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Monday, July 14, 2025

Something New

 We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.  

POEMS IN RETROSPECT- A selection by Stephen Oliver (Greywacke Press Canberra, Australian Price $30) ; “THE GIRL FROM SARAJEVO” by Stef Harris (Quentin Wilson Publishing, $NZ35)

 


One of the most difficult things that a reviewer can do is to cover a poet’s whole life’s work. There will be effective and engaging poems and there will be flat and out-dated poems. Stephen Oliver’s Poems in Retrospect has been sitting on my desk for about four months, and in that time I have been reading my way through, it poem by poem. But you can’t critique every single poem in such a review, unless you want to write a couple of hundred pages. 380 pages long, Poems in Retrospect is a selection of the poetry Stephen Oliver has written between 1975 and 2023. New Zealand born and raised, Oliver lived in Australia for about twenty years and has now returned to New Zealand. He is published in both Australia and New Zealand. Poems in Retrospect was published by an Australian imprint. I make it clear that I was well acquainted with Oliver’s work before I began to read this expansive selection. On this blog you can find my [brief] comments on Oliver’s The Song of Globule and on his Luxembourg .

So to the text, where I deal with each collection that Stephen Oliver has written.

HENWISE (published 1975) stays with the barnyard and the chickens – in other words, a reflection on how animals behave. It is refreshingly clear in its vocabulary, but Oliver does use the situation to reference a “blood wedding” and he does mention the “Assembly of Fowls”, recalling the medieval days. Very readable.

THE NIGHT OF WAREHOUSES (published 1978 – 2000) deals with many more hard-headed things. Yes, he has poems dealing with rain, bird’s migration and a yearning for simplicity where it “takes me back to initial ancestors / who coupled together in thyme / who created the memory of me / that takes me backI am vintage / of all that consumes me.”  But in this collection he also produces poems about hard times in Auckland and becoming discontented with the city. This was, it seems, the beginning of his tendency to write critically about flaws in our society. He writes a poem honouring Hone Tuwhare; and in poems like “A “Far Noise From Near Things” comes across as an early cry about climate change as “the years pushed out by light, / the greenhouse globe over-photographed…”. At the same time – in step with trends back then – he makes critical comments about the history of the beat and post-beat poetry that was fashionable in the 1950s. He also makes reference to American pop culture in “Pat Boone and Tonto”. In this respect he makes references to some literary figures who are now largely forgotten.

NEW POEMS 1998 – 2000 often takes us into many controversial things. For example the poem “Copestone For a Nation”, over-heated and running together ideas that do not make themselves clear. As far as I can make it, Oliver is telling us that (in the past) colonial settlers were evil. It begins, “ Here is the place which flourished once in rampant / dishonesties, and there stands the sheared monuments / …boldly the canker creeps…” But he does not make his case clearly. Much of this section also deals with the U.S.A.

BALLADS, SATIRE & SALT: A Book of Diversions (published 2003) has the great merit of being clear and readable… and genuinely funny, especially in the poems “An Actual Encounter with the Sun on my Balcony at France Street” with the sun chastising him for being a lazy poet. Later – and justifiably – he takes some lashes at pub poets. Incidentally, it is at this stage that her cheerfully refers to movies like “Badlands” and “Fort Apache”.

EITHER SIDE OF THE HORIZON (published 2005) gives us “Letter to an Astronomer”, one of Oliver’s very best, a coherent discourse on the uncertainty about the universe, the “whirling of immeasurable galaxies” and how little we know despite all the knowledge that we think we have. Oliver turns to prose poetry in much of this section, often protesting current problems, such as “A Country Mile” about lethal landmines; “Emblem” ; “Morning Sends the Heart Soaring”; and in “A Simple Tale” a moving account of the way the Talban destroyed the famous statue of the Buddha. After this, there is a very long sequence called “Occupations”. It is made of 106 stanzas through many pages  (it began to make me think of Ezra Pound’s unending Cantos)… and Oliver’s purpose seems to be telling us all the flaws of Australia. There is much angry protest here.

HARMONIC (published 2008) deals with some sorrowful things. He laments poets who were killed in war, starting with “Charles Hamilton Sorley” who died in battle in 1915 when he was twenty. He does some speculation on “Should Angels Dance on a Pinhead” [though Oliver is not as well informed on this old canard as he thinks he is]. It is almost a relief after this to read his purely descriptive poem “Marooned” which begins “Groups of gulls at intervals / heading to the mountain, and the sea, / the other side of it; /  to a stretch of blue-grey water in a / gully, reservoir, or a refuse tip…

INTERCOLONIAL (published in 2013] is, I believe, the very best work Oliver ever wrote. In this selection we are given 25 pages of neatly presented four-line stanzas – mostly 7 stanzas per page. [And this is only part of the full poem.] What is this major poem about? Oliver deals with Wellington and environs as they were in earlier years, focusing on earthquakes that changed the land, shipwrecks and the perils of the sea… but then he moves to the way ships connected New Zealand with Australia, hence the title “Intercolonial”. Into all this he weaves notes on forebears, Marxism and the effects of booze. Not only is this enlightening about an age, a mood and a connection of nations [he has stanzas set in Oz], but he writes clearly without the obfuscation that clouds up some of his earlier works. It is an essential work and should be read by every literate Australian and New Zealander.

And so to lighter relief with GONE: SATIRICAL POEMS: New and Selected (published in 2016). Oliver gives us the sad “Ballad of Miss Goodbar” [the name of an American film which I once had to sit through] about a woman self-destructing by her addiction to rough sex. Then he has a go at certain writer – jocular sometimes and sometimes chastising.  There is “Dylan Thomas” with his death-by-alcohol. There is “Ballade of a Glossy” making fun of the gossip and drivel that fill the Australian Women’s Weekly . Then there is, ten pages long, “Letter to James K. Baxter”. Reading it reminded me of W.H. Auden’s “Letter to Lord Byron” i.e. a living poet addressing a dead poet. But whereas Auden deals with trends in society as it was is Auden’s day, I regret to say that Oliver turns to rant. But at least in this collection of satire, there is the fun of “Ballad of the Taj Mahal”, serenading a men’s dunny that used to be in Wellington.

At which point come LUXEMBOURG (published in 2018), turning to Europe; and THE SONG OF THE GLOBULE80 sonnets. Forgive me if I skim over these but, as I said at the beginning of this review, I have already written about these.

