Prompted by a suggestion that he ‘protest and scream blue murder’ about it, Greene wrote to Malcolm Scott on 4 July to echo Maschler’s astonishment.11 ‘I cannot believe,’ he wrote, ‘that it can be the intention of your department to use the Customs Regulations to prevent Australians from reading a work of serious literature which freely circulates elsewhere and I would, therefore, request you to give this book your personal and immediate consideration.’12
Scott’s ‘consideration’ extended to referring Portnoy back to the National Literature Board of Review for a review.13 There was no urgency attached to the matter, and Greene would be kept waiting. The board did not meet until 22 August, and did not see fit to communicate its decision until 10 September.
‘There was understandably some regret amongst members that a novel by a well-known contemporary author in America that had been widely commented on by overseas reviewers should come within the scope of the Australian system of controls,’ wrote board chairman E.R. Bryan. This regret was window-dressing, nothing more. With a shrug of his shoulders, Bryan claimed that ‘it was seen that Australia on the one hand, and the USA and UK on the other, were just not of the same mind on the subject of permissiveneness’. Therefore, he went on, ‘in Australia, at least for [the] time being, a holding operation was necessary’.
The board did not believe that Portnoy had much merit. Its success was due to the ‘skillful promotion’ of its publisher and author, and Roth had departed from his ‘earlier standards’ in his use of a ‘shock technique’ that consisted only of frankness in treatments of ‘obsessive sex’. ‘The view was expressed that to release the novel,’ wrote Bryan, ‘would imply the virtual abandonment of controls over literature in this country.’14
The appeal was disallowed. Greene was informed, in a perfunctory letter, on 18 September, that the ban on Portnoy would be maintained. ‘I find this an astonishing decision,’ he replied, ‘and naturally will now have to take legal advice.’15
There was considerable consternation over it. Geoffrey Dutton wrote to Greene in July to beg him to fight the ban. Publishing an Australian edition of Portnoy, he wrote, ‘is the only way of freeing ourselves from these absurd restrictions, by forcing a major public issue’. Suggesting that Sun Books might be prepared to take the risk of prosecution, he asked Greene to consider granting it the rights to publish Portnoy in Australia. ‘Our associate Max Harris had the impression after visiting you that you would like to put a bomb under Australian censorship,’ Dutton went on. ‘This is the best way to do it.’16 Greene deflected the proposal while he waited to hear from Scott about the appeal, but he began searching for clarification about the situation. What were the regulations? he asked friends in Australia. Was Customs really able to stop a book, even though it had literary merit?
He was quickly enlightened. Arthur Harrap, of the Australasian Publishing Company, was forthright about the facts of Portnoy’s situation and the suggestions Greene was receiving. ‘I can only say rather them than me,’ he said of Dutton’s proposal. ‘… In publishing this book out here they would run the risk of possible legal action and costs in each and every state and it would only want one state to actually take action against them and the legal costs involved could well put the whole operation in the red.’17
There were some willing to run the risk. Towards the end of August, Greene received an approach from the left-leaning businessman Patrick Sayers. Writing on behalf of a group that included the Council for Civil Liberties, Sayers requested the publishing rights expressly so as to use the book in the censorship fight. He noted, coyly, that an underground group was planning to print an illegal edition, without any kind of payment for rights or royalties, and that if Cape granted him the rights he might be able to dissuade that group. Would he do so?18 Again, however, Greene held off, hoping that the government would see sense and rescind the ban.19
Protests against the decision to ban Portnoy echoed Greene’s astonishment. One correspondent wrote to Canberra to ask when Australia would be allowed to join the rest of the world and read books like Portnoy.20 Novelist G.M. Glaskin — author of the banned novel No End to the Way — protested the confiscation of his copy with an indignant 5,000-word letter to officials in the federal and state governments.21 When his copy of Portnoy was seized, a social psychology academic protested to his local MP, Andrew Peacock. Likening the situation to that in the Soviet Union, he declared that he was ‘the best judge’ of whether reading any book would do him harm, not government officials.22 Another correspondent was scathing of Customs and the government: ‘I deplore your holier-than-thou attitude and I feel that if your authoritarian approach is typical of your party’s approach to democracy, [then] perhaps we should ask for an alterative in the next election.’23
