Fractured Hysteria
*
O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.
W.H. Auden
He could hear them in every room, the couoples snoring in each other's smells, the restless turning of the occasional genius, the deep sleep of the labourer, the youthful groan of the young and the fresh. These things were always a long way off, just like happiness, just like sanity. He wasn't sure of the solution. He shook himself off, watched the sunrise and then went back to where he was sleeping, his house share in Paddington, later his appartment in Ruschcutter's Bay. He yearned to be part of everything, everyone, to be able to feel comfortable on this strange planet, in this strange flesh. The cruelties that lay ahead, the cruelties that lay behind, they swirled around him like dervish ghosts, manic, evil, sad. These entities were preying on him as he spoke. The brightness of the harbour, the bucolic scnes in summer of people playing on the beaches, splashing in the deep, startling water, served only to heighten the disconnect with his own feelings. He was so shattered.
In as sense he had never recovered from that day when he had chanced his hand, declared his love, walked amongst the yellow flowers in the cemetary, and comprehensively made a fool of himself. A fool of himself to sluts already engaged, to promiscuous beasts and occasional sahdows. I love you, the most startling, exposing words in the language. He had never understood what had come over him, why the protective layes of cynicism had failed him, why he had been so stuppid. But over time, as time cures all, this moment descended into many others, the aia he failed to tip properly in Calcutta, the great tribes of beasts who ran flailing through the African bush, who hunted on the Australian savannahs. These ancient traces. As time rolled over upon itself, as his romance with the bars grew deeper, darker, more desperate, as the results of his predilections for oblivion seeking grew more apparent in his life, his head slowly bowed, his eyes turned more determinedly to the ground.
Make no eye contact, speak to no one. That childhood game he used to play, the one of how many days he could go without speaking to anyone, a game which predictably drove his parents wild and let to yet more beatings, more cowering in the corners of that hideous house with the belts snaking out, he remembered it now as he struggled to find some stability, some purpose. Lost loves were all very well, but what was he to do now? Get up and go to work? Write, write, but to what end? To tell what story? To expose what injustice? To make the world a better place - in what possible way? So instead, his head realing and his heart heavy, he would sit under the giant fig tree in his Point Piper backyard, in one of the last unwealthy apartment blocks in the entire harbour side suburb, and the rails of disappointment, the encroaching fear, the disappointment at life's failure to deliver, all would overwhelm him.
This is the only moment in the entire day when I am truly myself, he thought, after the dealer had been and gone and he was mixing up as quickly as possible, unable to get to that moment fast enough, the moment when the needle entered the skin and release, relief, was only micro seconds away. This is me, this is it, he thought, as the opiates flooded his veins and he finally, briefly, felt like a normal human being. In contrast to eerything else that was happening, his slow physical, spirituial, emotional decline, his work life was going very well indeed. He had been on the Sydney Morning Herald as a general reporter for several years now, and after that first, wonderful front page he had come to own the page three picture spot, occasionally drifting on to one, sometimes back to five. But the point was the increasing disconnect. What made sense inside made no sense at all externally.
In those days, before his first detox, before the emotional parasites and psychotic bullies had preyed upon his soul, he couldn't understand what was happening to him. Before the author Gabrielle Lord had taken him to see Dr Jim Macleod, the most fashionable of all the addiction doctors of the era. A non-paying customer, she had taken him out to the hospital, allegededly, because he was struggling, for his own benefit. And while 30 paying customers sat around in a circle Macleod, no doubt forewarned of the impending arrival of an SMH journalist, focussed all of his considerable attention upon him. In front of everyone. Ridiculing him because he dared not to accept "the program", dared not to surrender, dared to question the philosphy behind the whole damn nonsense. You weren't allowed to think. "Your best thinking got you here," they used to say, as if nothing that had happened in all those long years was of any import whatsoever. As if you were a fool.
THE BIGGER STORY:
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,25730104-31501,00.html
FRANK Devine, who died yesterday, was the laughing cavalier of Australian journalism. His laughter, often noisy, was always infectious. Commenting on the former editor of three of News Corporation's newspapers, including The Australian, chairman and chief executive Rupert Murdoch says: "Frank had a great sense of humour ... which he applied to nearly everything in life."
The Australian's editor-in-chief Chris Mitchell, who was night editor under Devine, says: "Frank was a brilliant writer and brought a wide world view to editing.
"He happily disrespected all the pieties of Australian public life and I personally found that endearing. Frank was a wonderful supporter of The Australian in retirement and I will miss his brilliant prose."