Finally comes CRANIAL BUNKER (published in 2023) delving into the negative side of humanity, much of it about the inadequate nature of most politics and the death of idealism. ‘Factory Town” gives us a dour view of the city where “Nobody talks about the mayor’s / speech he gave a few years back; the brouhaha it caused / the boosterism, hand claps and back slaps - / turning the munitions factory into a museum- theme park / revitalization of our abandoned factory town.” But out of a sheer cynical bent, I enjoyed the “Epigrams for the Disenchanted”.

I hope you understand that in writing this review I have made reference to only a very small number of Stephen Oliver’s work. Poems in Retrospect consists of many hundreds of poems. I have quoted only about thirty. In the earlier poems, I think Oliver was simply testing the waters. His early attempts at philosophising often come across as incoherent. He hits his target when he looks at concrete things, leading to his very best work Intercolonial. What is clearly in front of the reader is always more comprehensible. I am surprised that, in such a long “selection”, there are no poems [apart from the ironical ones] about intimacy and love.

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Now moving to two novella. I won’t beat about the bush. If you read this blog often you will be aware that I write reviews of fiction and non-fiction, and I like to analyse them in detail – sometimes perhaps in too much detail. But there are some books that can be reviewed more briskly. This does not mean that I brush such books aside thoughtlessly. It simply means that some books can be very easily understood and do not require great analysis. Thus is the case with Stef Harris’s two novellas The Girl From Sarajavo.

Stef Harris was a policeman for most of his life. His two novellas both deal with some level of criminality.

First Novella -  about 65 pages long - The Girl From Sarajavo. Katia comes to New Zealand from what used to be called Yugoslavia. She lives alone. She earns some money by working in a brothel [which she calls “the sausage factory”]. She desperately wants to be a published writer. She goes to a writing school but gets nowhere. Enter her neighbour, an old man, also Croatian, who helps her. He writes a novel in the Croatian language which she translates into English. She rewards lecherous old coot with sex. She passes off the novel as her all her own work. A publisher picks it up. It becomes a best seller. And… Okay, there is much more plot yet to come and I won’t be so nasty as to reveal everything that happens, especially because there are quite a few neat twists and finally a big sting-in-the-tale. Stef Harris obviously knows writing courses and their frequent bitchiness. He also has a good go at the media who puff up celebrities and then deflate them. So what’s a fair judgement on this novella?  It reads easily [I happily read it in one sitting]. It’s a good yarn. Is it great literature? Of course not. But I think a big audience would enjoy it.

Second novella The Other Jasmine – about 150 pages long – is unfortunately not up to the same level. Opportunistic young Chinese woman comes to New Zealand to marry a Kiwi so that she can become a New Zealand citizen… but the bloke she marries for convenience is a nitwit living with his horrible mother and they appear to be uncouth yokels. Retired police officer is worried because the same family had once “adopted” a young Chinese woman who had mysteriously disappeared. Had she been murdered? Retired police officer tries to work out what had happened, as well as making it his business to protect the  (new) Chinese woman. So far so more-or-less believable and Stef Harris – formerly a policeman - clearly knows much about New Zealand laws pertaining to immigration and how sleuths work. So far so reasonable. But gradually The Other Jasmine collapses into unlikely events and implausible nonsense ending with the type of shoot-out that would best be in an old-time B-movie. I say this with regret. The blurb that came with the book tells me that Stef Harris was for some years “a community constable working with immigrant women victims of family violence.” Perhaps Harris should have stepped back into reality and away from the melodrama…. And once again a certain audience would like this sort of thing

Something Old

 

     “MALRAUX – A Life” by Olivier Todd (Published in the original French in 2001; English translation by Joseph West)



            And after Clara Malraux’s Memoirs, here is another example of somebody writing about Malraux. Recently I read my way through the most detailed biography about Andre Malraux that has yet been written. I refer to Olivier Todd’s Malraux – a Life.  Olivier Todd (born 1929 – died 2024) was a Frenchman who inherited his English mother’s surname because his French father had scarpered before he was born. Olivier Todd was born and raised in France and he rarely spoke any language other than French. A journalist and a novelist, he was best noted as a biographer. He wrote biographies of Camus, of the poet and singer Jacques Brel, and of Malraux. Todd prepared his Malraux work over a number of years. Malraux died of cancer in 1976. Todd’s biography of him came out 25 years later in 2001. Despite being much younger than Malraux, Todd had some things in common with Malraux. They both, in their earlier years, were left-wing. But later they both sided with open and democratic societies. Todd writes many positive things about Malraux, but he also deals with his flaws, including his habit of lying about events in his life and falsifying documents. But the reader should beware of some of Todd’s judgments on Malraux. Todd was very much a disciple of Jean-Paul Sartre, and it is well-known that Sartre (and his partner Simone de Beauvoir) frequently ridiculed Malraux for being de Gaulle’s lacky as a minister of state. Part of their bile came from one obvious fact. Both Sartre and de Beauvoir had never been a part of the Resistance during the Nazi Occupation… but after the war, they claimed they had. [This has been well-proven in many recent French documentaries]. Although Malraux was himself often untruthful, he did at least fight against the Nazis in the latter part of the war, with great distinction. This is why there is an odd bias in some of Todd’s comments.

 Much as I found many interesting and informative things in  Malraux – a Life, I did ultimately find it a chore to read. It runs to over 500 large pages before the index and endnotes. I diligently scribbled many notes as I went through the biography, but if I had made use of them all, I would have written a review longer than you would ever want to see. So I’ve decided to deal with Malraux, as seen by Todd, by looking at him in terms of constant things in his life rather than boring you by giving a complete chronicle. For this reason I’ve chopped up Malraux’s life into different categories. Beginning with…

Family: Malraux (born 1901 – died 1976) came from a lower middle-class family in Dunkirk, part of France’s western sea-board. His father was a philanderer. Malraux had some siblings but also some half-siblings because his father Fernand Malraux divorced his mother and had children by another wife. Years later Malraux’s brother Roland and his half-brother Claude were both very active in the Resistance during the Second World War. They were both killed. Young Malraux worshipped his grandfather (who had been a mariner) and was always inclined to idolise heroic men. This was to be a life-long obsession. His father fought in the First World War and often told tales of his heroism when facing fire… tales which turned out to be complete lies. Malraux sometimes told [and wrote] lies about his own heroism. In the 1930s Malraux’s father committed suicide. Olivier Todd suggests that Malraux had what would now be called Tourette’s Syndrome. This has been disputed, but lifelong Malraux had strange tics, his head often shaking for no reason and his words coming out as an endless verbal stream. Young Malraux was a voracious reader and well-informed about literature, but he was only a mediocre schoolboy and didn’t get the necessary Baccalaureate. He never went to university. 