But there was support in the community for the government’s actions. Congratulations on the ban did come in equal fervour, if not in as great a number. ‘The majority of people support your action,’ one solicitor told Scott. ‘Do not give way to the noisy minority who would abolish reasonable censorship.’24 Ninety per cent of the community supported Scott, wrote another correspondent, and ‘those who do no[t] agree are the irresponsible, the alcoholics, perverts, and morons, and of course vested interests’.25 Those who wrote to support the ban emphasised that they were ordinary folk, and did not hesitate to label their opponents as morally bankrupt. As one North Strathfield pharmacist was to write:
As a young family man with two children, I am becoming increasingly disturbed at the growing permissiveness of our so-called ‘adult’ society. Particularly disturbing is the increasing popular acceptance of thinly disguised anti-censorship ridicule promulgated by the profiteers of pornography. I am no saint, am not particularly religious, and unless coming from a happy home and having had a G.P.S. education labels me a ‘wowser’ neither am I one of those. Australia is a great country and any genuine attempt to limit the production and/or distribution of anything designed to undermine marriage, morality, family life, and religion is to be applauded. To be one of only a handful of countries to condemn Portnoy’s Complaint and other deviously worthless verbiage should indeed be a singular compliment to your Department. Your task is obviously a thankless one, but I do hope that my few words (and I can assure you they are supported by countless others) will help you to continue to carry out your work with courage and diligence in spite of the vocal minority.26
Whatever the truth of claims to community support, Portnoy’s Complaint had caught the attention and unsettled the views of people throughout Australia. The novel’s frank treatment of sex could, for any two people, be attractive or repulsive; its profane language could be familiar or disturbing; its merit could be obvious or non-existent. There was no denying the novel’s ability to provoke. Enthusiasm and outrage trailed it like the detritus of a comet.
It was for this reason that Greene continued to hope. During a visit to Australia in October 1969, he repeatedly criticised the ban. ‘It is ridiculous,’ Greene told the Sunday Observer. ‘Practically everybody else in the world has been able to read the book. It is not as if it is some cheap “girlie” magazine. It is published by a well-known literary publisher.’ Greene said he was amazed at the willingness of Australians to put up with censorship: ‘The censorship laws in this country are a fantastic infringement of individual liberty. Australians don’t seem to care that much. In England, with a similar situation, there would be an enormous outcry.’
Most sensationally, Greene let it be known that his company would publish the book, come what may. Likely derived from a flare of hope sent up during a lunch with George Ferguson, the publishing director at Angus & Robertson, Greene talked about smuggling Portnoy into the country and printing it in New South Wales. Of the obstacles and legal risks, Greene said nothing. He sounded brazen and determined. ‘We will have no problems getting the book in,’ he declared. ‘Even a naval blockade would not stop us.’27
***
Greene’s comments were overshadowed by the 1969 federal election. Prime Minister John Gorton, elected in January 1968 after Harold Holt’s disappearance in the waters off Cheviot Beach, had had a turbulent time in office. There had been concerns over his personal conduct; problems with the state premiers; issues with defence policy; and internal divisions and personal tensions. All of these problems were compounded by the professional campaign of a resurgent Labor Party led by Gough Whitlam. The tall, imperious, and urbane Whitlam had unveiled a suite of policies in areas designed to appeal to Australia’s emerging middle classes: in education, urban development, and healthcare, among others. Of most interest to Australia’s literary community was the promise to reform censorship.
