is far removed from the typical
crime text, and is remarkable for the way that by
subverting the crime fiction genre it manages to
simultaneously parody and evolve that genre. Through its
inclusion of ridiculously stereotypical characters and a
nonsensical plot, elements reflective of the dynamic time
in which it was created, it parodies the strict and intricate
conventions of earlier crime writing, particularly that of
the Golden Age, and yet at the same time some of its
innovations, such as the introduction of humour and
comment on contemporary issues – in this case the
pretension and egotism of critics and intellectuals in
general – are hallmarks of much modern crime writing.
Thus a subversion of the crime genre actually contributed
to its evolution.
Peter Richardson
Year 12

LITERARY AND CULTURAL CRITICISM
An excerpt from
Critical Analysis of Sufjan
Stevens’ Illinois
In 2005, prolific American musician, lyricist and poet
Sufjan Stevens produced a successful and significant
album entitled Illinois. In terms of concept, lyrical ability
and musicology, Stevens excels, and Illinois is considered
the greatest of all ten of his albums. As a concept album,
every song is unified by, and relates to, the state of Illinois.
The success of the album is testament to his versatility as a
musician and poet. In fact, he wrote and provided lead
vocals for every song, played 24 of the instruments heard,
and even produced the album. However, his evocative,
dense and allusive lyrics more than match the aural
aspects of the album and give it its literary significance.
The album’s great popularity is reflected in the fan
phenomenon that its release sparked. Music videos of
outstanding quality were produced by people unassociated
with Stevens and these complemented a controversial,
cheeky album cover. Illinois illustrates how a musician can
be heavily influenced and affected by historical context.
Stevens pulls an array of events into his web of
storytelling. A number of personal and historical tales are
told, including that of the complicated death of a lover,
that of a notorious serial killer and those of long-forgotten
ghost towns. In some pieces, Stevens adopts a melancholic,
reflective tone, whilst in others an ecstatic nostalgia is
expressed through joyful vocals. Stevens feels a
connection to the state of Illinois, for both the pleasant
and the unsavoury aspects; its great beauty and glory, but
also the murders and tragic deaths. The album is a
celebration, and an act of expiation. It is also an exposé of
the dark side of human experience.
Music critic Jimmy Newlin described the record as:
‘Practically overwhelming, Illinois’ 22 tracks make for a
forager’s dream come true, whether rediscovering the
quiet folk confessional ‘Casimir Pulaski Day’ or getting
lost in the bombast of ‘Chicago’ or ‘The Man of
Metropolis steals our Hearts’. Fun as hell and damned
difficult, Illinois is like a gigantic anthology of short
stories you’ll never finish but leaf through year after year.’ 1
1 Jimmy Newlin, Best of the Aughts Albums, last modified February 1, 2010
http://www.slantmagazine.com/music/feature/best-of-the-aughts-albums
Mr Newlin’s perceptive views are supported by numerous
other renowned musical critics, radio stations and
magazines. In 2005, Illinois was National Public Radio’s
‘Best Album of 2005’. This critical response will argue that
Stevens is a major poetic lyricist, musician and chronicler
of his times, and will emphasise the literary and cultural
significance of the artist.
***
‘Casimir Pulaski Day’ is a sad, quietly furious song that
tells of the late winter death of Stevens’ previous girlfriend.
The song offers multiple viewpoints on love, loss and
religion that are sometimes conflicting, and sometimes
complementary. Although Stevens chooses to omit the
topic of religion from his interviews, he is Christian. It
can be assumed therefore that he follows a God and a
bible, both of which are referenced in several songs on
Illinois including ‘Casimir Pulaski Day’. In a gutwrenching
exclamation, Stevens questions God’s actions
and existence at the death of his lover. Ultimately he
allows aspects of his personal history to shape his creative
lyrical process. However, Stevens insists he is not affected
by ‘place,’ but rather by the events that occur in that place.
He confirms this idea in an interview after his Detroit
show. 2 He states, ‘I live in Detroit, but I don’t have a
‘Detroit’ sound.’ This song is very personal, and is shown
through the subjective nature of his poetry. However, the
themes of heartbreak, loneliness and betrayal, portrayed
through subtle and shifting perspectives, are universal.
Perhaps this universality accounts for the huge popularity
of the song, and the album as a whole.
‘Casimir Pulaski Day’ perfectly captures the way Stevens
can flaunt his lyrical proficiency in such an intimate song,
and still manage to allow it to be accessible to others.
Stevens wastes no time setting the sombre mood of the
piece as he sings the first lyrics in a low mournful tone …
‘Golden rod and the 4-H stone, the things I brought you
when I found out you had cancer of the bone.’ Although
Stevens’ tone then appears to shift to a quiet joy, as the
song progresses a pained cynicism begins to emerge.
2 TheBoss2332, Sufjan Stevens – Interview, 2007,
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKctxZ68y0w
64

BENCHMARK
An excerpt from
Critical Analysis of Sufjan Stevens’ Illinois continued
The simple vocals serve to amplify the aching sense of
deep mourning for a lost one. This insistent sense of loss
is not all that Stevens attempts to convey to listeners: a
paradoxical sense of nostalgia is also created. Stevens
clearly yearns for the past while simultaneously being
deeply pained by its association with his lover’s death.
Stevens creates warm memories that remind him of the
life he used to share with this woman. But the listener
cannot help but feel there are two sides to this nostalgia …
‘In the morning, at the top of the stairs, when your father
found out what we did that night.’ A joyful sense of
innocent mischief is followed by the bitter aftertaste that
comes with the insistent idea of her death. This ability to
evoke a dichotomy of conflicting emotions is typical of
Stevens. As Amanda Petrusich, a senior writer for
Pitchfork Magazine states, ‘Stevens has a remarkable habit
of being rousing and distressing at the same time,
prodding disparate emotional centres until it’s unclear
whether it’s best to grab your party shoes or a box of
tissues.’ 3
A consistent theme that crops up in ‘Casimir Pulaski Day’
is the unreliable nature of God’s protection. At first,
Stevens appears to have great confidence in the
unconditional protection that God offers his followers.
The biblical diction of the opening chorus expresses
Stevens’ faith in God, despite his knowledge of his
partner’s fatal condition: ‘Oh the glory, that the lord has
made.’ Stevens goes on, ‘Tuesday night at the bible study,
we lift our hands, and pray over your body but nothing
ever happens.’ The contrast in diction between this
laconic phrase and the previous chorus expresses Stevens’
sense of frustration towards God. Stevens regains his
composure and clings to the comforting nostalgia of old
memories. He sings, ‘I remember at Michael’s house, in
the living room where you kissed my neck, and I almost
touched your blouse.’ This anecdotal phrase is so strongly
subjective it almost forces the listener to sympathise with
3 Amanda Petrusich, Sufjan Stevens – Illinois (July 4, 2005) Pitchfork Media
65
Stevens’ attempt at escaping God and religion, and fleeing
to the darkest, cosiest part of his mind where he can bask
in the happiness of the past.
Maintaining his structure of emotional alternation in the
song, Stevens pushes on into the next chorus: ‘In the
morning when you finally go, and the nurse runs in with
her head hung low, and the cardinal hits the window.’
Any listener who has experienced the death of a friend
will instantly be able to empathise with Stevens. Stevens
dramatises a shift from belief in God to a sense of
unguided liberty. Additionally, the euphemistic phrase
‘when you finally go’ paradoxically underlines the
significance of the death. By attempting to make the
death sound softer, in light of the memories Stevens has
imparted to the audience, it feels as though her passing
requires a larger surge of emotion. The audience has now
become attached to this woman, and to have her suddenly
‘go’ perhaps makes the listener also feel a sense of
heartache. Finally, the image of the cardinal bird hitting
‘the window,’ portrays a sense of shocked, static stillness.
The Cardinal is also the state bird of Illinois, and in it
‘hitting the window,’ it could represent the personally
tragic side of Illinois that this song conveys. It is the ability
to pull the audience into his songs, and convey a brutal
pair of opposing perspectives that shows Stevens lyrical
genius in ‘Casimir Pulaski Day.’ It is no wonder that
it led to great success and popularity for the song and
the album.
Aidan de Lorenzo
Year 12 English Extension 2 Major Work

LITERARY AND CULTURAL CRITICISM
Sir Philip Sidney … and other
heroes of that kidney
A discussion of the conflict between English and Continental
influences in the work of a forgotten hero of English verse
We take it entirely for granted that the greatest love poetry
was written by a bunch of men in tights, from a soggy
island during the reign of a Virgin Queen. For ten years
at the end of Elizabeth I’s reign the sonnet enjoyed a
remarkable ascendancy. Thousands of poems were written
in a great literary boom that began with the publication of
the first sonnet sequence in English, Sir Philip Sidney’s
Astrophil and Stella, that returned English language to the
top flight of European poetry. Often, the way in which an
Italian invention became the mouthpiece of English genius
goes unconsidered. This critical response explores the idea
that the English sonnet became, not just a vehicle for the
expression of love but also of national identity. While
appreciating European culture and literature Sidney
desired to celebrate Englishness, and the English language.
This division was resolved in Astrophil and Stella by the use
of European forms, techniques and ideas in English, for
the distinct purpose of honouring English.
Remarkably this English literary renaissance was preceded
by an era in which very little great writing was produced.
Indeed Muir wrote of English poetry, in his biography of
Sidney 1 that ‘In spite of Wyatt, Surrey and Skelton in the
first half of the century, there was a barren period between
the death of Henry VIII and the accession of Elizabeth I.
Indeed … little memorable verse was written during the
first twenty years of Elizabeth’s reign’. Of course English
had great poets in its past, notably Chaucer but by the end
of the 1500s his language could no longer be read naturally
by English speakers. 2 English verse was at a crossroads.
In stark contrast, on the Continent there was no paucity
of great poetry. Not only were there the great classical
poets, Homer and Virgil, the 13th and 14th century
Italians, Dante and Petrarch, but also exciting new French
sonneteers, known as La Pléiade, the principal members of
1 Muir, Kenneth. Sir Philip Sidney. [London]: Published for the British Council
by Longmans, Green, 1960, p. 25
2 Bragg, Melvyn. The Adventure of English: 500AD to 2000: The Biography of a
Language. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 2003, p. 131
which were Pierre de Ronsard, Joachim du Bellay and
Jean-Antoine de Baïf. 3
No English poet in 1580 would have failed to notice
the divergence in quality of verse in French and English.
It would be impossible to explain all the causes of this
subsequent literary boom in a critical response. However,
around 1580, a new self-confidence emerged in English
poets as they overcame a strong sense of cultural cringe 4
that had developed among writers of English, with the
language viewed as mercantile and inferior to the
Continental languages. Instead they believed that the
English language could be as impressive as the English
nation. 5 Divided from Europe by religion, England was
nonetheless relatively peaceful, prosperous and free. Many
poets wished to celebrate Englishness, to produce great
works in English for the purpose of honouring the
language. The English language itself was a topic for
academic discussion. The English were self-conscious
about their language, which, combined with the national
pride of the 1580s resulted in the desire to enrich English
with remarkable literature.
Sidney embodied the conflict between English national
pride and European cultural influence that found
expression in the sonnet. He was raised at one of England’s
grandest houses, Penshurst Place, Kent, and his family
were aristocratic and at the very heart of the English Court
and government. 6 Sidney was also stridently Protestant,
as a result of his upbringing and his witnessing of the St
Bartholomew’s Day Massacres in Paris 7. Indeed Sidney
died in the Netherlands, at the Battle of Zutphen fighting
the Spanish in the English campaign to assist Dutch
Protestant independence. As Sidney lay dying from a shot
in the thigh, it is said, probably apocryphally, that he
3 Lagarde, André, and Laurent Michard. XVIe Siècle: Les Grands Auteurs
Français Du Programme. Paris: Bordas, 1965. Print. Translated with assistance
from P. Hipwell and R. Brennan
4 A term first used in Philips, A. A. ‘The Cultural Cringe.’ Meanjin vol. 4 (1950)
5 Bateson, F.W. English Poetry and the English Language. Clarendon Press, Oxford,
1934, p. 31
6 Fox Bourne, H.R. Sir Philip Sidney: Type of English Chivalry in the Elizabethan
Age. London: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1891, p.15
7 Boas, Frederick. Sir Philip Sidney, Representative Elizabethan: His Life and
Writings. London: Russell & Russell, 1970, p. 23
66