Wives and sex life: Like his father, Malraux was a philanderer. His first (and probably his most important) wife was Clara Goldschmidt, a German-Jew whose family had become naturalised French citizens. Clara was nearly four years older that Malraux and when they married (in 1921) Malraux was barely in his twenties. Their marriage was at first filled with travelling, visiting interesting places and discussions with intellectuals in Paris. Todd says of the couple in their early years “he acts the peacock; she acts the cultured coquette.” (Chapter 3) They were also together in Malraux’s attempt to steal and sell for profit statues in Indo-China (Phnom Pen)… which led to his briefly being put into jail, from which he was bailed out by Clara who devised a petition that was signed by many writers and critics. [By the way, although he had been given a sentence for jail, he was really housed in a comfortable hotel in Saigon during his brief sojourn.] This was when Malraux was just beginning to write – getting articles in prestigious magazines (Nouvelle Revue Francais etc.) and making a living by buying rare books and selling them for a great price (and occasionally dabbling in pornography). He met Louis Chevasson, a man of his own age who became his life-long friend and advocate. He also learnt how to use the right sort of type-faces and fonts for publications [he had a long connection with the Gallimard publishing house] ; how to write literary reviews that would stir up controversy; and how to associate with important writers, from aesthetic Andre Gide to Pierre Drieu la Rochelle on the right and Louis Aragon on the left [for more about Drieu la Rochelle, look up my review of his novel Le Feu Follet on this blog May 15 2017]. In all this, Clara collaborated with Malraux, typed up some of his works, gave him helpful criticism and joined him in binges [she smoked opium; he preferred alcohol]. But by the 1930s their marriage was falling apart. He had many casual affairs. So did she. Their only child, Florence, was born in 1933, but that didn’t mend things. They separated without formally getting divorced. .. though she insisted for years that she was still his wife and often had rows with the other women with whom he cohabited. Malraux had a long liaison with Josette Clotis [who had had many lovers]. When she first got pregnant, he wanted her to have an abortion. She rebelled against that. The child was born and later they had another child… and then they separated. After many more casual affairs, he finally got his legal divorce from Clara. He then married Marie-Madeleine Louix, who was the widow of his half-brother Claude. And some years after that he did not divorce Madeleine but he went to another house and cohabited with Louise de Vilmorin. The fact is, where women were concerned he was a bit of a swine. Olivier Todd notes, truthfully, that in his novels Malraux found it very difficult to create credible female characters and left them in the background of his narratives.

Genuine Courage: Despite his capacity to fabricate stories about himself, Malraux did do some courageous things. In the first nine months of the Spanish Civil War, he put together a squadron of war planes to fight for the Republicans and against Franco and the Nationalists. He did the hard work of gathering together professional pilots who were paid – not volunteers – and as he had never been a pilot himself, he flew in many sorties as a gunner instead. This was dangerous as the (Republican) Spanish war planes, and some French planes that had been smuggled in, were antiquated and barely a match for the more modern [Nazi] German and [Fascist] Italian planes they had to deal with. A number of times, the planes in which he was gunner were almost shot down or came back to base severely damaged. However his squadron was disbanded (under Communist pressure) and many of his pilots were absorbed into the official Spanish air-force. Malraux’s novel L’Espoir is basically an account of his experience in Spain. Todd notes that Malraux spent most of 1938 preparing a film about the war in Spain called “Sierra de Teruel”. Todd is very positive about this film, regarding it as both persuasive and skilful; and much better that Joris Ivens’ very preachy film “The Spanish Earth” which has been too often regarded as a masterpiece.

In the Second World War, Malraux was able to put together the Alsace-Lorraine Brigade, giving himself the code-name Colonel Berger [even though his previous experience as a French soldier was brief at the beginning of the war]. He did lead the Brigade very valiantly, faced many dangers and kept up the morale of the brigade as they pushed on though Alsace and Lorraine towards Germany. In this he learnt how to control a brigade of tanks.  His brigade protected Strasbourg and were part of the attack on Stuttgart. For this he was rightly awarded the Croix de Guerre, the Medaille de la Resistance and the British Distinguished Service Order. Nothing about this should be belittled.

UNFORTUATELY, once the war was over, Malraux exaggerated his war experience, and his words made their way into some hagiographic books about him. Malraux claimed that he had been among the first to join the Resistance as soon as the Nazis invaded France and Petain’s Vichy regime collaborated with them. This was a not true. Malraux had been in the French army at the beginning of the war, but when the Petain “armistice” came in, Malraux withdrew from the fight. He avoided any connection with the Resistance until very late. When some Resistants tried to persuade him to join the fight, he said such haughty things as “Well, if you want to play soldiers” and “I have had enough of lost causes.” [quoted by Todd in Chapter 20]. In fact he joined the fight only in the last phase of the war. It was in the early months of 1944 – when D-Day was already in progress and Free-French, American and British forces were heading for Paris – that he suddenly became an active patriot, and formed his brigade. It is true that he was once stopped by German troops and was interrogated at length, but they let him go in the belief that he was not part of the Resistance. He also claimed that he had been in charge of the Resistance in many regions of France. Malraux never publicly retracted his falsehoods, but in his later years he did discretely have removed from his record some of the awards he had been given, knowing that he had not really earned them.

In fairness, though, in his “Conclusion” Olivier Todd notes –  tongue-in-cheek - that there was nothing extraordinary about Malraux’s behaviour. He writes “Not all the French were supporters of Petain. Nor were they all members of the Resistance. Malraux, by joining the Resistance in the Spring of 1944, is therefore an excellent average Frenchman.”

 


 Engish language version of Olivier's biography of Malraux

Novels and Literature: Malraux is now best remembered for his novels, but they were nearly all written in his early years – “Les Conquerants” (1928); “La Voie Royale” (1930); “La Condition Humaine” (1933); “L’Espoir (1937)… and that is really the best of the crop. He did also write a novella called “Le Temps du Mepris” (1935)  about a Communist prisoner in Nazi Germany who manages to escape with the help of another man who sacrifices himself because he knows how important the escapee is to the Communist Party. Communist readers loved it, but Malraux himself came to see it as a cheap pot-boiler and refused to allow it be re-printed. In the early years of the Second World War, he began to write what was intended to be a trilogy called “La Lutte avec l’ange”, a generational saga. But he got to write only the first volume “Les Noyers de l’Altenburg”. As for “La Lutte avec l’ange” itself, he claimed that it had been confiscated from him and destroyed by the Nazis… which was another lie. Really, from the 1930s on, he was more interested in writing books about art (often lavishly presented with illustrations), travel in Asia, his theory that Gothic Art was always linked to the Far East, and occasionally philosophical musings. In all he wrote 42 books about art. Todd says (Chapter 37) “The over-heated Malraux, drugged up and supercharged on words, like Sartre, often writes on art faster than he thinks.  Malraux’s reputation as an author revived when he published his “Anti-Memoirs” in 1967, but that was his last literary hurrah. Says Todd in his “Conclusion” “his readiness to think that the novel was now moribund was also motivated by the fact that he had lost the touch for it.” Todd also says (Chapter 31) “The chosen title ‘Anti-Memoirs’ signals that chronology and accuracy, as an historian might see them, does not count.” Quite so.