Following successful moves at Labor’s federal conference to have this made part of the party platform, the promise was also the culmination of a long-running campaign, led by Senator Lionel Murphy, Labor’s leader in the Senate, to emphasise social justice and civil liberties. Murphy argued that there had been a ‘great mass of day-by-day repression’ of fundamental rights in Australia. The promise to reform censorship law was as much a part of lifting this repression as it was a recognition that the environment in which censorship had taken root was now profoundly changed. It was not the 1920s anymore, Murphy argued. Australia was on the cusp of a new decade, and Australians deserved to live ‘freely’.28 They should be able to use their own judgement when deciding what to read.
As former premier and then-leader of the opposition in South Australia Don Dunstan put it, the individual’s judgement should be central: ‘Not Arthur Rylah’s, not some tribunal’s, not some academic’s, and not some Customs officer’s.’29
Thus Whitlam’s promise on 1 October 1969: ‘The censorship laws will be altered to conform with the general principles that adults be entitled to read, hear, and view what they wish in private or public and that persons and those in their care be protected from exposure to unsolicited material offensive to them.’ Whitlam promised to establish a judicial tribunal to hold public hearings on proposed bans, and undertook to reform federal law on imported books, records, and films to align with those principles.30
Voters responded to Whitlam’s proposals. On 25 October — the day before Greene’s comments about an illegal edition of Portnoy appeared — the election left Gorton wounded and Whitlam agonisingly close to triumph. The Liberal–Country Party government suffered a 6.6 per cent swing and the loss of sixteen seats in the House of Representatives. The result prompted challenges to Gorton’s leadership from treasurer William McMahon and minister for national development David Fairbairn. Gorton survived, but it was clear that there would be trouble ahead for the government and that changes would need to be made.
Among those changes was Gorton’s removal of Malcolm Scott from the Customs portfolio. Scott had been ‘just dreadful’ in the portfolio, Gorton told the governor-general, Paul Hasluck: he ‘dribbled sounds when he was supposed to be answering a question’.31 Scott’s replacement was a Victorian MP, Don Chipp. A sportsman in his youth and ‘management consultant’ before entering politics, Chipp was decidedly younger than his predecessors; with his dark, crinkled hair, automatic white smile, and permanent tan, he was certainly smoother than them. He was no believer in the virtues of censorship: he was doubtful about its justification, utility, and consistency, and he let this be known. Early in his tenure, Chipp showed a journalist two pornographic magazines and a collection of historical erotic postcards. ‘Now, here’s the problem,’ said Chipp, pointing to the material. ‘We ask ourselves, what is obscene? You’ll agree there’s no question that this is obscene, and there’s no question about this sort of rubbish. But what about a book like this? … Now, look here. I suppose most of these pictures are pretty harmless, but then you get to a photo like that! Now, do I let that through?’
But Chipp also believed that a debate on censorship needed to be handled with care. Any liberalisation needed to be gradual. He believed that he had a responsibility to be cautious. ‘Remember, I have to decide the things I want to fight on,’ Chipp said. ‘Do I fight on a book like this, which has no real literary merit? Or do I fight on something that has obvious literary merit, a novel perhaps, that has been acclaimed overseas?’
Chipp stressed the exacting questions that censorship should answer: ‘We need extremely good reasons to prohibit anybody from seeing or hearing anything he wants,’ he said. ‘But we must accept that in our present cultural and social climate, the majority of people want censorship in some form. The third thing is that while censorship is inherently undesirable and illogical and cannot be justified in a perfect society, we do not live in a perfect society. And my fourth rule is that all censorship must be done as openly as possible.’32
Sentiments like this gave hope to those pressing for the release of Portnoy’s Complaint. ‘It might be worthwhile having a go at him,’ Arthur Harrap wrote to Greene, on 19 November.33 Greene wrote to Chipp a few days later, asking that he ‘personally review’ the ban on Portnoy. Enclosing extracts of reviews of the book, Greene stressed its merit and Cape’s reputation as a publisher of ‘literary distinction’. ‘I would not trouble you personally if I did not feel that this is an unusual case,’ wrote Greene, ‘where an important book has been prohibited in error.’34
Chipp had the documents and the reports sent to his office. He studied them. The reviews were many; the praise laudatory. But then he read the board’s reports. At the end of the month, Chipp wrote to disappoint Greene once again:
At no time has the book been considered to be lacking in literary merit. In fact, the submission of the book to the Board is recognition of its literary qualities and an acknowledgement that expert advice is required before a decision is made. I have examined the novel and considered the reports submitted by the Board. However, in light of current Australian community standards, the criterion by which all publications are reviewed, I consider that the work contravenes the provisions of the Customs (Prohibited Imports) Regulations.35
Greene was ‘glad’ to have Chipp’s assurance about Portnoy’s literary merit, but his suggestion of surprise at reaffirmation of the ban could hardly have been true.36 At every turn, Australia’s censors had delivered the same verdict: the book should not be allowed.