BENCHMARK
Sir Philip Sidney … and other heroes of that kidney continued
gave his water to another wounded soldier, with the words
‘Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.’ 8 This story typifies
the mythologizing that occurred after his death. Sidney
became, in death, the very model of an English gentleman,
courtier, and soldier. Spenser wrote a great elegy ‘Astrophel.
A Pastorall Elegie upon the death of the most Noble and
valorous Knight, Sir Philip Sidney,’ while Yeats referred
to ‘our Sidney, and our perfect man’. 9
Sidney was not just an English patriot and militant
Protestant, he was a true Renaissance Man: An Englishman
who travelled in Europe, and returned not a Europhile but
nonetheless a connoisseur of Continental poetry and
philosophy. 10 His deep understanding of foreign poetry
emerged in Astrophil and Stella. In his journeys as a
diplomat and courtier he travelled extensively in Europe.
Sidney visited modern France, Germany, Austria,
Hungary, Poland, and Italy. He was named after Philip II
of Spain, who was his godfather. And in Venice had his
portrait painted by Veronese. He met intellectuals and
rulers, both Protestant, Hubert Languet and William of
Orange, and Catholic, Edmund Campion and Don John
of Austria. He spoke Latin, French, Italian, Spanish,
Greek, and some German. 11 This poet-soldier was a
remarkable pioneer for English scholarship in Renaissance
Europe; his discussions of Machiavelli and Epicurean
philosophy are some of the earliest in the English
language. 12 Sidney was so much more than just the
forerunner to modern day football hooligans, rampaging
through Holland.
Sidney was ideally suited to adapt the sonnet and show
that English was capable of expressing the most tender of
emotions. In fact he wrote in his treatise The Defence of
Poesy: ‘Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry
as diverse poets have done; neither with so pleasant rivers,
8 Greville, Fulke. The Life of the Renowned Sir Philip Sidney: 1652. Delmar, NY:
Scholars’ Facs. & Repr., 1984
9 Yeats, W.B. ‘In Memory of Major Robert Gregory,’ 1919
10 Wilson, Mona. Astrophel and Stella. The Nonesuch Press, 1931, p. viii
11 Stump, Donald. ‘History of Sidney Scholarship, Introduction: Sidney as a
Rennaisance Man.’ Bibliographies at Saint Louis University. Web. 10 June 2011.
12 Ibid.
67
fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else
may make the too much loved earth more lovely. Her
world is brazen, the poets only deliver a golden.’ 13 Any
man who declares that the beauty of poetry exceeds that
of the natural world is undoubtedly passionate, and he
describes verse as ‘the first light-giver to ignorance, and
first nurse, whose milk little by little enabled them to feed
afterwards of tougher knowledges’. 14 In this important
work of prose, Sidney does more than celebrate poetry,
he maps out its role ‘to beautify our mother tongue …’ 15
Sidney felt strongly connected to the English language,
both because of its intrinsic qualities and his own sense
of belonging to England. He writes in The Defence of
Poesy; ‘never was the Albion nation without poetry,’ 16 and
then goes on to declare English’s suitability for poetry:
‘Now of versifying there are two sorts, the one ancient,
the other modern: the ancient marked the quantity of
each syllable … the modern, observing only number …
Truly the English before any vulgar language I know,
is fit for both sorts.’ 17 Here Sidney refers to the difference
between quantitative and qualitative metre, while
English-language poetry features stressed syllables at
regular intervals, for example ‘With how sad steps, oh
Moon, thou climb’st the skies,’ 18 in iambic pentameter.
Lines of poetry in classical languages however are made
up of feet that follow certain patterns according to syllable
weight. Take as an example the first line of the Aeneid,
written in dactylic hexameter:
Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris 19
Sidney describes English as suitable for poetry in both
forms of metre, a flattering evaluation of the capabilities
of English.
13 Sidney, Philip. The Defence of Poesy. Sir Philip Sidney. Ed. Katherine
Duncan-Jones. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1989, p. 216
14 Ibid. at p. 213
15 Ibid.
16 Ibid. at p. 237
17 Ibid. at p.248
18 Sidney, Philip. Astrophil and Stella. Sonnet XXXI
19 Vergil, the Aeneid. Book I : ‘I sing of arms and a man, who came first from
Trojan shores’

LITERARY AND CULTURAL CRITICISM
Sidney, however, believed that English poetry had fallen
on hard times, and describes the relationship between a
nation and the poetry of her language: ‘that poesy, thus
embraced in all other places, should find in our time
a hard welcome in England, I think the very earth
lamenteth it, and therefore decketh our soil with fewer
laurels than it was accustomed’. 20
For Sidney the lack of great modern English poetry, is a
national failing the language of a great nation is worthy
of great writing ‘our tongue is most fit to honour poesy,
and to be honoured by poesy’. 21 However, Sidney was
not advocating the writing of what we might now call
patriotic or nationalistic verse. The Defence of Poesy
suggests that a sense of belonging to the English nation
served as a primary motivation to write poetry.
As to the type of poetry he wanted to write, even the
type of English he wanted to celebrate the logical model
was Chaucer. Indeed Sidney writes that Chaucer ‘did
excellently in his Troilus and Criseyde’. 22 Unlike Spenser he
didn’t feel that modern English poetry needed to replicate
13th century language. Sidney belonged to a broader
European cultural tradition. Sidney would write what
Stephen Fry has called the ‘Goldilocks form … the sonnet
is always just right’. 23
Sidney was not the first Englishman to write sonnets.
Chaucer had admired the works of Petrarch 24, but in
1581–2 when Sidney wrote Astrophil and Stella the form
was not fashionable in England. This was despite the
work of Surrey, and his contemporary Wyatt, who wrote
sonnets during the reign of Henry VIII that were more or
less translations from Petrarch. Before Sidney, the word
‘sonnet’ often took on a wider meaning than just the strict
fourteen line poem, 25 which we know today. Like
20 Ibid. 13 at p. 241
21 Ibid. at p. 249
22 Ibid. at p. 242
23 Fry, Stephen. The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet within. New York:
Gotham, 2006, p. 281
24 Pearson, Lu Emily. Elizabethan Love Conventions. University of California Press,
1933, p. 14
25 Spiller, Michael R. G. ‘’I Am Not I’: The Sonnets of Sidney.’ The Development of
the Sonnet: An Introduction. London: Routledge, 1992, p. 102
Petrarch’s Il Canzoniere, Astrophil and Stella is an
extended series of poems, 108 sonnets and 11 songs
dedicated to one woman. Stella, the object of desire, ‘star’
in Latin: Astrophil, the besotted poet is ‘star-lover’ in
Greek. The sequence is semi-autobiographical, Astrophil
is Sidney, while Stella is Penelope Devereux, the sister of
Elizabeth’s favourite, Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex.
Sidney wasn’t married at the time of writing, but Penelope
Devereux was, to Robert, Lord Rich. Indeed in Sonnet
XXIV Sidney plays upon Rich’s name; ‘Rich fools there
be,’ in much the same way that Petrarch puns on his
lover’s name Laura, who was also married. 26 The greatness
of Sidney’s sonnets, Petrarchan yet original lies in their
lyricism and subtle exploration of lust, virtue and beauty.
They would establish the sonnet in English.
The balance between Continental inspiration and
celebration of Englishness is reflected in the sonnets
themselves. Sidney adopts the literary features of
continental sonnets and their thematic concerns, but he
adapts and extends both of these elements. The very idea
of a sequence of sonnets like Astrophil and Stella is pure
Petrarchan, and from the very first sonnet the mimetic
features are clear.
Sidney adopts both the conventions and the themes
of Petrarchanism but his subtle adaptation allows the
development of an English poetry. Petrarch’s sonnets
feature the voice of an infatuated lover, a devoted servant
to the object of his desire, whose cold heart causes him
pain. Petrarchanism is almost masochistic in this sense27 and so in Sonnet I of Astrophil and Stella we read ‘That
she (dear she) might take some pleasure of my pain;’ but
then Sidney goes further describing his predicament as
‘the blackest face of woe’. This introduces the theme of
love as suffering that continues in other sonnets with
references like ‘my hell’ 28 and ‘Alas, have I not pain
26 Sonnet V, Il Canzoniere: ‘Cosí LAUdare et REverire insegna’
27 Waller, Gary F. ‘The Rewriting of Petrarch: Sidney and the Languages of
Sixteenth-Century Poetry.’ Sir Philip Sidney and the Interpretation of
Renaissance Culture: the Poet in His Time and in Ours: A Collection of
Critical and Scholarly Essays. Ed. Michael D. Moore. London: Croom Helm,
1984, p. 72
28 Sidney, Philip. Astrophil and Stella. Sonnet II
68