Fantasies and Charlatan-ism: It might sound a little like killing an ant with a sledge-hammer, but there were times when Malraux claimed to have accomplished things when he had not. Malraux was in no way an archaeologist, but he claimed to have wide knowledge of ancient sites. Obsessed with the Middle East and Asia, in 1930 he and Clara travelled first to China (where for the first time he really got to know about China… even though he had already written a novel set in China). Then he went to [what was then called] Persia. In this “archaeologist” phase, he chopped off the heads of statues, and then sent then back to Paris… from which he made much money. Over the years, he accumulated many art-works – paintings and sculptures – many of which ended up in whatever houses he lived.

A few years later, in an age when aviators were regarded as heroes, he hired a plane and a pilot, telling the world that he was searching for the authentic palace of the Queen of Sheba [who, by the way, probably never existed]. His plane flew hither and thither around Northern Africa and Arabia, looking for the site. Finally – from the air and not landing – he took photos of what he claimed to be the site. He wrote newspaper articles saying that he had discovered the palace of the Queen of Sheba… at which real archaeologists collapsed with mirth. Malraux stuck to his guns. But only a few years later, it was proven that what Malraux had seen was an oasis that had been there for only a couple of centuries.

In the de Gaulle era [late 1950’s - late 1960s], when Malraux was a Minister of the State, he gave many lectures on television – a relatively new thing in France – mainly about art, especially about Asian art and how it had influenced Western art. There is no doubt that he could be a compelling speaker and he gained a large audience, though many viewers found it hard to follow what he was saying, as he tended to rush at speed and use incomprehensible words. [Stepping aside from Olivier Todd’s book, I plucked off my shelves Clive James’ Cultural Amnesia, wherein he dealt with influential writers and thinkers in the 20th century. He had a chapter on the French critic Jean-Francois Revel who said that Malraux was really a popularising speaker, who knew nothing about archaeology, and who was often wrong about art. Probably true.]

 

                                                             Olivier Todd 

And now for what may well have been the most important thing in Malraux’s life, viz…

Malraux’s Politics. As a young man, he had been more litterateur and bohemian than interested in politics. But after his first visit to French Indo-China in the 1920s, he became disgusted with the French Colonial regime. He was in some ways then the French equivalent of the English George Orwell, who was also disillusioned by colonialism. So, going back to Saigon, Malraux and Paul Motin set up a newspaper called L’indochine enchainee [Indo-China in Chains]. It didn’t have a large circulation, but for the best part of two years, it was able to criticise, ridicule and attack the colonial regime…until it was shut down. Malraux never became a Communist, but he did often side with them. In his early novels “Les Conquerants” and  La Condition Humaine”, he does present Communist activists in heroic terms.

By the early 1930s he, and many others, were afraid of the growing Nazi movement in Germany and were appalled that Nazis made Germany a one-party totalitarian state. Waspishly, Olivier Todd notes that many of those who were appalled by this managed to ignore that Soviet Russia had been a totalitarian one-party state since 1917. In these circumstances, Malraux sided with the Soviets. Olivier says “the shrewdness of Malraux and others is short-sighted – their left eye has a large blind spot that prevents them from seeing the totalitarian Soviets” (Chapter 11) . Malraux spoke briefly with Trotsky after he has been purged by Stalin, but soon he went along with the Stalinist line. He was often tutored by the two Soviet propagandists Willy Munzenburg and Ilya Ehrenburg when it came to the massive Soviet Writers Congress and later the International Writers Congress for the Defence of Culture. Many [left-wing] French Writers were invited. Romain Roland  was the darling of the Soviets. Andre Gide proved to be the wild card – he nodded politely at the congress, but he did some careful research and he found out what Stalin’s kingdom was really like – so he went back to France and wrote “Retour de L'U.R.S.S.” (“Coming Back From the U.S.S.R.” ), denouncing the totalitarian state. As for Andre Malraux, he made some rousing speeches about the progress of the U.S.S.R. and the brotherhood of man… but he didn’t exactly follow the party line. He began to be uneasy about the purges, the gulags, the Russian writers who had been shut down or liquidated. He criticised the dullness of “social realism”, Stalin’s official idea of how novels should be written and - to his credit – he helped one man escape from the Cheka [Soviet secret police] and make it to France. Still, as a fellow traveller, he mainly kept his mouth shut. That was the last of his admiration of pure Stalinism. In the Spanish  Civil War, he soon cottoned-on to the fact that the International Brigades were overwhelmingly made up of Communists and organised by the sadistic Andre Marty; and the squadron Malraux had put together was closed down by Communist pressure. Then came the Stalin-Hitler Pact in 1939. French Communists neatly said that the war against Hitler was merely a war between capitalists… so there was no point in joining the Resistance. French Communists joined the Resistance only after Hitler invaded Russia… then suddenly the war became a Soviet Holy War. Could it be that Malraux didn’t fully join the Resistance for four years only because of the Communists had set the pattern for just sitting back? Who knows.

Left-wing Malraux finally had the scales dropping from his eyes, towards the end of the war, when he saw that “the Communists made a determined effort to infiltrate the Resistant bodies all over France and now, when they can, they are penetrating those of the state.” (Chapter 23). There is no doubt that many French Communists fought bravely in the Resistance, but they were never the majority of the Resistance, and other (non-Communist) Resistants had no desire to be absorbed into a Communist-run body…

From this point on, in the late 1940’s, Malraux was dedicated to General de Gaulle. He had good reason for this. De Gaulle had built up the Free French army, lead the victory parade when Paris was liberated in 1944, and had frequently - in the war - talked to the French people via the B.B.C. Although he was sometimes abused as being a potential dictator, he never was one, despite his haughty demeanour. Gaullists were a great counter-balance to the Communists. Malraux quickly became one of de Gaulle’s inner circle. Malraux wrote some of the propaganda for the Gaullist party. It took quite some time in the 1950’s for the party to gain much traction. Meanwhile it was a different president who presided over France’s messy attempt to cling to Indo-China in the 1950s, from which they finally had to withdraw (and leave the Americans to pick up the mess in the 1960s… and they also failed.). In 1958 there was the crisis in Algeria. Its indigenous people wanted to separate from France. French settlers wanted to stay. There was another messy war. There was a referendum . De Gaulle won and became President, with France having a new constitution, the 5th Republic… and de Gaulle agreed to Algeria becoming independent.

