The Trials of Portnoy

by Patrick Mullins

  There were two main mishaps that might occur: first, word might leak; second, the distribution might go awry. ‘I am concerned that the job is not intercepted by the New South Wales police while it is on the machines,’ wrote Michie, ‘and for this reason we are keeping as quiet as possible for the time being.’ Secrecy was paramount, but the success of the distribution and logistics of publication were going to be vital. ‘Everyone knew that the success of it was going to come down to logistics,’ Sessions said later. ‘It needed to be a smooth operation.’ Here, then, was the payoff for Froelich’s changes to Penguin’s ordering, packing, and distribution systems. Froelich, said Sessions, ‘took the whole thing on with some relish. He saw it as a challenge to be overcome.’ Froelich planned to take orders from wholesalers who could distribute the book efficiently. With great secrecy, he leased a warehouse in Sydney, near Halstead, from which a substantial consignment of the printed copies of Portnoy could be shipped to wholesalers, thereby avoiding the delays that would result from bringing the books to Melbourne, and minimising the risks of police confiscation.

  With great care, Michie now began to let Penguin’s sales staff in on the secret and to enlist wholesalers and booksellers to take Portnoy on. It took all his charm to bring Penguin’s sales staff onside. They had to be persuaded that it was a good thing to do, recalled Hilary McPhee. ‘John had to explain why Penguin was doing it, and why they should be involved.’40 Then he had to persuade booksellers and wholesalers. It was testament to his powers of persuasion, the respect in which he was held, and the loyalty that he had engendered that Michie could make headway where Brian Stonier and Corgi had each been blocked. One by one, booksellers came on board. ‘We’ve got Robertson & Mullens!’ Michie announced when he scored an agreement from the longtime establishment bookstore in Elizabeth Street, Melbourne. Every bookseller who agreed to take a carton, every wholesaler who agreed to take a shipment, boosted Penguin’s confidence and fed into its preparations. Everything was carefully, even minutely, planned. Success, Hooker said later, was ‘quite impossible without the distribution machine. It was like the Germans going into Poland in 1939.’41 Everybody involved knew that the stakes were high. ‘Look,’ Froelich said to Hooker, at one point, ‘we can’t afford to muck this operation up.’42

  With events in motion, Michie decided to warn the federal government. Thus his telegram to Chipp on 19 July, announcing that Penguin Books held the rights to Portnoy, wished to exercise them, and wanted a meeting. ‘The matter is, of course, now outside his province,’ Michie wrote to Greene, ‘but I have a feeling that he would have liked to release the book.’43

  Chipp’s staff hastened to set the meeting up; meanwhile, the department prepared to guide its minister to the correct view and to predict what would happen. ‘In view of Clause 20 and the spirit of uniform action which has strengthened since 1968,’ wrote first assistant comptroller-general R. M. Keogh, ‘I am certain that the States … would act against the publication and distribution of Portnoy’s Complaint in Australia in the absence of a full Board recommendation for release.’ There was also an unsubtle attempt to lock Chipp in and prevent him from overriding the board: ‘The release of Portnoy’s Complaint would be of profound significance in terms of standards and, in effect, would mean that most books of the type now referred to the Board would no longer be detained for censorship examination. Another consequence would be that the majority of titles now contained in the gazetted list would have to be released.’

  ‘In these circumstances,’ finished Keogh, ‘it is recommended that you inform Mr Michie at your meeting that you propose to maintain the prohibition on Portnoy’s Complaint and that you subsequently inform the State Ministers of the proposed publication of the book in Australia and send them a copy for their information.’44