BENCHMARK
Sir Philip Sidney … and other heroes of that kidney continued
enough’. 29 The tone of this sonnet also captures the anguish,
a hallmark of the Petrarchan poet. This is a poem about a
man trying to decide upon the words to use to convince a
woman that he loves her. As he describes the effect he hopes
his writing will have, we can almost feel his angst.
Throughout the sequence, anxiety and oscillating feelings
constantly plague Astrophil. These doubts and pains seem
to affect not only Astrophil, the lover, but also Sidney, the
poet. In this sonnet there is frustration, not only because
Stella has not yet been won, but because the poet is
struggling to find the words to express his feelings. Perhaps
this is why he is ‘Oft turning others’ leaves’ and attempting
to find inspiration in the works of others. This elaborate
Petrarchan mask of self-deprecation is for the purpose of
seduction, but on another level it shows the anxiety of a
poet who feels a responsibility to develop the English
language.
This sonnet, and twelve others in the sequence, deals
self-consciously with the creation of the poem itself.
This degree of meta-fiction is not found in Petrarch.
Certainly some of the great Italian’s poems include
writing:
donna, per me vostra bellezza in rima …
Più volte incominciai di scriver versi;
ma la penna e la mano e l’intelletto
rimaser vinti nel primier assalto. 30
Sidney goes beyond just saying that Astrophil is so
overcome by Stella’s beauty that he is unable to write.
Rather the first sonnet is a sophisticated discussion of the
difficulties of writing a sonnet, a genuinely meta-fictional
piece. 31 That Sidney places this sonnet at the very
beginning of the sequence suggests that he was well aware
of what he was doing. His anxiety is conveyed by the
29 Sidney, Philip. Astrophil and Stella. Sonnet XIV
30 Sonnet XX: Lady, though your rare beauties prompt my rhyme…
And oft have I the tender verse essay’d,
But still in vain; pen, hand, and intellect
In the first effort conquer’d are and check’d.
MACGREGOR
Petrarca, Francesco. ‘Sonnet XX.’ The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of
Petrarch. Ed. Thomas Campbell. Trans. Robert Guthrie MacGregor. London:
G. Bell and Sons, 1879
31 Ibid. 27, at p. 112
69
halting feeling of the poem, which is emphasised by the
frequent use of punctuation, for example ‘Thus, great
with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, /Biting my
truant pen, beating myself for spite’. 32 In other sonnets in
the sequence Sidney demonstrates a masterful command
of enjambment some ten years before it was effectively
utilised by English dramatists to get across a similar idea
of hesitance of speech. 33
The meta-fictional exploration in this sonnet runs deeper
than just a description of writing a poem: the first line
strikes at a central poetic question. How is it that a poet
goes about ‘Loving in truth, and fain(ing) in verse my love
to show’? It’s important to note that for the Elizabethans
‘feigning’ did not mean pretending but rather inventing.
And so, in the very first line of the sequence Sidney raises
an important and difficult question for writers of love
poetry. He shows that this work is not just one of the
many derivative English poems that came before and after
but an extension of one of Petrarch’s ideas. Sidney’s
complex sense of belonging, his love of both English and
Continental poetry results in the adaptation rather than
imitation of a Petrarchan theme.
Similarly, classical rhetorical techniques are featured in
this poem, but their use is central to the establishment of
an ironic tone. What follows the first line in the octet is a
playful rhetorical display, Astrophil is ‘fein(ing)’ love
using classical devices. The repetition of words,
subjunctives and parallel phrases, for example ‘Knowledge
might pity win, and pity grace obtain’: additionally
alliteration, the metaphor of the book, in place of poetic
knowledge, and the imagery of ‘fresh and fruitful showers’
all feature as Astrophil leaps towards the volta. At this
point, Astrophil seems to suggest that plain speech is the
order of the day, but nonetheless the sestet features an
abundance of rhetoric, including prosopopoeia, as
Astrophil’s Muse speaks to him, as well as metaphors:
‘nature’s child,’ and aposiopesis, the lack of a proper
conclusion, in the final sentence. The final, famous line
is only reached after an extensive display of classical
32 Sidney, Philip. Astrophil and Stella. Sonnet I
33 Ibid., p. 119

LITERARY AND CULTURAL CRITICISM
rhetorical technique, almost ironic in tone. This
playfulness and feel for irony created the new, and
distinctively English voice Sidney brought to sonnets.
However, our attention is repeatedly drawn to the
problem of expressing love in poetry when great poetry
requires artificial constructs. Anxiety in writing is not just
the result of love but Sidney’s belief that a poet owes it to
his language to write well. Sidney expresses the burden of
the ideas he espoused in The Defence of Poesy, and is
deeply aware of his responsibility in writing.
Everyone knows that a sonnet is a fourteen-line poem,
with ten syllables in each line, and yet the first sonnet in
one of the greatest sequences in the English language has
twelve in each. A line with twelve syllables is an
Alexandrine, in this case Sidney attempts iambic
hexameter. Alexandrines, though quite common in
English drama before Marlowe and Shakespeare, are
notoriously difficult to write well in English, and seem
clumsy to those of us so accustomed to the almost
conversational effect of pentameter. This notoriety is clear
in the works of other poets. The American James Russell
Lowell called it ‘the droning old alexandrine’ 34 while
Alexander Pope made his views clear more poetically
in his Essay on Criticism: A needless Alexandrine ends
the song ‘That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow
length along’. 35
Though it may be unpopular among poets in the English
language, the alexandrine is French’s iambic pentameter. 36
The poets of La Pléiade had established the dodecasyllable
as the dominant poetic metre in French sonnets. For
example Ronsard’s famous ‘Quand vous serez bien vieille,
au soir, à la chandelle’. 37 Sidney’s adoption of the
alexandrine in this very first sonnet, and in five
subsequent poems makes clear his Continental influences,
in this case not Petrarch but the French sonnet writers.
Though there had been sonnets in alexandrines before,
34 Lowell, James Russell. The English Poets. London. W. Scott, 1888, p. 41
35 Pope, Alexander. ‘An Essay on Criticism,’ 1711, vol. ii, l. 152
36 Hipwell, Peter B. ‘Alexandrine.’ Letter to Luca Moretti. 21 Mar. 2011
37 Ronsard, Pierre du. Sonnets pour Hélène Book II: XLIII, 1578
most notably those of Thomas Wyatt 38 (1503–1542), they
were still unusual and certainly represented an interest in
French poetic style. This sonnet and others in the
sequence are rare examples of fluent English poems of this
form. 39 Clearly this unusual metrical form represents the
poet taking points from the finest European poems, and
experimenting in English, to see if he could find success.
That Sidney does is a credit to his talent, but his
motivation, once again, is to write great poems in English,
and to show that English was capable of the sort of poetry
being produced in Europe.
However throughout Astrophil and Stella, Petrarch
remains Sidney’s guiding light. In particular the early
sonnets are very much in harmony with Petrarch’s
descriptions of Laura, for example Sonnet IX is almost an
archetype of the Petrarchan blazon. In this sonnet all the
traditional descriptions of a mistress’ beauty are brought
out; the extended metaphor of rare goods, in place of
facial features ‘alabaster pure,’ ‘Gold in the covering,’
‘Red porphyr’ and ‘lock of pearl’. This sort of Petrarchan
hyperbole was common in sonnets of the time and is
taken straight from Il Canzoniere:
‘La testa òr fino, e calda neve il vólto,
ebbeno i cigli, e gli occhi eran due stelle,’ 40
Sonnet CLVII
In Il Canzoniere it seems that not a poem goes by without
a reference to Laura’s golden hair, but then again maybe it
was a rarity in thirteenth century Italy before the days of
peroxide. Petrarch’s followers were no less enthusiastic in
comparing their lovers to precious metals and exotic
stones. You can’t help but feel that all of these stony
38 Foxwell, Agnes Kate. A Study of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s Poems: Being Part I of a
Thesis Approved for the Degree of Master of Arts in the University of London, June
1910. London: Published for the University of London by Hodder & Stoughton,
1911, p. 18
39 Baum, Paul F. The Principles of English Versification. Cambridge: Harvard UP;
etc., 1922, p. 85
40 Fine gold her hair, her face as sunlit snow,
Her brows and lashes jet, twin stars her eyes,
MACGREGOR
Petrarca, Francesco. ‘Sonnet XX.’ The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of
Petrarch. Ed. Thomas Campbell. Trans. Robert Guthrie MacGregor. London:
G. Bell and Sons, 1879
70

BENCHMARK
Sir Philip Sidney … and other heroes of that kidney continued
women must have been quite frightening. It seems that
Cleo and Vogue did not invent unrealistic standards for
women’s bodies.
These aren’t the only Petrarchan ‘clichés’ that Sidney
adopts and in English gives new purpose, as the
Cambridge History of English Literature notes, ‘The appeals
to sleep, to the nightingale, to the moon, to his bed, to his
mistress’s dog, which form the staple of much of Sidney’s
poetry, resemble the apostrophes of foreign sonneteers…’ 41
Indeed, Sidney uses apostrophes in sixty-two sonnets,
according to Spiller, far more than any other English
sonneteer. However, it would be wrong to suggest that
Sidney’s affection for this favourite device of Petrarch is
purely derivative. Once again, Sidney extends rather than
mimics a Petrarchan feature. Whereas the Italian used
apostrophes to invoke great powers; Love, Death, and
Laura, Sidney seems to address almost anything, as he
turns from subject to subject. The effect is not the
solemnity of Petrarch’s apostrophes but the frisson and
emotional turbulence of a lover 42 and a poet.
In these early sonnets Astrophil also abides by the
Petrarchan notion that his idolised lover is not only the
embodiment of beauty but also virtue. Stella’s face is
‘Queen Virtue’s court’. This is an important element of the
Petrarchan sonnet. Montgomery writes that ‘ethical and
emotional conflict … defines Petrarchism as a system of
balanced and unresolved moral tension … Dialectically
the demands of desire implied the destruction of virtue.’ 43
In Petrarch’s sonnets then, the male lover is a distant
admirer of a beautiful and virtuous woman. His poems
were written to celebrate rather than seduce. In the early
sonnets of Astrophil and Stella Sidney maintains this role
for Astrophil, but soon introduces an overtly sexual tone,
which is not found in Petrarch.
41 Ibid. 6, at p. 255
42 Ibid. 25, at p.116
43 Montgomery, Robert L. ‘Astrophil’s Stella and Stella’s Astrophil.’ Sir Philip
Sidney and the Interpretation of Renaissance Culture: The Poet in His Time and
in Ours : A Collection of Critical and Scholarly Essays. Ed. Gary F. Waller and
Michael D. Moore. London: Croom Helm, 1984, p. 45
71
What starts as the sensual language of Sonnet XII: ‘Cupid,
because thou shin’st in Stella’s eyes,/That from her locks,
thy day-nets, none ‘scapes free,/That those lips swell, so
full of thee they be,/That her sweet breath makes oft thy
flames to rise,’ soon becomes what Katherine Duncan-
Jones has called ‘lewd innuendo’. 44 The best example of
this being the final line of Sonnet LXXVI when Astrophil
‘Pray(s) that my sun go down with meeker beams to bed.’
Here Sidney has abandoned the model of Petrarch.
Instead he looks to the overt sensuality of the French
writers, who were inspired by the Greek lyric poets
and Ovid. 45
And so when, in Sonnet LXXII the conflict between
virtue and beauty, the Petrarchan conflict reaches its
climax, as the poet asks ‘How virtue may best lodged
in beauty be,’ Sidney’s final lines and rhyming couplet
underscore his amalgamation of Petrarchan and French
styles; ‘As fast thy virtue bends that love to good. /But
ah, desire still cries: ‘Give me some food.’’ This tightly
constructed sonnet, deals with what the Elizabethans
believed to be a paradox: that virtue could reside in
beauty. And so Sidney presents the Petrarchan ideal;
‘those fair lines which true beauty show.’ And uses the
metaphor of light to represent virtue in both the octet
and the sestet, but then in the final line he introduces a
new character: lust. The entire discussion is now framed
cleverly in terms of desire, rather than beauty. Once again
Sidney demonstrates a knowledge of both European
method and matter but he combines ideas and techniques
in new and clever ways, and he extends the conventions as
he transfers them into English.
It is interesting also to consider the rhyme schemes of the
sonnets at this point because here as well Sidney adopts
from the Europeans and adapts for the English language.
Sonnet IX follows Sidney’s favourite scheme abba abba
cdcd ee, which is found in fifty-nine or sixty sonnets (the
numbers change depending upon different interpretations
44 Duncan-Jones, Katherine. ‘Philip Sidney’s Toys.’ Proceedings of the British
Academy, 1980. Included in Sir Philip Sidney: an Anthology of Modern Criticism.
Ed. Dennis Kay. Oxford, Oxfordshire: Clarendon, 1987, p. 76
45 Ibid. 25, at p. 114