Where Portnoy managed to get into Australia, it was seized. In November, a few West Australian booksellers obtained copies, but they were quickly found out. Arthur Williams, of the In Bookshop in Perth and secretary of the state’s Civil Liberties Association, opened his store on 24 November and was immediately brushed aside by Customs officials. ‘They asked me if I knew anyone in England,’ Williams wrote that evening. ‘I said I knew Her Majesty [and] Mr Wilson (I met him when he was on a visit here last year). They said they were not the ones they were after.’ The officials were not to be dissuaded by Williams’s humour or his dissembling:
One ‘goon’ asked me if I had ordered that Book. I said good heavens no, it must be an X-mas present. They were furious. They said they had seized them. They will not charge me if I did not solicit them. I rang my solicitor after they left. He said it would be expensive to order them to return them.37
Another bookshop, the Terrace Arcade, tried to post a copy to a customer, but it too was seized. ‘Thanks for trying,’ that customer wrote back. ‘At least I have the consolation of remaining uncorrupted.’38
Letters of protest continued to arrive in Canberra. A longtime Liberal voter demanded to know if his MP would liberalise the censorship regime and lift the ban on Portnoy; the chairman of the Liberal Party’s Darling Downs area executive — who had stood unsuccessfully in the 1969 Queensland state election — was staggered when a copy of Portnoy, a birthday present from his daughter, was seized. ‘I have a complaint,’ he wrote to Chipp:
I would be interested to know, firstly, if I am going to get the book, and, secondly, if I am not, what the situation is about lifting of the ridiculous ban thereon. I have no doubt th
at you would agree with me, personally, that the censorship ban, and the censorship which allows such a ban, is, at the very most, pettifogging, obscurantist, and achieving nothing.
Exasperation and immoderation were palpable in his postscript: ‘What next — brain washing or book burning?’39
Greene would not stop pushing to get Portnoy’s Complaint into Australia. ‘We are determined to try and find a way to do the book,’ he told one intimate.40 He wrote to Lloyd O’Neil, asking him to review the ban, but O’Neil would not budge.41 He wondered about George Ferguson, and whether he might still be willing to take the novel on, but Arthur Harrap sent the sad news in January 1970: Angus & Robertson would not do it.42 Greene had taken care to follow up Geoffrey Dutton’s offer to have Sun Books publish Portnoy by lunching, during an October 1969 visit to Australia, with Brian Stonier, who since taken Sun Books into the Cheshire publishing group. Stonier had mentioned publishing Portnoy, but since then Greene had heard nothing. He wrote in March 1970: would Stonier consider it?
Stonier would, but with a heavy heart and considerable caution. ‘After a great deal of thought, discussion, and more market investigation than we have ever given any other book,’ he wrote back, in June 1970, ‘it is with great regret and some feelings of cowardice that we have come to the conclusion that it is not yet possible to publish Portnoy’s Complaint in Australia.’ The chief problem, Stonier explained, was the business dimension: the ongoing prosecutions for censorship in New South Wales and Victoria were a guarantee that a costly prosecution and legal action would follow any move to publish an Australian Portnoy. But there were also — forebodingly — problems of support, as Stonier outlined:
The Trials of Portnoy Page 8