John Hartigan, the chief executive of News Corporation's Australian operation News Limited, says: "Frank brought a wealth of journalistic experience to The Australian when he became editor in 1988, after editing newspapers for News Corporation in Chicago and New York. But more than the newspapers he edited so deftly, he will be remembered for his love of language and enthusiasm with which he embraced everything he did.
"Frank had a great love of his family, a passion for cricket, an unerring faith, a fearsome intellect and a rapier-like wit. All of these attributes showed through in the columns he wrote for The Australian up until the final months before his death," Hartigan says. "While our condolences go to Frank's family ... he will be sadly missed by his colleagues and a legion of readers."
Paul Kelly, a former editor-in-chief of The Australian, found him "always engaging, always optimistic and always full of amusing anecdotes". Murdoch biographer William Shawcross recalls him as large in presence and cheerful. But he was also an indomitable cavalier. A bon vivant who loved long lunches, he was also a conviction journalist whose religious faith was central to his life. (He used to pray privately at work: "Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us.") His politics were conservative. He once supported Gough Whitlam - in 1972 - but not for long. A family man, his last published essay, in the May issue of Quadrant, honours his wife, Jacqueline, his three children and his 50 years of marriage.
He was also a loyal friend: mourners at the funeral of fellow columnist and editor Paddy McGuinness will not forget the sight of Devine weeping as he delivered his tribute to his old atheist friend.
http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,25728814-5001031,00.html
ONE of the last sentences spoken by Frank Devine, only hours before his peaceful death early yesterday, revealed again the man's wit and charm. Gravely ill, he looked around his hospital room and said: "I want to go places."
Frank Derek Devine, one of Australia's great journalists, was always going places. Born 77 years ago in New Zealand, Devine's craft took him to Perth, London, Tokyo and New York, among myriad other locations.
A bon vivant with a magnetic personality and ebullient spirit, Devine believed in family, faith, words and Wisden. He remained radiant and good humoured, even when enduring the cancer that would claim him. "I don't have much time left," the devout Catholic said earlier this week, "but I'm going to enjoy every moment." Add those to millions of moments already enjoyed. Work for Devine was a joy, and it rewarded him with gifts of luck. Reporting from the US in the early 1960s, Devine once flew to Alabama to cover race riots. Seated next to him was Martin Luther King. Devine's in-flight interview earned him a world exclusive.
In 1986 Devine was hired by Rupert Murdoch to edit The Chicago Sun-Times followed by The New York Post before returning to Australia to edit The Australian.
None of it would have been possible, Devine frequently announced, without the lasting support of his adored wife Jacqueline. They were married in 1959, Devine having fallen in love with her the moment they met.
Their first two daughters, Miranda and Rosalind, were named (at Devine's insistence) after characters from Shakespeare's The Tempest and As You Like It. Third daughter Alexandra would have been Catherine - from Henry V - until Jacqueline put her foot down.
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,25730619-5013404,00.html
Frank Devine: a spirit of journalism
By Bernard Lane
FRANK Devine, a great spirit of journalism, curiosity and loyal friendship, has died in Sydney at 77 years of age.
Devine edited The Chicago Sun-Times, The New York Post and The Australian, where in retirement he kept up a column, devoting his last, April 24 appearance to "climate change brainwashing".
Chris Mitchell, editor-in-chief of The Australian and The Weekend Australian, said Devine was "a brilliant writer (who) brought a world-wide view to editing (and) happily disrespected all the pieties of Australian public life".
Born in 1931 in New Zealand, Devine arrived in Perth as a young reporter on The West Australian, met Jacqueline, who would become his wife, and soon embarked upon a career as foreign correspondent in New York, London and Tokyo.
"He will be remembered for his love of language and the enthusiasm with which he embraced everything he did," said John Hartigan, chief executive of News Limited, publisher of The Weekend Australian. "Frank had a great love of his family, a passion for cricket, an unerring faith, a fearsome intellect and a rapier-like wit."
Devine was known for his booming voice, high spirits, deft pen, unabashed enthusiasm for his Catholic faith and family, and a prodigious appetite for lunch and friendship.
The writer Barry Oakley said: "Frank and I used to have an obituary cliche competition.
"Rather than 'larger than life', I suggested for his (obit), that he be described as 'louder than life'. He was a lover of language, literature and lunch."
Columnist Piers Akerman first read Devine's dispatches from Japan as a schoolboy. "His lively and very humorous writing was a great inspiration to many people," Akerman said.
Some, perhaps especially Australians who expected self-deprecation, did not take well to Devine's exuberant self-confidence.
"Frank was very confident in his own ability, with good reason," Akerman said. "Those who were fortunate enough to know him well, knew that that (theatrical self-confidence of his) was part of the bombast that went with his character."