LITERARY AND CULTURAL CRITICISM
of the sounds of words). 46 Generally, though, it can be said
that Sidney’s rhyme schemes are more European than
any other English sonneteer. While most of his sonnets
feature the final rhyming couplet, the most celebrated
development of the English sonnet, twenty-three go
without. Additionally Sidney adopts the Italian octet
scheme of abba abba in seventy-five sonnets (including
Sonnet LXXI). This scheme was abandoned by many
English sonnet writers because, as Stephen Fry writes
‘While this is a breeze in Italian where every other word
seems to end in -ino or -ella, it can be the very deuce in
English’. 47 Sidney, is therefore the most European of the
great English sonneteers at the end of the sixteenth
century, combining an Italian octet, with an English
sestet in the majority of cases. However, it is important
to remember that Sidney did use many rhyming couplets
and Astrophil and Stella does include some of the first
examples of the structure we would call the
Shakespearean sonnet with its rhyme scheme of abab cdcd
efef gg. The most famous such sonnet in Astrophil and
Stella is Sonnet XXXIX ‘Come sleep, O sleep, the certain
knot of peace’. In his experimentation with rhyme
schemes we can see Sidney’s place as a disciple of the
Italian sonneteers, but also as an innovator, adapting this
form of poetry to suit the cadences of spoken English.
Perhaps the most important element that Sidney
introduced to sonnet writing was a sense of playfulness.
While at times Sidney achieves the sort of intensity of
emotion that made Petrarch so admired among poets,
in many of the sonnets we are struck by his colloquialism,
irony, or even humour. Take as an example Sonnet XX,
in which Sidney entreats his friends to ‘See there that boy,
that murth’ring boy I say,’ and describes the wound that is
his love for Stella. And yet throughout the poem a sense
of energy and playfulness pervades and emerges in the
repeated alliteration of ‘bloody bullet’ and polyptoton of
‘Poor passenger, pass’. Or indeed the melodramatic and
46 Whigam, R. G., and O. F. Emerson. Sonnet Structure in Sidney’s Astrophel and
Stella Studies in Philology 18.3 (1921). University of North Carolina Press: 347-5,
p. 348
47 Ibid. 23, at p. 284
slightly sarcastic opening line ‘Fly, fly, my friends, I have
my death wound, fly.’
Sidney makes references to classical figures constantly,
in Astrophil and Stella. Cupid is frequently mentioned,
and often the purpose of these allusions is to separate
Astrophil from his love, depicting it as not something he
can control, but rather an irrational entity. 48 In this sonnet
Sidney takes the well-worn story of Cupid and his arrow
and subverts it cleverly. Cupid is no longer the son of
Venus, he is one of the urchins, who wandered the streets
in Tudor London. It is this sort of clever, witty writing
that gives voice to the poems and distinguishes them from
the very serious Italian and French sonnets. Sidney’s
fondness for irony and lightness make his poems enjoyable
to read, and sometimes, if you’re in the right mood they
can even be downright funny. This voice that Sidney
developed was carried on by other sonnet writers,
Shakespeare being the foremost example. Some have
argued that the Bard’s entire sequence of sonnets is a
parody of the Petrarchan tradition. Certainly Sonnet 130,
‘My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;’ supports that
interpretation. In this regard, and many others,
Shakespeare owes a great debt to Sidney.
Penelope Devereux’s was really the face that launched a
thousand sonnets because it was after the publication of
Astrophil and Stella in 1591, five years after Sidney’s death
that the sonnet boom really took off. Countless poems
were written, most of them derivative and unoriginal, but
a very small minority were truly remarkable. Sidney was a
pioneer for all writers of English sonnets. He established a
standard, and showed that great sonnets could be written
in English. That he would be surpassed by Shakespeare,
writing in a rhyme scheme that he pioneered was, in part,
a testament to the strength of the foundations that Sidney
laid down. As a body of work the great English sonnets
did what Sidney had hoped English poets would do, they
proved that English was a valid vehicle for great
48 Campbell, Marion, ‘Unending Desire: Sidney’s Reinvention of Petrarchan
Form in Astrophil and Stella’ Sir Philip Sidney and the Interpretation of
Renaissance Culture: The Poet in His Time and in Ours : A Collection of Critical
and Scholarly Essays. Ed. Gary F. Waller and Michael D. Moore. London:
Croom Helm, 1984, p. 88
72

BENCHMARK
Sir Philip Sidney … and other heroes of that kidney continued
poetry. In truth, the sonnets did more than that; these
poems gave English some of the greatest literature ever
written, in any language. Furthermore, these poems gave
the language, itself new forms of expression and idioms.
Sidney alone gave us ‘dumb stricken,’ ‘miniature’ for a
small picture, ‘conversation’ in the sense we know it and
‘my better half’. 49 He was particularly fond of compound
adjectives, an idea taken from the French. 50
Sidney was a true Englishman, a poet with a deep sense
of belonging to his nation and he had been motivated
to write great works in English to demonstrate the
possibilities of the English language, which he believed
to be one of the great achievements of the English people.
At the same time, he was an educated and well-travelled
diplomat and soldier, and his fellowship with a broader
European cultural tradition was an important influence.
It was the confluence of these two (often contradictory)
tensions that shaped his writing. As a poet, Sidney felt he
could not ignore the works of the Continent, and as an
English poet he felt that the future of English literature
was to learn from the French and Italians, and to
incorporate their forms and concerns into writings in
our language.
The result is the borrowing of many elements; a
Petrarchan sequence, the character of the male lover, the
representation of the lady, the rhythm structure of some
poems, the enthusiastic descriptions of idealised beauty,
the penchant for apostrophes, the rhyme schemes, the
sensuality of the French, and the preoccupation with the
conflict between virtue and beauty. However, what
separates Sidney from the legion of English Petrarchan
imitators is his superior understanding of the issues at play,
and the English language, itself. Sidney takes elements of
French and Italian writing and extends them, producing
complex meta-fictional poems, more sophisticated than
his models. He embraces an innovative rhyme scheme,
perfect for English writers and a new voice, distinctly
vivid, rich in irony, at times even mischievous. In some
49 Ibid. 2, at p. 134
50 Rowse, A.L., The Elizabethan Renaissance: The Cultural Achievement, London,
Macmillan, 1972, p. 56
73
ways that is his greatest contribution, because this new
voice resonated with poets that followed Sidney. It
encapsulated something of the English tone. It made
the sonnet English.
Luca Moretti
Year 12 English Extension 2 Major Work

LITERARY AND CULTURAL CRITICISM
A selection from the
2011 HSC Bodies of Work
74

Above
Samuel Leak
‘Techno Fossils’ – Sculpture
Year 12
75

Above
Aidan de Lorenzo
‘The Departure’ – Digital photography
Year 12
76

Left and below
Joseph Hunter
‘Chemical, Spiritual, Physical’ – Drawing
Year 12
78

79
Left
Alexander Young
‘Tale of Two Cities’ – Digital photography:
detail from book
Year 12
Left
Daniel Scott
‘Inevitable’ – Film: film still
Year 12

Right
Geoffrey Yates
‘Soda Pop’ – Digital photography
Year 12
Right
Jye Emdur
‘Music Connection’ – Collection of works
Year 12
80

Above
Daniel Moran
‘Alibis and Open Eyes’ – Analogue photography
Year 12
81

BENCHMARK
To what extent was Roman society concerned about the
political morality of its ruling class? Discuss with reference
to Gaius Verres.
‘The widening chasm between the upper and the lower
classes was a major reason for the decay of the political
institutions of the republic and for the role played by arms
and violence in settling party strife’ wrote Taylor. 1 In this
essay political morality is defined as referring to the
normative ethics with respect to a Government ruling its
citizens, and the inference that political immorality was
frequent in Rome is supported. The question will be
analysed, first with regards to the broader political and
legal systems in Rome and then, to the trial of Gaius
Verres. This essay will show that Roman society’s concern
about their rulers’ morality was minimal, both as a
consequence of the nature of the institutions and because
it was a mutually agreeable status quo.
It was widely accepted in Rome that ‘the political system
... had become corrupt. Some of Rome’s richest families
were able to control the government for long periods of
time using their wealth to influence the elections of
senators and magistrates’. 2 Indeed during Verres’ trial
Cicero spoke in depth about ‘the dishonour and disgrace
that have for several years past attached to this order (of
senatorial jurymen)’. 3 Bribery, extortion and cronyism
were ‘commonplace,’ 4 and so it was understood and allowed
that such corruption was simply a part of political life.
Both the psyche and the practices of the senate were
observed in the law-courts, be it Verres’ various bribes and
attempted bribes of Cicero, 5 or Cicero’s proclamation
about the trial of Clodius that ‘the cause of the acquittal ...
was the empty pockets and the itching palms of our
jurymen’. 6 These were not isolated incidents. It was
well-known, and this is reflected in Cicero’s statement in
Verres’ trial that ‘novi locum; video ubi se iactaturus sit
1 Taylor, L.R. 1968, Party Politics in the Age of Caesar, University of California
Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, p. 2
2 Ackroyd, P. 2005, Ancient Rome, Dorling Kindersley, London, p. 34
3 Taylor, op. cit., p. 105, cf. Cicero, In Verrem I.49 (Hereafter referred to by speech
and section.)
4 Tracy, C. 2007, The Life and Times of Cicero, Mitchell Lane Publishers, USA, p.
21
5 Clough, A.H [ed & trans]. 1969, ‘Cicero,’ in Plutarch’s Lives Volume III, Aldine
Press, London, p. 191
6 Lewis, J. [ed] 2003, The Mammoth Book of How it Happened: Ancient Rome,
Constable and Robinson, London, p. 77
83
Hortensius’. 7 The predicted defence, a utilitarian
justification that ‘C. Verres propter hanc eximiam
virtutem in re militari omnia quae fecit impune fecerit,’ 8
excuses corruption on account of the defendant’s military
accomplishments. The recognition that such an argument
is standard is combined with Cicero’s description that:
‘eoque adduxit eos qui erant iudicaturi vehementer ut
vererentur ne, quem virum fortuna ex hostium telis
eripuisset, cum sibi ipse non pepercisset, hic non ad
populi Romani laudem sed ad iudicum crudelitatem
videretur esse servatus’. 9 These show a grudging
acknowledgement in his speech that such corruption is
widespread. It is little wonder that Cowie and Heitland
affirmed that ‘equitable government ... and integrity were
rarely displayed by Roman officials in the provinces’. 10
This view is supported by Levens, who wrote that it was
‘an age when a large part of the urban proletariat lived by
selling its votes to the highest bidder ... there were
unlimited opportunities for plunder open to those who
saw in their provincial governorship a means of recovering
the expenses of their election to office, and of building up
a fortune for the future’. 11 Even more significant than this
basic bribery and profiteering was the fact that among the
multitude of Sulla’s laws from 82–79 BC was the Lex
Cornelia de pecuniis repetundis, 12 which overturned the
Lex Calpurnia. 13 This new law, according to Levens,
meant that ‘the dice were now loaded in favour of corrupt
governors,’ 14 and reinforced the sense that the political
trend of Cicero’s time was an inexorable movement
towards greater corruption. This much was clear in
Cicero’s first case, Pro Roscio Amerino, where ‘even
though Sextus (Roscius) had an airtight alibi, Cicero
knew this was a case in which the truth would be
7 II.5.2
8 II.5.3
9 II.5.3
10 Cowie, H. and Heitland, W.E. [eds] 1876, Q. Caecilium Divinatio & In C.
Verrem Actio Prima, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, p. viii
11 Levens, R.G.C. [ed] 2001, Cicero: Verrine V, Bristol Classical Press, London,
p.xvi
12 Ibid., p. xix
13 Ackroyd, op. cit., p. 44
14 Levens, op. cit., p. xix