By this time, Andre Malraux, middle-of-the-road liberal, had become a member of de Gaulle’s cabinet. He was made Minister for Culture. He was sometimes a quasi-ambassador who would escort important people (like Jackie Kennedy, to whom he dedicated his Anti-Memoirs). He was also a globe-trotter who met with the likes of Mao Tsi Tung and Nehru. His admiration of great and powerful men was a life-long obsession, and he wrote in detail about all the wonderful things he had said in long conversations with Mao and Nehru… but Todd says that at most his dialogue with each actually lasted for at most about a quarter-of-an-hour. In 1968, there were massive riots in Paris involving students and later many workers from industrial sites…. But there was a bigger backlash against Communists and other extreme left-wingers, and even greater demonstrations supported de Gaulle. It was Minister of Culture Malraux who lead a massive rally up the Champs Elysees… but the following year de Gaulle stepped down and Pompidou took over. [Many left-wingers changed their minds about Communism because the great riots happen in the same year that the Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia.] And so Malraux faded into the twilight of politics, was able to write his memoirs, and died of cancer in 1976.

Many judgments were made upon him. Todd’s preface says that the very level-headed Raymond Aron wrote that Malraux was “one third genius, one third false, one third incomprehensible”. Todd himself says “in all his writing, Malraux mixed the reality of his life and his imagination.   These seem fair verdicts. But at least some of Malraux’s books are worth reading.

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I was planning to write yet another posting in which I would give my personal judgement on the merit of Malraux’s literary works. But by this stage I have given you seven postings about Malraux – his four most important novels, his anti-memoirs, what his first wife thought of him, and a biography of him. And by now I’m sure you’re sick of the man. The fact is, I can say all I want to say about the quality of his work in a few sentences. First, at his best he was a good journalist. When he is dealing with action – in uprisings in China, in the Spanish Civil War, in his memories of the French Resistance – he is very vivid and readable. [And I add that his version of the Spanish Civil War is far more honest than Ernest Hemingway’s  Hollywood-ish For Whom the Bell Tolls.] But second, he too often goes into vague pseudo-philosophic fugues in which his vocabulary becomes impenetrable. No wonder Raymond Aron said he was “one third incomprehensible”. Then, in his novels, there is that macho streak where manly power and strength are the main virtues… which goes along with his inability to deal intelligently with women… which borders on misogyny. Always loathing the far right and moving away from the far left, his politics were ultimately good but there was always his tendency to over-rate his influence as a leader. As an historian, I find his work very interesting. But I would not rate his novels and memoirs as classics. Read him as history, not as literature.

 

Something Thoughtful

 Nicholas Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree or disagree with him.     

                                     LOUD, SO LOUD, BUT GREAT PERFORMANCE

A few weeks ago, my wife and I had the privilege of going to the Auckland Town Hall and enjoyed hearing and seeing the New Zealand Youth Orchestra perform. The New Zealand Youth Orchestra is made up of budding musicians, ranging between the ages of 15 and 24 years old. This year they performed only once in Auckland and once in Wellington; but after all, this orchestra is not made up of professional musicians. There are high-school students and university students in the orchestra although, of course, many of them want to become professional musicians. The NZYO performed wonderfully to a packed audience. Alright, I am not an expert in classical music, but I love listening to it and I thought the NZYO’s performance was as polished as the best symphony orchestras are.

Of course there were the standard distractions. Many in the audience were obviously proud mothers and fathers and many other off-springs and cousins, some of whom had never been to a symphony concert before. So there was the inevitable clapping of hands between movements of Sergei Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony and between each part of Richard Strauss’s Four Lieder. Obviously the conductor, a genial Canadian chap called Adam Johnson, was at first a little surprised by this, but he soon took to turning around briefly and nodding to the audience before getting on with the next movement.  Maybe he was used to this faux pas.  

Then there was for me a mild annoyance. Sitting right in front of me were a little boy and a little girl – aged about seven and five, I would guess – who wriggled and wriggled throughout the performance. In fairness, however, with Mum and Dad on either side of them, they did not make any noises. Another distraction was people walking into the town hall long after the music had started, and noisily finding their places.

So, apart from my grumpy comments in the last two paragraphs, I make it clear that the New Zealand Youth Orchestra was outstanding.

BUT [you knew that word was coming] I have one grouse.  If you put together all the talented young people who are aiming to become professional musicians and who are part of the NZYO, then you have to accommodate all the young violists, violaists, celloists, brass of all sorts, woodwind of all sorts, tympany, French Horns, core anglais etc. etc. You have to choose music that will make use of every possible member of the whole ensemble. So the music has to be, not just loud [apart from string quartets and soloists, all classical music is loud] but it has to be grandiose, very loud in many places and, appealing to youngsters, romantic, often sobbing, often shouting assertively. Thus it was. Battering my ear-drums at the concert came Richard Strauss’s Don Juan. Yes, a busy, shouting, sobbing, self-pitying grandiose thing. Confession: I loved it when I was a teenager. I even bought a record of it [vinyl naturally] and played it over and over. And now? Well it’s fitting for teenagers. As for Sergei Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony – erm – it too is a grandiose sobbing this, adored by me when I was younger. The lovely Four Lieder of Richard Strauss were naturally a quieter thing and Luka Venter’s avant-garde Glacier was interesting, so I can’t complain too much. But next time folks, why don’t you choose at the top of the bill some jolly, non-self-pitying thing for the very talented young musicians. How about Le boeuf sur le toit?… though maybe the trumpeters would be left out.

 Oh dear. Very hard to find the right piece. And aren't I just too picky?

Monday, June 30, 2025

Something New

  We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.  

  “THE ORIGINS OF AN EXPERIMENTAL SOCIETY – New Zealand, 1769-1860” by Erik Olssen (Auckland University Press, $NZ 65:00)

            First, two judgments.