O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.
W.H. Auden
He could hear them in every room, the couoples snoring in each other's smells, the restless turning of the occasional genius, the deep sleep of the labourer, the youthful groan of the young and the fresh. These things were always a long way off, just like happiness, just like sanity. He wasn't sure of the solution. He shook himself off, watched the sunrise and then went back to where he was sleeping, his house share in Paddington, later his appartment in Ruschcutter's Bay. He yearned to be part of everything, everyone, to be able to feel comfortable on this strange planet, in this strange flesh. The cruelties that lay ahead, the cruelties that lay behind, they swirled around him like dervish ghosts, manic, evil, sad. These entities were preying on him as he spoke. The brightness of the harbour, the bucolic scnes in summer of people playing on the beaches, splashing in the deep, startling water, served only to heighten the disconnect with his own feelings. He was so shattered.
In as sense he had never recovered from that day when he had chanced his hand, declared his love, walked amongst the yellow flowers in the cemetary, and comprehensively made a fool of himself. A fool of himself to sluts already engaged, to promiscuous beasts and occasional sahdows. I love you, the most startling, exposing words in the language. He had never understood what had come over him, why the protective layes of cynicism had failed him, why he had been so stuppid. But over time, as time cures all, this moment descended into many others, the aia he failed to tip properly in Calcutta, the great tribes of beasts who ran flailing through the African bush, who hunted on the Australian savannahs. These ancient traces. As time rolled over upon itself, as his romance with the bars grew deeper, darker, more desperate, as the results of his predilections for oblivion seeking grew more apparent in his life, his head slowly bowed, his eyes turned more determinedly to the ground.
Make no eye contact, speak to no one. That childhood game he used to play, the one of how many days he could go without speaking to anyone, a game which predictably drove his parents wild and let to yet more beatings, more cowering in the corners of that hideous house with the belts snaking out, he remembered it now as he struggled to find some stability, some purpose. Lost loves were all very well, but what was he to do now? Get up and go to work? Write, write, but to what end? To tell what story? To expose what injustice? To make the world a better place - in what possible way? So instead, his head realing and his heart heavy, he would sit under the giant fig tree in his Point Piper backyard, in one of the last unwealthy apartment blocks in the entire harbour side suburb, and the rails of disappointment, the encroaching fear, the disappointment at life's failure to deliver, all would overwhelm him.
This is the only moment in the entire day when I am truly myself, he thought, after the dealer had been and gone and he was mixing up as quickly as possible, unable to get to that moment fast enough, the moment when the needle entered the skin and release, relief, was only micro seconds away. This is me, this is it, he thought, as the opiates flooded his veins and he finally, briefly, felt like a normal human being. In contrast to eerything else that was happening, his slow physical, spirituial, emotional decline, his work life was going very well indeed. He had been on the Sydney Morning Herald as a general reporter for several years now, and after that first, wonderful front page he had come to own the page three picture spot, occasionally drifting on to one, sometimes back to five. But the point was the increasing disconnect. What made sense inside made no sense at all externally.
In those days, before his first detox, before the emotional parasites and psychotic bullies had preyed upon his soul, he couldn't understand what was happening to him. Before the author Gabrielle Lord had taken him to see Dr Jim Macleod, the most fashionable of all the addiction doctors of the era. A non-paying customer, she had taken him out to the hospital, allegededly, because he was struggling, for his own benefit. And while 30 paying customers sat around in a circle Macleod, no doubt forewarned of the impending arrival of an SMH journalist, focussed all of his considerable attention upon him. In front of everyone. Ridiculing him because he dared not to accept "the program", dared not to surrender, dared to question the philosphy behind the whole damn nonsense. You weren't allowed to think. "Your best thinking got you here," they used to say, as if nothing that had happened in all those long years was of any import whatsoever. As if you were a fool.
THE BIGGER STORY:
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,25730104-31501,00.html
FRANK Devine, who died yesterday, was the laughing cavalier of Australian journalism. His laughter, often noisy, was always infectious. Commenting on the former editor of three of News Corporation's newspapers, including The Australian, chairman and chief executive Rupert Murdoch says: "Frank had a great sense of humour ... which he applied to nearly everything in life."
The Australian's editor-in-chief Chris Mitchell, who was night editor under Devine, says: "Frank was a brilliant writer and brought a wide world view to editing.
"He happily disrespected all the pieties of Australian public life and I personally found that endearing. Frank was a wonderful supporter of The Australian in retirement and I will miss his brilliant prose."