LANGUAGES
practically irrelevant ... (since) Chrysogonus, a close friend
of Sulla, was behind the charges against the defendant’. 15
It is evident in the cases in the law courts, many of which
related to governance or the ruling class, that political
immorality was prevalent and, more than that, promoted
in Rome since it often suited those in power.
This common corruption was reported in Verres’ trial by
several sources, and while it was ultimately unsuccessful,
it demonstrated how such vice permeated the courts and
political institutions. According to Cicero, Gaius
Scribonius Curio, a friend of Verres, announced to him
after Hortensius’ election as consul: ‘I hereby inform you
that today’s election means your acquittal’. 16 In the same
period Quintus Metellus claimed: ‘I am consul; one of my
brothers is governing Sicily; the other is going to preside
over the extortion court; many steps have been taken to
secure that no harm can happen to Verres’. 17 Fortunately
neither of these men was correct, but it is notable that
most of the interest surrounding the case was concerned
with the various elections of consuls, judges and other
influential positions, rather than the attorneys’ cases. This
is representative of widespread acceptance of the prevalent
corruption in the legal system.
It is also significant that there were no public prosecutions
in Rome under the Leges Duodecim Tabularum, 18 and this
had a considerable impact on society’s view of political
corruption. It was a time when ‘the standards of honesty
prevailing among Roman governors were deplorably low’ 19
and ‘the prizes of empire enriched and corrupted the
senators and knights, who together exploited the
provinces, and at the same time impoverished the
common people of Rome and Italy’. 20 The fact that it was
up to individuals or groups to prosecute was a sign of
Rome’s laxity in dealing with crimes, particularly of a
political nature. Public prosecutions and government
15 Tracy, op. cit., pp. 24-5
16 Taylor, op. cit., p. 108, cf. I.19
17 Ibid., p. 108, cf. I. 27
18 Lewis, op. cit., p. 15
19 Levens, op. cit., p. xxiv
20 Taylor, op. cit., p. 4
anti-corruption organisations 21 in contemporary
Australian society enable a co-ordinated and effective
fight against political, legal and other forms of corruption.
On the other hand, Rome’s total lack of any such laws or
institutions made it often difficult to deal with these
issues, especially since the result of the trial was
determined by participants’ relationships with the judge
and jury. Furthermore, if a prosecutor lost a case, he
himself was open to being charged under Lex Remmia de
calumnia, 22 a type of defamation or libel charge. It was a
significant deterrent against prosecutions, and the threat
was particularly pertinent since the jury was expected to
favour the defendant. Therefore both the lack of public
prosecution and the calumnia charge were part of a system
which was inherently inclined to prevent justice being
done through limiting the cases which went before the
courts.
Conversely, the effort to provide some sort of an incentive
for men to bring criminals to justice, 23 through the fact
that ‘ancient criminal law, both Greek and Roman, provided
for the bestowal of rewards on the successful prosecutor, 24 still
created problems. This was a system which was abused in
Athens and Rome alike 25 as barristers sought to undertake
as many cases as they could in an attempt to climb higher
and higher up the cursus honorum through their successful
prosecutions. This shows a blatant disregard for the value
of justice itself. Instead, the process was commercialised,
since monetary rewards were common, and politicised.
These incentives for bringing a prosecution illustrate
Rome’s indifference towards the political morality of its
ruling class, and its tolerance of that class constantly
seeking personal rewards, often against the good of
the State.
Cicero stood to gain such a great deal from the trial of
Verres, that it does not seem at all unreasonable to suggest
that he undertook the case, not for any particular
21 Such as the NSW Independent Commission Against Corruption (ICAC) and
the Federal Corruption and Crime Commission (CCC)
22 Taylor, op. cit., p. 113
23 Apart from the simple wish to right wrongs that have been suffered
24 Taylor, op. cit., p. 112
25 Ibid., p. 112
84

BENCHMARK
To what extent was Roman society concerned about the
political morality of its ruling class? Discuss with reference
to Gaius Verres. continued
love of political morality or desire to see justice prevail,
but simply for his own personal profit. Firstly, in 70BC,
the year of the trial, Cicero was campaigning to be elected
aedile, 26 and Taylor argues that ‘this was a crucial time
in the career of Cicero, and it must be admitted that he
would not have taken the case if he had not been
convinced that it would further his career’. 27 This was his
first speech as prosecutor, 28 and was a highly publicised
and well-attended trial since it was held in August, the
same time as both the elections and votive games put on
by Pompey. 29 Having previously served as quaestor in the
small Sicilian town of Lilybaeum, 30 Cicero was
disappointed by his lack of recognition, 31 so the trial,
building on his earlier success defending Roscius, put
him firmly in the public eye, and this was reflected in
his election as aedile. 32
Yet Cicero had far more to gain than just an election as
aedile: he would gain Verres’ praetorian rank in the senate
if successful in his prosecution. 33 This was not merely to
increase his prestige, although this was a significant part,
since he was given the privilege of wearing the toga
praetexta and joining the praetorii at public festivals. 34
Furthermore, Cicero was also given considerable actual
power by his promotion. When the consul presiding in
the senate put forth a motion, he called firstly for men of
consular rank, and next those of praetorian rank, and, due
to lack of time, senators of lower rank rarely had a chance
to speak. 35 This meant that after the trial Cicero gained
great influence in the senate as his voice was far more
prominent, and he was able to make the most of his
oratory in that forum.
26 Forsyth, F. 2003, Cicero: Defender of the Republic, Rosen Publishing Group,
New York, p. 45
27 Taylor, op. cit., p. 102
28 Ibid., p. 102
29 Taylor, op. cit., p. 109
30 Clough, op. cit., p. 190
31 Forsyth, op. cit., p. 44
32 Taylor, op. cit., p. 108
33 Taylor, op. cit., p. 113
34 Ibid., p. 113
35 Ibid., p. 113
85
Cicero’s third benefit from undertaking the case was that
he supplanted Hortensius as the leader of the bar, ending
the latter’s ‘dominatio regnumque iudiciorum’. 36 This
further enhanced Cicero’s reputation, and made him the
most sought-out barrister in Rome, continually
approached by equites and senators alike to aid their
defence or prosecution. 37 Furthermore, Hortensius himself
recognised his decline, and when they later worked
together on the same side, he conceded to Cicero the
honour of delivering the peroratio, the crucial summary
speech in a case. 38 All these benefits for Cicero helped him
to become the only novus of his generation to be elected
consul. 39 Therefore, it certainly seems as though Cicero
used the trial of Verres simply as a means to an end, a way
forward for him to gain greater fame and power. It
appears evident that Cicero, like so many Romans, was
not concerned so much with Verres’ actions and the
ruinous ethos of political immorality. Rather, he was
focused entirely on his own career: for him the case was
not about justice being done, it was about ‘making a
breach in the fortress of the nobility and preparing the
way for the entrance of his unknown name in the august
annals of Roman consuls’. 40
The view is enhanced by the knowledge that Cicero
himself took a bribe from Verres during the case. Verres’
bribery did not merely go out to the jury, but also to
Cicero, whose suspected acceptance was completely
hypocritical of his apparently moral and honourable
intentions. It was Verres himself who suggested that he
should keep for himself the profits from his first year in
office and use the next two, more lucrative years for
bribing purposes in a trial, 41 and this is exactly what
happened. Plutarch recounted that ‘Cicero, who set the
fine at seventy-five myriads, lay under suspicion of being
corrupted by bribery to lessen the sum. 42 Taylor wrote that
36 I.38
37 Taylor, op. cit., p. 116
38 Ibid., p. 114
39 Ibid., p. 118. ie. The only man of his generation whose father was not elected
consul to be elected consul himself.
40 Ibid., p. 118
41 Levens, op. cit., p. xx
42 Clough, op. cit., p. 191

LANGUAGES
‘Cicero was awarded the role of accuser ... at this time
Verres tried to bribe him, but Cicero resisted ... (but) in
fixing the fine ... Cicero was bribed to make it low’. 43 It is
a great irony that in an extortion court the prosecutor was
successfully bribed, but such was the Romans’ lack of
concern about corruption.
Verres himself typified the rampant corruption of so many
Romans in the ruling class. Cicero highlighted, among
other wicked acts, how ‘in Sicilia sacra profanaque omnia
et privatim et publice spoliarit’. 44 The repetition of the
plosive sounds highlights his contempt, while the
elaborate rhetoric emphasises the multitude of crimes in:
‘tu quos servos arma capere et bellum facere in Sicilia
voluisse cognoras et de consilii sententia iudicaras, hos ad
supplicium iam more maiorum traditos ex media morte
eripere ac liberare ausus es? ut, quam damnatis crucem
servis fixeras, hanc indemnatis videlicet civibus Romanis
reservares’. 45
Cicero’s superfluity of superlatives throughout his
speeches, and his seemingly endless lists of witnesses
and evidence piles upon Verres an incredible wealth of
accusations of wrongdoings over his three-year term.
While an example was made of Verres, 46 the volume and
the permanence of his corruption, in almost full view
of the people 47 was typical in a society which had learnt
to accept and put up with blatant corruption. Indeed
Manius Aquilius, a praetor involved in very similar
actions to Verres, extorted tens of thousands of sesterces
(though not as much as the millions of sesterces Verres
extorted), 48 but was acquitted by a jury. 49 Had almost any
other orator prosecuted Verres, he probably would have
had the same fate.
43 Taylor, op. cit., pp. 110-11
44 II.5.1
45 II.5.12
46 Although he did flee to Marseille and live in relative comfort there, once again
showing the laxity of Roman laws in the face of corruption.
47 According to Cicero in II.5.1
48 Levens, op. cit., p. xxxv. Both figures include the monetary worth of extorted
goods.
49 II.5.3
It is clear that Rome was a corrupt state, one in which
the patricians ruled over the plebeians in a conspicuously
unequal democracy. The rampant immorality of the
politicians was accepted by their like-minded equals for it
provided mutual advantages and benefited the upper-class
as a whole; it was endured by the society as they had
become accustomed to it and had not sufficient power
to overcome such a deeply embedded ethos.
Rupert Coy
Year 12
86

BENCHMARK
Above
Beau Mayer
‘Ushi’
Year 8
87

LANGUAGES
Above
Max Maunsell
‘The Cow’
Year 8
88

BENCHMARK
Above
Jordan Turnbull
‘Primary School’
Year 9
89

LANGUAGES
Above
Derrick Fang
‘Dragon’
Year 8
90

BENCHMARK
Above
Blake Bullwinkel
‘Sakura and Mount Fuji’
Year 8
91

LANGUAGES
Below
Kim Gallagher
‘The Dragonfly’
Year 8
92

BENCHMARK
Above
Monty McPherson
‘Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter’
Year 10
93