First The Origins of an Experimental Society is an outstanding book. Many good historians have written histories of New Zealand, usually giving some pages to the indigenous Maori people before moving on to politics, controversies, wars, immigration etc. Many historians have written about the impact on the Maori people when Pakeha arrived, and how Maori and Pakeha adjusted [or didn’t adjust] to one another. While Erik Olssen does deal with these things, his focus is on how European [mainly English] thinkers wanted to apply humanitarian and “enlightenment” ways of introducing themselves to the Maori people and, as they saw it, humanely helping the Maori people to become aware of the modern world beyond them. This is what the “experimental society” of the title is all about. Olssen’s book is erudite, thoroughly researched, filled with information and – for this reader – very enlightening. I say this as an historian.

Second, with the deepest regret, I fear that apart from academics, reviewers and real students, very few people will read this book. Why? Because it is very long, very detailed [as any worthwhile work of history should be] and does not simplify. Olssen’s focus is often on the theories and ideas when late-18thcentury and mid-19thcentury intellectuals attempted to grapple humanely with the Maori people. Olssen explains in detail what these theories were and quotes them copiously.  I did not struggle with reading it because – especially in the first two chapters -  every page told me something new or something that other historians had not dealt with. But most readers would probably seek for something shorter and simpler. A pity. Be it noted (as Olssen says in his Introduction) that The Origins of an Experimental Society is only the first of three books which will take us through to the late nineteenth century. The second and third books will be published later. Olssen had been working on this project for over 25 years.

Having made my judgment, what more can I do but tell you how The Origins of an Experimental Society is organised?

In his Introduction , Olssen says the creators of the Enlightenment [essentially French and English philosophes and theorists of the 18th century] are central to his thesis.  Humanitarianism and Evangelicalism grew out of this, leading to the idea that the [Maori] people of New Zealand could be uplifted, brought into the modern world, and not exploited. This was a radical idea inasmuch as previous European colonisation (England taking over much of North America, Spain cruelly exploiting South and Central America, Australia used as a dumping-ground for convicts) had regarded indigenous peoples as their inferiors. Olssen notes that recently there has been a generation shift so that at the 250th anniversary of  Captain Cook, many pundits and activists claimed that Cook was merely a racist and all Europeans who came to New Zealand were merely land-grabbers. This perspective he challenges in detail.

Chapter One – Meeting, 1769-1814 examines how Europe found the Pacific… and how Cook was engaged in the ideas of the Enlightenment. His first voyage to New Zealand brought with him Banks, Solander and other savants who, in scientific ways, gathered much about botany, ornithology, astronomy, navigation and currents; and learning much about the Maori people and their language. Cook was impressed by the Maori people, their courage and warrior skills and especially on the east side of the North Island where he saw Maori settlements diligently planting and raising crops. At this point, thanks in part to the likes of  Rousseau, there was the idea of the Noble Savage. The French navigator Bougainville had “discovered”  Tahiti which seemed to be Paradise on Earth because the people were peaceful, not belligerent, and [to the delight of lecherous sailors] their ideas of sexuality were different from those of Europe. [Neatly ignoring that Tahitians regularly committed infanticide]. Cook at first thought that the Maori people were similarly peaceful and in their own way “civilised”. But he gradually learnt that while the Maori language was understood by all Maori [allowing for dialects], there were many different cultures… and he was appalled to discover, on his later voyage, that some Maori tribes practised cannibalism. While he still admired the Maori people, he was more sceptical about the Noble Savage. Even so, before his death, he was worried about the type of Europeans who might enter into New Zealand without humanitarian purposes.  As well as examining Cook’s views, Olssen considers many people who contributed to the humanitarian idea and to science with regard to New Zealand. Along with this, there is the impact of Forster and others who considered ethnology, ethnography and anthropology. This deals with the first real interest that Europeans had in New Zealand.

            Chapter Two – Entangling 1814 – 1830 moves into the era when Europeans began to engage with Maori and enter New Zealand. Once again, these newcomers took some time to understand that although there was more-or-less one Maori language, there were also many different cultures in different parts of New Zealand. Sealers, whalers and in some cases convicts had some influence in intruding into the land. But at the same time there were the London Missionary Society  and the [Anglican] Church Missionary Society beginning to spread the Bible. They introduced potatoes, grain, metal, axes, hatchets and tomahawks, all of which were welcomed, especially in the Northern part of the North Island where Pakeha most often landed. Maori were also interested in books… especially when a written version of the Maori language was devised by English scholars. Many Maori also adopted as garb the European blanket in place of traditional Maori clothing. Maori adopted new foods and became more attuned to Pakeha customs. Pakeha gradually understood the fluidity of Maori social relationships where rank, title, power, authority and prestige were associated. But Pakeha never quite understood how iwi acted as a community. Remember, of course, that this transformation was happening mainly in the very north of the North Island.

            Olssen always reminds us of the largely humanitarian aims [most] Protestant evangelists had. They worked on the assumption that teaching Maori crafts, the value of work, industry, and honesty would lead to a knowledge of God. To coordinate this endeavour, Samuel Marsden arrived with some “mechanics”, and on Christmas Day 1814 he performed a showy service before Maori Rangatira and other worthies. But, as Olssen says, the English men [and English women] did not always work well together and evangelists often quarrelled so that by the 1820s the whole mission seemed to have failed. Worse came what are generally called “the musket wars” [although Olssen does not like the term]. Unscrupulous gun-runners sold muskets to Maori. Hongi Hika proceeded to slaughter other iwi in much of the Te Ika-a-Maui [North Island]… and later Te Rauparaha did likewise. It is estimated that about 20,000 Maori were killed in these inter-tribal wars – more than the casualties that New Zealand suffered in the First and Second World Wars. Long gone was the idea that Maori were largely a naturally peaceful people. Olssen speaks of the “fissiparous nature of Maori tribalism” for the impact of the tribal wars changed completely where iwi were now located, and how many smaller iwi were absorbed into more dominant iwi. And [like it or not] many victorious iwi enslaved defeated iwi – in some cases eating the dead corpses of the vanquished.

            This whole era of tribal wars burnt itself out by the late 1820s. Maori turned toward peace and this meant that many, exhausted by destructive wars, turned more towards Christianity. Not only had literacy spread, but far more Maori chose to be baptised. Maori women in particular led the way. Having noted all this, Olssen  reminds us that the Maori cultures of the South Island were not the same as the cultures of the North Island, and notes that it was in the distant Te Waipounamu [ the South Island] that in the South, more Maori women were likely to marry Pakeha.