John Hartigan, the chief executive of News Corporation's Australian operation News Limited, says: "Frank brought a wealth of journalistic experience to The Australian when he became editor in 1988, after editing newspapers for News Corporation in Chicago and New York. But more than the newspapers he edited so deftly, he will be remembered for his love of language and enthusiasm with which he embraced everything he did.
"Frank had a great love of his family, a passion for cricket, an unerring faith, a fearsome intellect and a rapier-like wit. All of these attributes showed through in the columns he wrote for The Australian up until the final months before his death," Hartigan says. "While our condolences go to Frank's family ... he will be sadly missed by his colleagues and a legion of readers."
Paul Kelly, a former editor-in-chief of The Australian, found him "always engaging, always optimistic and always full of amusing anecdotes". Murdoch biographer William Shawcross recalls him as large in presence and cheerful. But he was also an indomitable cavalier. A bon vivant who loved long lunches, he was also a conviction journalist whose religious faith was central to his life. (He used to pray privately at work: "Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us.") His politics were conservative. He once supported Gough Whitlam - in 1972 - but not for long. A family man, his last published essay, in the May issue of Quadrant, honours his wife, Jacqueline, his three children and his 50 years of marriage.
He was also a loyal friend: mourners at the funeral of fellow columnist and editor Paddy McGuinness will not forget the sight of Devine weeping as he delivered his tribute to his old atheist friend.
http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,25728814-5001031,00.html
ONE of the last sentences spoken by Frank Devine, only hours before his peaceful death early yesterday, revealed again the man's wit and charm. Gravely ill, he looked around his hospital room and said: "I want to go places."
Frank Derek Devine, one of Australia's great journalists, was always going places. Born 77 years ago in New Zealand, Devine's craft took him to Perth, London, Tokyo and New York, among myriad other locations.
A bon vivant with a magnetic personality and ebullient spirit, Devine believed in family, faith, words and Wisden. He remained radiant and good humoured, even when enduring the cancer that would claim him. "I don't have much time left," the devout Catholic said earlier this week, "but I'm going to enjoy every moment." Add those to millions of moments already enjoyed. Work for Devine was a joy, and it rewarded him with gifts of luck. Reporting from the US in the early 1960s, Devine once flew to Alabama to cover race riots. Seated next to him was Martin Luther King. Devine's in-flight interview earned him a world exclusive.
In 1986 Devine was hired by Rupert Murdoch to edit The Chicago Sun-Times followed by The New York Post before returning to Australia to edit The Australian.
None of it would have been possible, Devine frequently announced, without the lasting support of his adored wife Jacqueline. They were married in 1959, Devine having fallen in love with her the moment they met.
Their first two daughters, Miranda and Rosalind, were named (at Devine's insistence) after characters from Shakespeare's The Tempest and As You Like It. Third daughter Alexandra would have been Catherine - from Henry V - until Jacqueline put her foot down.
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,25730619-5013404,00.html
Frank Devine: a spirit of journalism
By Bernard Lane
FRANK Devine, a great spirit of journalism, curiosity and loyal friendship, has died in Sydney at 77 years of age.
Devine edited The Chicago Sun-Times, The New York Post and The Australian, where in retirement he kept up a column, devoting his last, April 24 appearance to "climate change brainwashing".
Chris Mitchell, editor-in-chief of The Australian and The Weekend Australian, said Devine was "a brilliant writer (who) brought a world-wide view to editing (and) happily disrespected all the pieties of Australian public life".
Born in 1931 in New Zealand, Devine arrived in Perth as a young reporter on The West Australian, met Jacqueline, who would become his wife, and soon embarked upon a career as foreign correspondent in New York, London and Tokyo.
"He will be remembered for his love of language and the enthusiasm with which he embraced everything he did," said John Hartigan, chief executive of News Limited, publisher of The Weekend Australian. "Frank had a great love of his family, a passion for cricket, an unerring faith, a fearsome intellect and a rapier-like wit."
Devine was known for his booming voice, high spirits, deft pen, unabashed enthusiasm for his Catholic faith and family, and a prodigious appetite for lunch and friendship.
The writer Barry Oakley said: "Frank and I used to have an obituary cliche competition.
"Rather than 'larger than life', I suggested for his (obit), that he be described as 'louder than life'. He was a lover of language, literature and lunch."
Columnist Piers Akerman first read Devine's dispatches from Japan as a schoolboy. "His lively and very humorous writing was a great inspiration to many people," Akerman said.
Some, perhaps especially Australians who expected self-deprecation, did not take well to Devine's exuberant self-confidence.
"Frank was very confident in his own ability, with good reason," Akerman said. "Those who were fortunate enough to know him well, knew that that (theatrical self-confidence of his) was part of the bombast that went with his character."
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