A partial look at Keneally’s moral code and storytelling

November 24, 2017
Stephany Evans Steggall's biography is heavily skewed towards the how rather than why of Thomas Keneally’s art

Interestingly Enough: The Life of Tom Keneally
Stephany Evans Steggall
Nero, 2015, 408 pages

In 1960, trainee priest Thomas Keneally abandoned the seminary at Manly on Sydney’s North Shore without any qualifications other than a Bachelor of Theology and with no skills other than medieval Latin.

His escape from his crisis of confidence in the Catholic Church, says Stephany Steggall in her biography of the Australian novelist, was through writing. This was both Keneally’s attempt to understand, and keep at bay, the “madness and melancholia” of the human lot, and his own course of personal therapy for exorcising the mental demons that haunted him for six years in an uncaring, dogmatic institution with its “anti-human moral code”.

Keneally, whose parents were born to Irish fathers, topped the state in English in 1951. But his secondary school aptitude for the written word only revived after his abortive religious vocational training.

He found a popular audience because of his abilities of characterisation, wit and storytelling, and for his focus, through the vehicle of the historical novel, on the great moral choices faced by humanity.

Keneally’s academic critics were less universally won over, debating whether the “fibro” boy from the western suburbs was a legitimate contender for the national literary pantheon.  Their doubts were not without some foundation as Keneally, with a mortgage and a young family to provide for, adopted a self-imposed income-generating regime of an annual novel. He has so far notched up 33 published novels in 49 years, which has sometimes been at the expense of patient textual polishing.

Keneally’s financial pressures significantly abated thanks to Hollywood. Steven Spielberg turned Keneally’s Booker-winning novel, Schindler’s Ark, into a memorable film (Schindler’s List) about the real-life German industrialist and conflicted Nazi-collaborator, Oskar Schindler, who saved more than a thousand Jews by employing them in his factories in the eye of the Holocaust.

Keneally, who always aimed to live to write, no longer needs to write to live. In 2015, he was able to request that the $50,000 prize money that came with an Australia Council’s Lifetime Award be given instead to a mid-career writer. But he continues to write at Stakhanovite pace.

Politically, Keneally is a moderate, centre-left social democrat.  A member of the Australian Labor Party, he is interested in but has spurned Marxism as a “theological” belief system. This is a Cold War legacy of his Catholic anti-communism that saw his early stories depict Australian communism as brutal, full of fear, deception and alcoholic Leninist wife-beaters.

A republican (Keneally was the first Chair of the Australian Republican Movement in 1990), he has refused a Royal-granted Commander of the British Empire title. However, as an Australian nationalist, he has accepted a locally-ordained Order of Australia.

Keneally has, however, an undimmed commitment to social justice. He views the Holocaust, on which his best-known book centred, as the most extreme example of “race or group hate”, whose targets (including Indigenous Australians and refugees) he has outspokenly stood up for.

Unfortunately, the origins and trajectory of Keneally’s political and social values, and how they inform his novels, are underdeveloped by Steggall. Her biography is heavily skewed towards the how rather than why of Keneally’s art.

Nevertheless, Steggall demonstrates that Keneally (whose bulging literary locker sometimes sacrifices quality to quantity) “approaches greatness”, and well-deserves his stature. For an absorbing story fluently-told, Keneally usually delivers, as he does for his resilient conviction that even the most flawed can find a certain moral heroism.

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