            Chapter Three -Amalgamating, 1830-1840. Essentially this long chapter deals with the way England gradually accepted the idea that New Zealand could become part of the British Empire, leading up to the Treaty of Waitangi. There was British fear that New Zealand could be taken over by the French; but the French government was more interested in taking over Tahiti, New Caledonia and other islands in the Northern part of the Pacific. Still,  there were alarms when the eccentric de Thierry proclaimed himself King of New Zealand and took over a small patch of the North Island; and a community of French were settling in Akaroa in the South Island. Some [Protestant] missionaries were upset by the fact that the French Catholic Bishop Pompallier had arrived, and he was gathering many Maori into the Catholic faith. Much later the French navigator d’Urville examined New Zealand’s coasts in detail as part of his exploration of the Pacific [Olssen rates him one of the greatest scientific explorers of the era].

By this stage, many iwi were becoming entrepreneurs, trading and understanding commerce as Pakeha did. Concerned at the corruption of the Maori people by visiting sailors and whalers, especially at Kororareka [later known as Russell], missionaries requested a “resident” to represent British law. Enter James Busby. He did consult with rangatira, drew up a charter of Maori independence and devised a flag for the Rangatira –Maori understood that a flag represented a nation as shown by the flags of the British, French, American etc. . But Busby did not have any real legal power over British settlers.

            So we move on to the circumstances that led to the Treaty of Waitangi with all its ambiguity. British humanitarians feared that private companies – such as the [Wakefield] New Zealand Company – would exploit Maori while colonising and taking over lands. Real government was needed, Hobson was sent to work out a way of including Maori and Pakeha under British law. [ Of course Olssen gives far, far more detail than I am giving here – including that fact that the English-language version of the treaty was drafted and drafted many times but only one Maori-language version was penned… and most Maori leaders understood that the spoken discussion was the important part of the treaty.] When Maori leaders had signed the Treaty, Hobson said “we are now one people” and assured Maori that they would still own their lands and would be treated under the law in the same way as the Pakeha. Maori saw this as a guarantee that the King of England would protect them. At this time, [probably] about 100,000 Maori lived on the North Island and only about 1,200 on the South Island.

            In all this, Olssen frequently uses the term “the evangelistic-humanitarian ethos”. He sees the treaty as part of this ethos. But what followed was not always enlightening or humanitarian.       

Chapter Four – Planning and Dreaming. More humane plans were made for the settlement of British people in New Zealand. Olssen sees Wakefield, for all his flaws, as trying to create a positive way of colonising, wherein the Maori people would be involved. For example Wakefield and others considered the idea of “concentration”  in which settlers would create towns land farm, and in such communities there would be room for Maori. In England, there were many theorists aware that not all settlers would be positive about the Maori. Therefore, the theory suggested, it was necessary to have a strong administration that could check tension between Maori and Pakeha.

            In this era, as Olssen makes clear, there were many radical ideas being adopted by some groups and challenged by others in Britain – the Chartists seeking full suffrage for all men of any class. Working-class people wanting to escape to a more open society away from the unsanitary conditions of British cities. Socialists at a time when Marx and Engels were becoming influential. The idea of New Zealand as a possible “Better Britain” was much discussed. As settlers began to enter New Zealand, many acclimatised European flowers and vegetables, new to Maori. Unlike England, there was to be no “established” church. [For different reasons, Australia, Canada, and other British possessions also accepted the idea of having no established church.] Olssen notes that the New Zealand Company had good intentions when, in building towns,  they endorsed “Pepper Potting” as a means of settling Maori in towns where they would gradually adopt British habits.. But this was not to the taste of Maori. “Pepper Potting” was still used right up to the mid-20th century, the idea being that no ghettos would be formed. The good intentions were not fulfilled.

            Once again, Olssen reminds us that for all its many flaws, the initial colonialisation of New Zealand was far more humane and caring for the indigenous people than the initial colonialisation of Australia, Canada or South Africa.

Chapter Five – Settling, 1840-1853. The Treaty of Waitangi had been signed, but this was only the beginning of many controversies. Did the Maori people interpret the treaty differently from the way the British interpreted it? In Britain some cabinet ministers and other political leaders suggested that the treaty was illegal.  Those who had [in England] invested in the New Zealand Company had different views from the missionaries and other humane writers. At this time, utilitarian and other radicals had agreed that in New Zealand there should be equality of Christian denominations – in other words, there would be no “established” church.  Olssen comes back to this issue a number of times, once again connecting it with the Enlightenment.

Considering how Wellington fared at this time, there was awareness that the British government believed many of the deals made by the [Wakefield] New Zealand Company had not been fully understood by the Maori who had “sold” their land.  Hence such deals were judged void. Some settlers saw themselves as self-governing and it took some years before they understood that they were now under the Crown and its laws. Wellington was the largest settlement in the 1840s, but – even while settlers also moved into the Hutt Valley – Wellington was geographically too hemmed in, making it difficult to raise crops and feed the small city. Most often, it was Maori outside Wellington who provided potatoes and other foodstuffs to Wellingtonians.  Moving on to the main  [Wakefield] New Zealand Company settlements, Olssen looks in detail at New Plymouth and Nelson. New Plymouth was quickly set up after six ships disembarked 920 immigrants. Different Christian denominations made up this community. In contrast, Nelson was very much dominated by Anglicans. In both these colonies, settlers often depended on Maori to feed them and showing these new arrivals what plants were edible, the right seasons for planting etc.  There were already disputes over which land was legitimately bought by the newcomers.

At this point, Olssen considers how employees arriving in New Zealand expected to be paid fair wages by their employers. This was inspired by the Chartists and the Radicals of England, leading towards an assumption of egalitarianism in New Zealand. For this reason, every so often there were small riots when wages were too meagre.

Many incomers did not understand that while the Crown set down the law, many Maori understood that – according to the Treaty of Waitangi – they could continue to hold by their own traditional laws and lands… which naturally lead to misunderstanding and finally conflicts. Thus there followed the so-called Wairau River Valley “affray”, in which iwi insisted that their land, north of Nelson, had not been sold. Deaths followed. Many Pakeha ignored Maori conventions and insisted that only English law was valid. In the same decade there was the “Northern War” [a term that Olssen does not use] where Nga Puhi and other northern iwi found themselves losing trade and other benefits when the capital moved from Russell to Auckland. Olssen gives a very detailed account of this war, jolting Pakeha into understanding that Maori could be a match for the British army. As FitzRoy ceased to be governor [Olssen notes his good points more generously than some recent historians have], so George Grey came in. Once again, Olssen gives a very balanced account of this man. While dealing with problems in the Hutt Valley, he also had to tame Te Rauparaha and really bring to an end the  [first phase] of major warfare in New Zealand. He also nullified many of deals that Anglican missionaries had made to set up their own farming estates. Grey and others encouraged having free hospitals for Maori and [to the annoyance of some settlers] allowing both Maori and Pakeha pupils to be taught in the same schools. In all this, it should be remembered that at this time Maori made up ten-to-one of the population of New Zealand. Pakeha were very much in a minority.

