Madeleine St John was a terrific writer, in my opinion. I had read a bit about her - mainly around the time of her Booker nomination and her death - but was by no means au fait with much of her life story. I knew she had been in that Clive Jamesy/Robert Hughesy kind of milieu at Sydney University, and that she had ended up living in relative poverty in London before finding fame late in life, but not much beyond that.
I found a great deal to interest me in this book, in all the various phases of her life. The childhood was a bit of a horror show. Madeleine’s mother certainly had her personal problems, which reverberated through the family, and her father was no picnic, either. He was an eminent person in his own right, and I followed up and did a bit of reading on him after finishing the book. A most interesting political career, he had.
For someone like me who has an interest in mid-century Sydney, there was a lot of juicy stuff in the book. The St Johns lived at Castlecrag, and the picture that was painted of that place was most interesting. The university/push stuff was interesting too. Stories of twentieth century Sydney are catnip to me. I can’t get enough of that Ruth Park kind of stuff. If it ain’t your bag to the same extent, it is still competently told and very readable. I also thought Trinca did a particularly good job on Madeleine’s ill-fated marriage and the move to America. That section of the book really evoked that late 60s period very well.
The London stuff I enjoyed as well. Madeleine’s sort of hand-to-mouth bohemian outsider life put me in mind of those columns that Beryl Bainbridge used to write in The Spectator. If you are a vaguely arty/literary type of person, it might even give you a pang or two about the road untaken, but I suspect her London life might have been easier to read about than it was to actually live.
I’ve read a comment or two from people who didn’t like this book because it painted Madeleine St John as prickly and difficult and flawed. To me, that misses the point. Surely the point of a biography is to explain the subject, as best the author can, not to make us like her. If we feel like we know something about the subject by the end of the book, then it is a success, whether we “like” the subject or not. And in any case, what’s with the obsession with likeability? We want our writers and our movie directors and our singers and our songwriters and our other creatives to have extraordinary insight and extraordinary skill and extraordinary imagination and to create works of transcendent beauty that we are not capable of ourselves. But on the other hand, we want them to be nice and polite and ordinary and easygoing and unassuming just like us (or just like we imagine ourselves to be). It demonstrates a fundamental misunderstanding of human nature, in my view.
Helen Trinca’s writing is solid and very professional and never gets in the way of the story. She is not in the class of (for example) a David Marr, whose biography of Patrick White is the gold standard for this type of book. But, unlike a lot of Australian journalists, she does write a crisp, readable sentence. That might sound patronising but it isn’t meant to be. Many Australian journalists are dreadful stylists and that’s a fact.
Even if this book doesn’t grab you, do yourself a favour and read The Women In Black. Even if you don’t find Madeleine St John likeable, you will love that novel.