LANGUAGES
Above
Hugo Martyr
‘Schools’
Year 9
94

BENCHMARK
95

HISTORY
What role does memory play in the construction
of history?
Synopsis
This major work investigates the role of memory in
constructing historical evidence with the Holocaust as a
prime example. Through changing social values regarding
historical interpretation, the role of memory has evolved
and consequently been more readily integrated into the
historical construction. As such, this selective practice
regarding memory-based evidence has lead to the creation
of a publically acknowledged history known as ‘collective
memory’. Oral testimonies, the product of this memory,
have been utilised by Holocaust historians such as
Deborah Lipstadt in order to support a particular view
of this event.
Collective memory, based on Holocaust survivors’
testimonies, has subsequently been propagated and
embellished in various media presentations, such as
documentaries and TV programs and thereby ingrained
into the cultural subconscious. These modern
representations have then ‘set’ history for posterity.
This, in turn, will influence the personal oral testimonies
of the ‘living historians’ because memory is heavily
impacted by the personal identity of its ‘rememberers,’
and identity is further influenced by cultural beliefs.
Thus the relationship between collective memory and
the ‘living historian’ is cyclic and a desire to examine
this tension formed the basis of the project from the start.
This project argues that the impact of trauma upon
memory must be acknowledged and draws examples from
the Holocaust. The concept of Nachtraglichkeit is shown
to be an extension of this concern as it involves the
distancing of the individual from the associated memory.
This detachment from particular events leaves areas open
for interpretation that can be utilised to support a
particular version of the past.
The project also indicates how the problematic nature
of memory has been used to support the two conflicting
Holocaust interpretations: the Holocaust historians or the
Holocaust revisionists. These arguments, presented within
Richard Evans’ book Lying About Hitler, based on the
Irving/Lipstadt libel case, demonstrate how each party
has utilised the inherant flaws of memory for various
purposes in support of its argument.
The project draws the conclusion that it is through the
highly subjective nature of memory that we recognise its
culpability on history. However, historians remain heavily
dependent on memory for evidence in supporting any
given historical discourse and as such it has been utilised
to construct a popular interpretation considered to be a
‘true history’.
Essay
The construction of history is, by its nature, multi-faceted
and is influenced by a combination of internal and
external prejudices. Any given event can therefore be
viewed from multiple perspectives, with each viewpoint
containing its own truth, reality, lies or distortions, which
become incorporated into memory. Recent historians, not
surprisingly, given societal changes and developments in
literacy, education, communication and accessibility, have
come increasingly to use personal narratives and oral
testimonies, the products of memory, as the foundation
for historical argument and discourse. This is also due to
the mounting pressure for additional verification from
the general public of events that may be deemed to have
shaped the collective psyche, most notably war and
genocide. Nicola King (2000, p11) states that ‘memory
can create the illusion of a momentary return to a lost
past’. In this way a personal account of an historical event
can be used as a tangible link to an intangible past.
However, memory at the same time plays a significant role
in the formation of one’s identity and is itself shaped,
moulded and distorted by one’s psyche and experience as
well as the society or community in which one lives, or
has lived. Memory can also shape, and be shaped by, the
changing moral and ethical values within which
historians develop their work and will thereby influence
the way in which they perceive, interpret or reconstruct an
event. The Holocaust of the 1940s provides an example of
this process.
Memory can be divided into two distinct categories: an
individual and personal memory, or a shared perception of
an event known as collective memory. Collective memory
is typically defined as the conglomeration of personal
recollections that creates a sustainable group subconscious.
This concept explored by Maurice Halbwach (1950) views
memory as both a creator and product of a cultural
96

BENCHMARK
What role does memory play in the construction of history? continued
climate and as a result is embodied in a society’s morals
and values. Wertsch states that collective memory ‘results
from a productive tension between the media of memory:
school textbooks, monuments, and films, and the human
agents that create and use those media … [thus] collective
memory is constantly shaped, negotiated and reshaped by
the interactions of its ‘rememberers’ (Rester, n.d, p4).
Memory’s influence in the construction of history is
impacted strongly by social morals and values regarding
historical interpretation. In recent decades there has been
a shift away from traditional diplomatic, economic and
political history toward innovative approaches,
particularly social and cultural studies. This has arisen as
a result of the escalating awareness of equality and human
rights that became prevalent in the 1970s, 1980s and
1990s. As a result it is in a society, which has become
increasingly reflective, both socially and culturally, that
memory has become essential in establishing the nature of
significant events, such as the Holocaust or the Vietnam
War. The recent role of memory in the construction of
history has been challenged by postmodernist scholars in
their belief that memory irrevocably destroys the
authenticity of history. Tom Dixon describes the
‘postmodern cultural historians’ view [as considering] bias
unavoidable in whole or even in part’ (cited by McCallum,
1996, p133). Dixon believes as a result ‘there is a growing
willingness to arrange and edit facts in a way that
supports the message of a particular historian’ (McCallum,
1996, p139) primarily achieved through the selective use
of memory as it provides a definitive view of an event.
Postmodern scholars view historians as ‘not just [being]
dispassionate chroniclers. By their selection, ordering,
highlighting, attribution and analysis of facts they fashion
a particular version of the past’ (The London Times,
4/4/02, n.p). Therefore when Holocaust historians such
as Deborah Lipstadt, select only oral testimonies from
Jewish survivors, the evidence is highly subjective and
supports the established historical view. However, the
ideas presented by Postmodernist scholars support the
Holocaust deniers’ argument. Jewish historian Peter
Novick suggests that the American government
experienced a post-war guilt as a consequence of their role
as a spectator during the Holocaust and therefore their
97
‘support [in] the founding of Israel was an act of moral
expiation’ (Russell, 2000). The survivors, aptly named
‘living historians’ by a society that revered them, became
crucial in providing evidence for Holocaust history. The
oral testimonies provided as evidence formed a collective
memory that influenced the greater society. History in
this sense is, as Grobman and Sherman describe, the
‘combined product of actual past events and the discovery
and description of past events’ (2000, p8).
It is in society that people acquire and sustain a collective
conscious that will in turn influence a personal reflection.
Individuals will ‘recall, recognise, and localise their
memories’ (Halbwachs 1992, p38), and as a result the
‘social memory causes an inertia in social structures …
these interactions are at the base of identity creation and
maintenance’ (Kalman, Page & Stevenson 2008, Slide 5).
Through the creation of an identity, both personal and
national, an event can find continuity and therefore
commemoration. Collective memory is evident in the
memorials that a government erects in commemoration
of an event. These memorials present a specific perspective
of an historical event that is supported by a government
for various intentions. These monuments serve as a daily
reminder of a country’s perspective and therefore the
perspective is cemented into the national identity.
Additionally, it is through these ‘publicly available
com-memorative symbols, rituals, and representations …
[that] the Shoah has been politicised, trivialised and
commercialised’ (Junker, 2001, p2). The creation of a
collective memory by a previous generation, indicated by
the monuments erected, lead to a sustained perception of
an historical event by the larger population. The
Holocaust has become such an event through America’s
construction of over one hundred monuments that Peter
Novick describes as reflecting the rise of Zionism in
America (Russell, 2000, n.p).
Collective memory plays a fundamental role in
influencing individual memory and thus enhances the
subjectivity associated with oral testimonies. Collective
memory ‘simplifies; sees events from a single, committed
perspective … [reducing] events to mythic archetypes’
(Novick 1999, p4) inevitably resulting in the loss of
individual experience for one historical consciousness.

HISTORY
The issue arises as indicated by Jeffrey K Olick (2007, n.p)
that these collections provide the materials for the
production of a singular memory and prod the individual
into recalling particular events and forgetting others. In
the creation of one perspective, the actual ‘truth’ becomes
lost and is replaced with an artificial perception. This
alternate version of the ‘truth’ is embedded into the
following generation and therefore influences the current
and future construction of history. The Holocaust is a
preeminent example of the influences of collective
memory on the construction of history through the
growing reliance on personal testimonies from living
historians. Arguably this perception has generated an
image of the victimisation for the Jewish people, with a
sense of hagiography in the portrayal of the survivors’
experiences. Simon Wiesenthal describes the manipulative
use of the Holocaust as ‘the Holocaust works every time’
(Junker, 2001, p6). Peter Novick additionally claims that
this collective memory has been used by the Jewish people
as ‘a moral weapon … in the political fight for recognition,
privileges and rights’ (Junker, 2001, p5) in the attempt to
win the gold medal in the ‘Victimisation Olympics’. This
collective memory has been established by the Jewish
people as ‘marking the Holocaust as the climax of an
irrational, eternal Gentile hatred of Jews [and this itself]
exerts a pernicious influence on scholarship’ (2000, p1).
Holocaust survivor and writer Primo Levi’s works based
on ‘the warmth and humanity of his writing had made
Levi a symbol to his readers of the triumph of reason over
the barbarism of genocide’ (New York Times, 1987, n.p).
Primo Levi was a major contributor to the collective
memory in his writings on the year which he spent at
Auschwitz. Levi focused his work on the strength of
character and the will to survive, thereby empowering the
apparent survival stance of the Jewish survivors through
the utilisation of his personal experience. It is through the
projected view of collective memory that the individual
experiences omit and supplement details generating a
falsified construction of history.
The procedures deemed appropriate in the construction
of history fluctuate with any given society. History in the
first half of the twentieth century was written, as Leopold
Von Ranke describes, ‘the way it happened’
(Historiography: The Writing of History, n.d, n.p). Ranke
emphasised the necessity of primary sources with ‘proven
authenticity’ in recording historical events. This idea,
entitled ‘Empiricism’ remained paramount within
society over the early decades of the twentieth century.
Nevertheless, the issue arises in specific cases where
there is little to no physical evidence to draw upon.
The reliability of memory in constructing history
therefore has to be questioned. As Ann Curthoys and
John Docker state, ‘where were the distinctions to be
drawn between legitimate alternative views, ideologically
driven [unconscious] distortion and outright lies and
fabrications?’ (2006, p213).These historiographical issues
associated with the Holocaust, have sanctioned the
Revisionist historians, particularly Ernst Zendel and
David Irving, to argue against the established perceptions
of an event that resulted in the annihilation of six million
Jews in Europe. During the Nuremburg Trials, that
immediately followed the cessation of the Second World
War, survivors’ testimonies and experiences were neglected
in preference to physical evidence. Memory was seen to be
an unimportant facet of the Holocaust particularly in
determining the relevant punishments for crimes against
humanity. This forced the Jews ‘after the war [to]
practically hide themselves … remaining invisible in a
culture of victors, war heroes and faith in progress, no-one
was interested in their stories’ (Junker, 2001, p5).However
this general, neglectful approach to the surviving Jewry
of the Holocaust was addressed by David Boder, a
Jewish-American academic who focused on recording and
preserving oral testimonies and survivors’ accounts in the
immediate post-World War II society. His work would be
continued by Steven Spielberg years later, who by utilising
the newest recording technology, would collect and record
these personal narratives for the modern world.
The transition from the predominant use of written
sources as evident in the late 1940s, was heavily
influenced by the accelerating rate of technology and
visual media that in turn supported the Americanisation
of the Holocaust in the 1960s and 1970s. Memory began
to fill the ever present gaps in the Holocaust debate with
oral testimonies becoming increasing vital to the creation
and preservation of the Jewish victim dogma. As the
98

