You Must Be Joking Les Murray

How & Why Australian Poetry Is Made Small By The Likes Of Les Murray

All this is hearsay and rumour in the wonderful wee world of Australian Literature but the evidence doing the rounds is pretty damning.

The story goes like this: Poet J.K. Murphy is 81. Puncher and Wattmann are going to publish the selected works. Mr. Murphy has been around for a long while and has been published in such notable publications as 'Quadrant'. He is in his own way, an important enough contributor to Australian poetry, as any other name.

So the editors of Puncher and Wattmann sent a letter to Les Murray to see if he might be interested in writing a blurb for Mr. Murphy's book. Apparently, the response they got from Les Murray is as below:

Where do you start with a letter like this?

The first assertion that his proposal is 'eminently fair' is eminently false. In what kind of world, does a few hundred words on a blurb carry as much economic value as necessitating the risk to publish a book, sight unseen? How long has Mr. Murray been in print? Does he think all and any publisher would just roll over to idiotic demands like this? I cannot imagine a single other professional author on the planet that would suggest that this was a fair transaction, let alone decent. Worse still, he goes on to argue a case for his idiotic and indecent proposal.

Indeed, the indecency of the proposal is pungent. Instead of addressing anything to do with Mr. Murphy's career or upcoming book, Les Murray expends a whole 300 or so words pitching his wife's manuscript. Then he has the gall to assert that if and when the said book comes out in print, then he will write the blurb. In other words, he has no concern for the fact that Mr. Murphy is 81 - no screw that, Mr. Murray seems to say, - print my wife's book first and then I'll write you your blurb.

As a side note, we should argue, if his wife's manuscript is so damn good, why hasn't anybody else published it? And why should it fall to Puncher and Wattmann to take on the costs and effort of marketing this book that clearly has not made the grade for other publishers, sight-unseen? It begs the question, "Just who the hell does he think he is?"
Clearly, he's thinking "I'm Les Murray, and I'm IMPORTANT," which is all abundantly clear from his claim that his endorsement carries clout. I have news for you Mr. Murray, your endorsement couldn't sell me Shakespeare.

He's serious, because he says "let me know quickly if you wish to enter into this arrangement, and Valerie's ms will be swiftly on its way to you."
He's not kidding; Not only is his style completely lacking in professional respect, he's trying to browbeat the publishers into hurrying up. The utter lack of formality and professionalism is astounding. The bullying tone is ridiculous and filled with self-importance with scant regard for Mr. Murphy's career's worth of work. He seems utterly oblivious to just how insulting he is being.
What planet is he on?

It's difficult to believe this is the caliber of the man who was once tapped to help John Howard write a draft of the preamble to our constitution (when one word: "Mate," would have sufficed). One wonders why the cultural cringe persists in Australian poetry, but when one comes across this altogether ungracious man's handiwork, one comes to realise that it's because people like Les Murray are held up as being so damned important. The fact of the matter is, we don't cringe enough, and it applies doubly to Les Murray: he really should cringe in shame a whole lot more.