Although Grey has in recent years been heavily criticised by some historians, Olssen notes many positive things about him. This includes Grey’s real understanding of ethnography. It is true that Grey’s Polynesian Mythology was very simplified and bowdlerised [when it came to sexual matters] but nevertheless it encouraged Pakeha readers to understand that Maori myths and legends were as sophisticated as the Greek myths and legends and the Norse sagas.

Once again, Olssen reminds us that religious pluralism meant social co-operation and that Enlightened ideas were still very important in shaping the nature of New Zealand.

Chapter Six – Expanding, 1848-1860  Many British who came to New Zealand in the 1840s and 1850s brought with them negative ideas of Maori; while Maori saw many such  newcomers as disrespectful of their traditions. Also new diseases were introduced. Olssen quotes some writers of the age, who were now less humane and more likely to encourage the idea of taking over land. The different settlements brought with them different cultures and at this time shipping was most important when travelling from one settlement to another. The [Wakefield] New Zealand Company settlements were very different from the growing cities of Auckland and Wellington. Wellingtonians often saw Aucklanders as uncouth because many Australians had migrated to Auckland, as had many Irish. Many Wellingtonians also saw Aucklanders as obsessed with making money – but at the same time Auckland had far more connections with Maori than Wellington had. Auckland quickly became the largest city in New Zealand.

            Turning to Dunedin and Canterbury, there were two very different settlements. Dunedin was built by Scottish Free Church Presbyterians, diligent, hard-working and to some extent influenced by the Scottish Enlightenment, leading to the a culture of literacy, study and building a university and schools. But, as Olssen notes, the Free Church Presbyterians focussed on their own people and did not evangelise the Maori in the same way that the Wesleyans did in Otago. Canterbury was an Anglican settlement with many of its clergy aspiring to become land-owners and members of the gentry. The city [Christchurch] was built around the upper-middle class.  But very soon the settlement needed workers who demanded real wages. It took some time before pastoralism [basically raising sheep] became essential to Canterbury. Meanwhile, it was in the North Island that varieties of sheep had first been acclimatised – mainly in Wairarapa.

            Up to this point, New Zealand was a Crown Colony, governed by Britain… but gradually among Pakeha there were calls to make New Zealand self-governing. With much detail, Olssen discusses how the different regions and settlements reacted before a New Zealand government could be set in place in 1852. When it came to voting, most voters were more interested in local or regional issues than national ones. Maori were allowed to vote… so long as they personally owned farms or personally held lands. [Unlike those Maori who held things communally under a Rangatira.] Parliament was in Auckland… where there was much pluralism. The House of Representatives met in Auckland on May 1854. In real terms, the Premier [Prime Minister] was now more powerful that the Governor.

            It was only by 1859 that British and other Europeans became more populous than Maori in New Zealand – there were about 59,000 Pakeha and about 56,000 Maori. Bishop Selwyn was diligent in encouraging Maori to become Anglican clergy to further spread Christianity to Maori. At the same time, Maori population was in decline with less fertility and more infant mortality. Iwi became more reluctant to sell their land. They now preserved carefully their whakapapa in writing. If there was an English king for New Zealand, they reckoned, then there should also be a Maori king. Kingitanga became a major movement [though Olssen makes it clear that not all Maori joined the movement.]  Especially in Taranaki, new settlers wanted to be able to buy land from individual owners, ignoring Maori traditional communal ownership. All this led to the Taranaki war…. at which point ends the first part of Olssen’s planned three books. We have, in effect, reached the point where the original idealistic hope for a land that would be led by humane and enlightened people was wilting into the pragmatism of  personal opportunism.

            Olssen is very precise in discussing – with references to what was written by savants and academics of the 19th century -  how there began to be a better understanding of how all “races” were the same one homo sapiens family, with many hypothesis about the connection of the people of Asia, Europe and the eastern side of the Pacific.

 *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *

 

             When I read my way diligently through The Origins of an Experimental Society, 1 noted many passages that were worth quoting. I intended to insert into this review many of the telling things that Erik Olssen had written. But I soon realised that if I did that, this review would be tediously long. Suffice it to say that, as well as being a scholarly historian, Olssen also has a sharp eye on those who make glib comments about the past – the historian [from quite a few years ago] who said that missionaries teaching Christianity was like simply shooting bullets at Maori and destroying their culture; the journalist who said that Wakefield’s plans were only to keep poor people down. Yes, some missionaries were very flawed and, yes, Wakefield’s personal life was very questionable and some of his ideas simply did not work – but this ignored what both missionaries and Wakefield did achieve. Olssen is also alert to the fact that recent ideas have belittled Cook and others who achieved much. There is also a steadiness in the way Olssen is able to bring us back to his thesis that the Enlightenment and Humanitarian-ism made a path to the best of what New Zealand was being made.

            It is a sad fact that all history books will eventually become dated and will be seen by future readers from a very different perspective. Many historians have written the history of New Zealand. Ignoring New Zealand history written in the 19th and early 20th centuries, there was in 1959 Keith Sinclair’s A History of New Zealand, and in 1960 W.H. Oliver’s The Story of New Zealand. Both, although they were well read at the time, now seem thin and very limited. More recently, nearly 30 years ago, there was James Belich’s formidable double-decker Making Peoples and Paradise Reforged, very detailed, very readable and widely admired. Close behind came in, 2003, Michael King’s more populist The Penguin History of New Zealand, again widely read. Most recently was published in 2024 Michael Belgrave’s Becoming Aotearoa, more influenced by a Maori perspective than earlier attempts to cover the whole history of New Zealand. Over the years I have read all these books, as well as many books by historians who have dealt with specific parts of New Zealand history [the impact upon Maori of the first arrival of Pakeha, the New Zealand Wars of the 19th Century, immigration, the status of women, political parties etc. etc. etc.]. But there is something unique about Erik Olssen’s The Origins of an Experimental Society. He reminds us that New Zealand was colonised in a very different way from the way other countries were colonised in the same era. And he shows how many ideas that first shaped New Zealand are still the ideas that are the backbone of New Zealand society.

            I look forward to Olssen’s next two volumes.