BENCHMARK
What role does memory play in the construction of history? continued
survivors began to reach retirement age, a heavier
emphasis was placed on collecting and recording their
memory before they had passed away and it was lost. This
ideology supported the funding for Steven Spielburg’s
‘The Shoah: The Last Days’ – a collation of oral
testimonies from survivors. Spielberg, financed by a
multitude of Jewish families, was instructed to create a
documentary that in essence would establish a record for
posterity on the atrocities of the Holocaust. Memory has
slowly been developed as the global benchmark for
evidence regarding the Holocaust, an event that lacked
physical, primary evidence.
The increase in technology in the 1980s allowed
historians to begin to collect and record crucial pieces of
evidence in new ways, thus generating a new sense of the
collective memory. Oral testimonies and memory were
traditionally used by ancient historians such as Herodotus,
to record significant events of their time. Through
inscribing practices, many survivors of these ancient
events were questioned about their experiences and as a
result the recordings we have of these events are similarly
subjective. However, ‘technological advances [have
permitted] increasingly electronically mediated
viewpoints … [leading to] new generations, [feeding] on a
diet of instantaneous information, [possessing] new
expectations of how the past should be viewed’(Hoskins,
2003, n.p). The new generation has adapted to the
technological innovations at the time with a culture that
feeds off the media for ‘factual’ information. Visual
media in particular has become the benchmark in
providing evidence and constructing history for the
greater population. It is efficient in its ability to
encapsulate seemingly non-subjective evidence and
provide an argument to influence the mass population,
contributing to the sense of collective memory. The 1978
series on the Holocaust was an example of the newfound
dependence on oral testimony and memory through
television. Through the recording of Holocaust survivors
and their experiences for future generations, personal
narratives have undertaken the predominant role as
evidence in all social institutions. Holocaust survivor Elie
Wiesel condemned the documentary as a ‘trivialisation’ of
the Holocaust and an insult to its survivors. Through the
99
power of increased technology, memory has been elevated
to be considered accurate and truthful while neglecting
the various historiographical issues and complications.
Trauma has a profound impact on the reliability of oral
testimonies and personal narratives. The emotional
reaction to particular events and experiences can cause
individuals to intentionally detach specific details, making
the experience easier to process at an older age. Trauma
centres itself on the ideology of ‘mourning’ which Freud
describes as ‘the reaction to the loss of a loved person, or
to the loss of some abstraction …’ (Freud, 1957, p244).
The notion of revisiting a past experience is embodied in
the concept of ‘Nachtraglichkeit,’ literally meaning
‘afterwardness’. This idea is interpreted by psycho-analysts,
Laplanche and Potalis, as ‘experiences, impressions and
memory – traces may be revised at a later date to fit in
with a new stage of development … endowed with not
only a new meaning but also with physical effectiveness’
(1973, p111–12).This is explored by Nicola King (2000) as
she suggests that the living historians have presented their
experiences for the specific purpose of defending the
Jewish integrity of the Holocaust in today’s context.
Memory has been fabricated and reproduced to appeal to
the sense of humanity and by extension mould a pro-Israel
view in the West. Trauma in the memory is additionally
considered to result in complications in the view of the
self. Memory is influenced by our perception of our own
identity. However, traumatic experiences may result in as
Dori Laub describes, ‘a split self’ … the inherit trauma
has caused a ‘split’ between the self who experienced [the
Holocaust] and the self who ‘survives’’ (King, 2000, p19).
In this manner, the individual has separated themselves
from the events in the attempt to make the event
unattached to themselves. Experiences lead to the creation
of identity and it is the self-perception of identity which
influences memory. It is in this manner that we recognise
the importance of memory in constructing historical
evidence with the influence of trauma on it leading to
flaws that are exploited by Holocaust revisionists.
It should be recognised that the Holocaust revisionist
argument is based on the subjectivity of memory and oral
testimonies. Holocaust denier David Irving specifically
targets the regurgitation of evidence by historians that

HISTORY
form the collective memory. Memory has become the
foundation of the Holocaust historians’ arguments,
particularly seen in the work of Deborah Lipstadt. Irving
states his belief that all historians have relied on an
‘inter-historian incest’ (1977, p10) when researching the
various Holocaust resources available. In the light of so
few resources, Irving’s finds provide a new and equally
justifiable argument on the Holocaust. Richard Evans in
his appraisal of the 1996 Irving – Lipstadt/Penguin case
over libel states that Irving claims, ‘each successive
biographer of Hitler has repeated or engrossed the legends
created by his predecessors … they had never bothered to
visit the surviving relatives of leading Nazis’ (Evans, 2001,
p16). Irving’s claim of the biased nature in the selection of
oral testimonies indicates the primary focus on only
interviewing surviving Jews, thus supporting the already
widely recognised view of anti-Nazi stance in Western
society. This therefore underlines that memory itself has
been selected and tailored to meet the necessary
arguments of the historians presenting it, with various
other elements of these sources being omitted to sustain a
particular view. The case was viewed by many to be in the
‘protection’ of history as Irving challenged the established
view of the Holocaust, which was regarded as the only
‘true’ history.
John Hope Franklin theorises that ‘the writing of history
reflects the interest, predilections, and even prejudices of a
given generation’ (Historiography: The Writing of History).
Consequently, memory due to its fickle nature is
continually adapting to the multiplicity of factors that
influence it. As a consequence the significant role memory
plays in the construction of any historical event can be
regarded as highly subjective. Carl Becker amply describes
the definition of history as ‘the memory of things said and
done’ (Historiography: The Writing of History), rather than
actual historical truth. This oral-based history has been
propagated as historical truth and thereby assumed within
popular culture. As society has developed socially and
culturally, memory’s role has become increasingly
ingrained into this historical process as a key piece of
evidence on an event such as the Holocaust. Technology
and the influence of visual media are often exploited when
creating a collective memory through accounts of
survivors. However due to memory’s personal nature, oral
testimonies such as those associated with the Holocaust
have been condemned as unreliable. Memory is generally
exposed to the collective memory of society and personal
preoccupations and therefore is altered. It is apparent
however, that regardless of the subjectivity surrounding
the reliability of memory, that oral testimony and
personal narrative have played a pivotal role in defining
the perception of historical truth and thereby have created
the popular interpretation of a ‘true’ history.
Matthew Blake
Year 12 History Extension Major Work
100

BENCHMARK
What motivated Julius Caesar when he crossed
the Rubicon, thus starting the Civil War?
Synopsis
This essay addresses the question: ‘What motivated
Julius Caesar when he crossed the Rubicon, thus starting
the Civil War?’ This question developed following an
in-depth examination of Caesar’s life where patterns of
behaviour indicated consistent motivation for reform and
ambition. However in the case of the Rubicon, his
motivation was somewhat ambivalent.
The essay begins with an examination of Caesar’s life
before the Rubicon and by using Caesar’s contemporaries
and modern historians it is found that reform and
ambition were key motivators. The essay presents an
analysis of Julius Caesar’s The Civil Wars. In this text
Caesar does not overtly reveal his personal ambition,
focusing instead on his reforms and defending the rights
of the Tribunes. The Civil Wars is then compared with
texts written by Caesar’s contemporaries, who argue that
he used reform as an excuse to start the war. Modern
historians are examined in order to discover a more
objective view of the issue. It is found that they focus
upon the conspiracies of Caesar’s enemies and the
influence this had upon the decision Caesar made at
the Rubicon.
The essay then analyses Caesar’s actions after the Rubicon.
After reviewing Caesar’s contemporaries and modern
historians, it is found that whilst he implemented a
number of key reforms there were issues concerning his
desire for a war in Parthia and his aspiration for kingship.
The essay draws upon the contemporary authors such as
Plutarch, Suetonius and Appian. Plutarch in particular
strongly puts forward the view that Caesar used reform as
a tool to begin the Civil War. The following modern
historians were the most useful in informing this essay:
Philip Freeman, Theodor Mommsen, and Michael Parenti
present the case that Caesar was driven by reform; Adrian
Goldsworthy, Ramon L Jiménez, Ronald Syme, Matthias
Gelzer and Howard Hayes Scullard predominantly argue
that he was driven by ambition.
The conclusion of the essay is that while Caesar was
motivated by both ambition and reform when he crossed
the Rubicon, the desire for reform was his primary
motivator.
101
Essay
In 49 BC Julius Caesar knew that by crossing the Rubicon
he was breaking Roman law which forbade a general
leading an army into provincial Italy. His decision would
eventually lead to the collapse of the Roman Republic and
the rise of the Roman emperors. The facts, importance
and repercussions have been studied by historians, past
and contemporary. However, what is in contention
amongst historians is what was driving Caesar: was it his
ambition for power, reputation and glory or was it his
belief in reform? The polarities between these two schools
of thought are reflected in the accounts of Caesar and his
contemporaries. The ambiguity in regards to Caesar’s
motivation has continued for the past two thousand years
and makes it impossible for there to be agreement among
modern historians. However, an analysis of how historians
examine Caesar’s life shows that the answer is reform.
Caesar’s life before 49 BC must be examined to find
evidence for discerning his motivations when he crossed
the Rubicon. If Caesar was a reformer he follows other
reformers of the period, such as the Gracchi brothers and
Sulla. Caesar was born in 100 BC into the illustrious Julii
clan who claimed relation to Aeneas of Troy and his
mother, the goddess Venus. As with all Patrician families
ambition was inbuilt into the men of the family and this
was emphasised for Caesar when at sixteen, he became
head of his household following the death of his father.
Caesar was, for a time, in hiding from Sulla because of his
refusal to marry his daughter and was later known for his
womanising. He was involved in a number of military
actions, won the Citizens Crown for bravery and rose
through the ranks of the Senate. He proved his great
oratory skills and was involved with the Populares’ cause
which sought to bring reform to Rome. Caesar brought
about the first Triumvirate with Pompey and Crassus to
gain his first Consulship, advancing his political career
and implementing a number of reforms. His time as
Consul saw him become enemies with the Optimates who
disliked the attacks he made on their power. He served as
the Governor of Transalpine Gaul and started a ten-year
campaign into Gaul which resulted in it being conquered
and Caesar becoming a hero of Rome. This indicates that

HISTORY
throughout Caesar’s life both reform and ambition played
a role.
Every aspect of Caesar’s life has been analysed by
historians in an attempt to understand what motivated his
actions. Freeman argues that given Caesar grew up in the
Subura, a poorer area of Rome, he had a greater
understanding of the plebeians (Freeman, 2008). Parenti
points out that Caesar showed morality over ambition
when he refused Sulla’s offer to marry his daughter and be
elevated into the dictator’s circle (Parenti, 2003).
Goldsworthy suggests that, ‘It is even possible to see
Caesar’s womanising as an extension of political
competition, sleeping with other Senators’ wives to prove
that he was the better man in the bedroom as well as the
forum’ (Goldsworthy, 2007, p105). Plutarch and
Suetonius make references to an event when Caesar
viewed a statue of Alexander the Great and became visibly
distressed (1983, 1989). According to Plutarch, Caesar
then said in regards to Alexander, ‘Do you think I have
not just cause to weep, when I consider that Alexander at
my age had conquered so many nations, and I have all this
time done nothing that is memorable’? (Plutarch, 1983,
p255). This event in Caesar’s life gives the impression that
Caesar was desperate for glory. Mommsen argues that
Caesar was the leader of the Popularis faction (Mommsen,
1854). Scullard writes that the triumvirate was a product
of ambition for Consulship and power, ‘Three men,
backed by armed force, by the urban populace and by
many of the Equites, imposed their will on the State and
destroyed the power of the Senate … The State and
constitution were now at the mercy of dynasts, principes,
who strove for potentia and dignitas’ (Scullard, 1970,
p118). However, Jiménez argues that Caesar needed the
triumvirate as, ‘The hidebound Senate, headed by its
Consuls elected by the nobility, had always been the
graveyard of reform’ (Jiménez, 2000, p47). Parenti argues
that Caesar’s reforms prove that he was focused on
bringing down the Optimate oligarchy (Parenti, 2003). In
regards to the Gallic Wars, Dio claims that some of the
soldiers complained that the war against Ariovistus had
not been authorised by the Senate, so that they were
risking their lives purely because of Caesar’s personal
ambition (Goldsworthy, 2007).
The first source available on the crossing of the Rubicon is
Caesar himself in The Civil Wars. In this account, the
Civil War was unavoidable because of the actions of his
enemies in Rome who were conspiring against him: ‘…
enemies were assembled in the Senate. Their words and
their numbers frightened the less resolute and emboldened
the hesitant, but robbed the majority of the power of free
decision’ (Caesar, 1966, p4). Caesar argues that his
enemies were preparing for war, ‘The remaining business
was immediately brought before the Senate: to institute
recruitment in the whole of Italy, to send Faustus Sulla
urgently to Mauretania, and to give money from the
treasury to Pompey’ (Caesar, 1966, p6). He mentions how
he wished to avoid war: ‘… (Caesar) was awaiting a reply
to his lenient demands, in the hope that, with some sense
of equity, a peaceable conclusion might be reached’
(Caesar, 1966, p11). He was forced, ‘To assert the freedom
of himself and the Roman people who had been oppressed
by a small fraction’ (Optimates) (Caesar, 1966, p35)
which was shown by ‘… the tribunician veto was being
censured and suppressed by force’ (Caesar, 1966, p7).
Caesar therefore viewed the crossing of the Rubicon as
something that was unavoidable and the right action
to take.
This view was disputed by many of Caesar’s
contemporaries who saw Caesar’s motives as
predominantly about his own personal ambition. Plutarch
around 90 AD argues against Caesar saying that he used
reform as a tool for his ambitious aims. Plutarch writes in
regard to the dismissal of the Tribunes, ‘… insulted
Antony and Curio and drove them out of the Senate in
disgrace. So of his own accord gave Caesar the best
possible excuse for taking action’ (Plutarch, 1983, p 275).
Plutarch focused on ambition by comparing Caesar to the
highly ambitious Alexander the Great, as he wished to
make the point that Greeks and Romans had more in
common than they liked to admit (Plutarch, 1983). This
idea of reform was continued by Suetonius, who wrote in
the first century while in charge of the imperial archives
under the Emperor Hadrian, ‘Force was, in effect used
and the Tribunes fled towards Cisalpine Gaul: which
became Caesar’s pretext for launching the Civil War’
(Suetonius,1989, p26). Lucan, who wrote in the first
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What motivated Julius Caesar when he crossed the Rubicon,
thus starting the Civil War? continued
century, suggests that Caesar could not accept Pompey as
an equal, as he had to be the first man of Rome and so felt
compelled to go to war with him (Goldsworthy, 2007).
The only near contemporary of Caesar who does not put
all the blame on Caesar is Appian, who argues both were
evenly at fault. He wrote during the reign of Antonius
Piso in the second century AD that the war had now
begun on both sides. Appian believed that Caesar was
driven by ambition when he stated, ‘In pursuit of his
ambition he was prodigal beyond his means’ (Appian,
1996, p69), but this was not referring specifically to the
Rubicon. The fact that these historians wrote hundreds
of years after the event, questions the reliability of their
accounts.
Over the last two hundred years historians have been
similarly divided in their views on what motivated Caesar
when he crossed the Rubicon, but they recognised the
need for reform in the Roman government. All of the
historians referred to are reliable in that they proffer a very
substantive basis to their views. They extensively reference
ancient and modern sources and all of their views are
substantiated by historical fact. All (including the Nobel
Prize Winner, Theodore Mommsen) explore the various
views on the motivations of Caesar at the Rubicon.
Ramon L Jiménez, who has written extensively on Ancient
Rome, makes reference to a number of events which
support the view that Caesar was being conspired against
by those in Rome by making reference to how ninety
percent of Senators on 1 December agreed to Caesar’s
disbarment proposal but it was blocked by twenty-two
Optimate Senators who manipulated the majority of the
Senate (Jiménez, 2000). Jiménez also states, ‘Although the
Senate’s vote was not a decree, Marcellus was on dubious
legal ground. Nevertheless, Pompey, so long accustomed
to responding to such calls to arms, began recruiting more
troops and preparing for war’ (Jiménez, 2000, p60),
indicating their desire for war. Theodor Mommsen
expresses the view that Caesar was the heroic reformer.
Mommsen was one of the founders of the liberal Deutsche
Fortschrittspartei (German Progressive Party) in 1861.
He compared the Optimates of Caesar’s time with the
Prussian Junkers of his own period (Mommsen, 1865).
103
Howard Hayes Scullard argues that there were tyrants on
both sides, ‘The hands of none of the leaders were spotless:
behind them all gleamed the corrupting influence of
power. No real principles were at stake. That was the
tragedy. It was a struggle for personal power, prestige and
honour, without regard for the libertas of others’ (Scullard,
1970, p143). Scullard and Ronald Syme write that Caesar
did not want the war as it showed his failing as a politician
and Pompey and the people of Rome did not desire the
war either, but the Optimates did (1970, 1974). Adrian
Goldsworthy suggests that ‘Caesar had not fought the
civil war to reform the Republic’ (Goldsworthy, 2007,
p459) but that Caesar recognised the problems that the
Republic Government had, ‘The Republic had become
dominated by a faction who ignored the normal rule of
law and particularly refused to acknowledge the
traditional powers and rights of the tribunate’
(Goldsworthy, 200, p459). Michael Parenti, a Marxist
historian who thinks the Optimates were to blame, writes
in regards to the dismissal of the tribunes, ‘They
(Optimates) had used armed force to abrogate the power
of the people’s tribunes. They had passed a harsh
ultimatum that normally was reserved for suppressing
mutiny or violence – for which there had been neither’
(Parenti, 2003, p126). Parenti reflects the Marxist
dialectic of the continuous class war. Philip Freeman
shares a similar view that the responsibility for the war
lay with the Optimates who wanted to bring down the
reformist Caesar, ‘On the other hand, they (moderates
of the Senate) saw the Optimates as reactionaries whose
unreasonable devotion to the status quo was pushing
Caesar and the Populares movement into open
rebellion’(Freeman, 2008, p234).
It is all very well that Caesar claimed to be fighting for
reform, with the breaking point being the removal of the
tribunes, but the following actions need to be analysed to
understand if he truly was fighting for the reasons he
publically announced. After Caesar advanced past the
Rubicon he quickly took over Italy, sparing many of his
enemies as he proceeded. He was successful in his wars
against Pompey in Greece, Cato in Africa and Pompey’s
sons in Spain ending in 45 BC. Caesar then carried out a

HISTORY
large number of reforms before he was assassinated on
15 March 44 BC.
Caesar wrote in regard to the clemency of his campaign,
‘Let us see if in this way we can willingly win the support
of all and gain a permanent victory … This is a new way
of conquest; we grow strong through pity and generosity’
(Caesar, 1966, p9). This implies that Caesar wanted to
bring about reforms in his new government that would be
long lasting. The effect that Caesar’s clemency had upon
Romans is best shown by Velleius Paterculus. Writing in
the early first century AD he describes how it went
beyond comprehension when Caesar pardoned his
enemies. Goldsworthy argues that his clemency was not
about bringing about lasting reforms but, ‘formed a
central part of Caesar’s propaganda campaign’
(Goldsworthy, 2007, p473). However Scullard makes
reference to how even during the civil war Caesar still
managed to carry out a number of reforms (1970).
This evidence indicates that Caesar did indeed wish to
reform Rome.
Gelzer (1969), Freeman (2008), Goldsworthy (2007),
Scullard (1970) and Suetonius (1989) all make reference
to the numerous reforms that Caesar brought to Rome
during the period in which he was Dictator, such as the
reforms to the grain dole, the banning of luxury items and
the harsher penalties for patricians and equestrians who
committed murder. Gelzer suggests that ‘Caesar was
unlike other Roman statesmen in that his political activity
was not bounded by the city state, but by the Empire’
(Gelzer, 1969, 273), shown by his introduction of new
colonies which Goldsworthy believes were much needed
(Goldsworthy, 2007). Syme reported that Caesar had no
desire to reform but found that with the death of so many
Senators he had to rebuild the crumbling Roman
government through reform (Syme, 1974). Jiménez makes
the point that most of these reforms would not aggravate
the Optimates as they did not increase the democracy of
Rome (Jiménez, 2000). Parenti disagrees with this point
saying, ‘Caesar’s concern was not to lord over the common
people but to outdo a powerfully entrenched aristocratic
oligarchy’ (Parenti, 2003, p164), but he admits that
‘Caesar never intended to level the rich and the poor but
he certainly wanted to roll back some of the worst class
abuses perpetrated by the wealthy’ (Parenti, 2003, p164).
This evidence indicates that Caesar brought in the
reforms he promised, thus making him the reformer
he claimed to be.
Caesar’s last actions are also important in determining
what motivated him. Gelzer suggests Caesar knew he
could not manage the affairs of a great empire on his own,
so he took steps to increase the number in the Senate to
almost one thousand members (Gelzer, 1969). Stephen
Dando-Collins argues, ‘In fact, Caesar was merely filling
the senate with men beholden to him for their elevation
and who would outnumber the aristocrats who sat in the
senate’ (Stephen Dando-Collins, 2010, p32). Scullard
proposes that Caesar merely did it because the Senate was
not large enough for the empire and needed to be
replenished before he began his campaign into Parthia
(Scullard, 1970). Gelzer (1969) and Philip Freeman
advocate that ‘… the greatest reason for an eastern
campaign was Caesar’s unquenchable ambition … Caesar
now in his mid-fifties, still dreamed of conquering new
worlds’ ( Freeman,2008, p384). This evidence indicates
Caesar clearly had ambition for further military glory at
the expense of carrying out his reforms personally.
Caesar’s absolute power was seen as a threat to the
Republic. Scullard puts forward the view that ‘Caesar had
acquired autocratic power, but whether he intended to use
this authority to overthrow the Republic and become king
remains uncertain’ (Scullard, 1970, p155). Plutarch
disagrees with this view writing that Caesar’s desire to be
king was the reason that he became hated not only by the
aristocracy but also by the people. Plutarch writes, ‘This
was indeed a tyranny avowed, since his power now was
not only absolute, but perpetual too’ (Plutarch, 1983,
p296). Plutarch gives the example of when, ‘contrary to all
custom, Caesar remained seated like a king while the most
respected body in ancient Rome stood and addressed him’
(Plutarch, 1983, p300), to prove that Caesar thought too
highly of himself. Suetonius said that Caesar ‘took other
honours which, as a mere mortal, he certainly should have
refused’ (Suetonius, 1989, p46). Jiménez writes, ‘By now
it had become clear, if it had not been clear before …
Caesar had no intention of restoring the Republican
institutions that he had claimed to be defending five
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What motivated Julius Caesar when he crossed the Rubicon,
thus starting the Civil War? continued
years before at the Rubicon’ (Jiménez, 2000, p230).
However, as Appian makes clear that in Caesar’s will ‘to
the people were bequeathed his gardens for public use and
also seventy-five denarii to every adult male Roman’
(Appian, 1996, p146), supporting the idea he did care for
the people. This evidence suggests that Caesar may have
been corrupted by power and turned away the reform he
claimed to be defending.
In conclusion, Caesar was clearly motivated by reform
when he crossed the Rubicon, starting the Civil War. It is
true that Caesar was an ambitious man and he exhibited
this ambition throughout his life. Many of the important
choices that Caesar made were borne out of his great
desire for power, reputation and glory. However, in the
case of the Rubicon, Caesar found himself in a war he did
not want but fought it for the greater good of Rome.
Caesar was forced to act as a result of the corrupt acts of
the Optimate Senators, who made the war unavoidable.
As Caesar said, ‘Still I am prepared to resort to anything,
to submit to anything, for the sake of the Commonwealth’
(Caesar, 1966, p 17).
Jack McDonogh
Year 12 History Extension Major Work
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