  Chipp did exactly that. On 29 July, he told Michie that Portnoy’s Complaint had been banned and that he had no intention of changing that ruling. The spirit of the agreement between the federal and state governments ensured that the responsible ministers would act in concert on censorship matters. Any copy of Portnoy’s Complaint that Penguin might possess was prohibited and could be seized. In possessing a copy, furthermore, Penguin was liable to prosecution under the Customs Act. ‘Should it come to my notice that there are such prohibited copies in Australia,’ ran a heavily underlined section of Chipp’s notes, ‘I will have to consider what action I shall take (seizure and/or prosecution for possession).’ Implying the threat was not enough for Chipp. As Michie related to Graham C. Greene, Chipp ‘tried very hard to cut the project off at the ankles by talking about all the penalties we run the risk of incurring and even offered to fine me $1,000 if he could locate a copy of the bound edition in my possession!’45 Chipp also made a promise: he leaned across his desk, looked the publisher in the eye, and told him, ‘I’ll see you in jail for this, Michie.’46

  But Chipp’s threat was hollow. ‘I also advised Mr Michie that in view of the provisions of the States’ legislation relating to the publication and distribution of literature in Australia,’ he wrote afterwards, ‘the matter of publishing Portnoy’s Complaint is one he should discuss with the State Governments.’ In effect, Chipp had admitted that Michie’s problems would not be with him — they would be with the state governments. The states, alone, had the power to launch prosecutions over the novel’s publication, distribution, and sale.

  Michie understood that. He had expected anger, and he had expected threats. They altered nothing. Aware that the Halstead Press had been printing copies of Portnoy for five days already, he had known before walking into the meeting that there was no turning back.47

  He told Chipp that Penguin would persist. It would publish Portnoy’s Complaint.48

  Halstead finished printing just over three weeks later. Forty thousand copies were delivered to the warehouse Froelich had leased in Sydney, and were dispatched from there to wholesalers and distributors. The remaining 35,000 copies were delivered to Penguin’s warehouse in Ringwood, in outer Melbourne, on 27 August. Orders were phoned into the office that afternoon; the invoices were prepared that evening; by the next morning the books had been packed and dispatched. They had not even been there for twenty-four hours.

  CHAPTER 8

  An endemic complaint

  Penguin had done its work well. In that final week of August 1970, as its agents and managers continued to approach booksellers, and the surreptitiously printed copies were transported around the country, word leaked that they were publishing Portnoy’s Complaint. The response gave Penguin great heart: booksellers were supportive, even enthusiastic. ‘I said, “Yeah, too right,”’ recalled Bob Gould, of the Third World Bookstore in Sydney.1 But all were surprised by the speed with which the publisher was moving, shocked that the book had already been printed, and stunned that it would be delivered within the week. ‘Usually there are whispers when something is likely to happen in the trade,’ said one bookseller. ‘This time there hasn’t been a murmur. We were utterly taken aback.’

  Publicly, Penguin continued to be tight-lipped. When approached by reporters, Sydney sales manager Bill Snodgrass denied any knowledge of an imminent publication, and declined to make any further comment. ‘You seem to have all the facts,’ he told one journalist, ‘so I’d better not say anything more.’2

  The state governments were forewarned. Worried booksellers had informed them, and Chipp had alerted them, that an Australian Portnoy was on its way. In Queensland, Victoria, and New South Wales, the censors tried intimidation, and blustered about criminal action. In New South Wales, Eric Willis warned that anyone involved in printing, publishing, or selling the book in his state could expect a fine of $250 or six months’ imprisonment.3

  Few were deterred by the noise. Advice from the Booksellers’ Association that month did not suggest that its members should refrain from stocking Portnoy — only that they should not display it or sell it to minors. Some accepted this; others prefe
rred to be forthright. One Sydney bookseller who had agreed to take a consignment placed a sign in his window: ‘Get your copy while stocks last.’

  News finally broke on Sunday 30 August that Penguin had printed Portnoy’s Complaint. Michie held a press conference at his home in Mont Albert on the Sunday evening. He told journalists that the book was an internationally acclaimed masterpiece and should be available to read in Australia.4 Penguin was distributing copies to more than 2,000 booksellers throughout the country. The book would be available in every state on the first day of spring. He was not afraid or nervous of the likely prosecutions. He was defiant about it all: ‘We are prepared to take the matter to the High Court.’5

  The bureaucracy was swinging into action. On the Friday, the New South Wales undersecretary for justice wrote to the commissioner of police requesting he ‘take any action necessary’ to deal with the imminent publication.6 On the Monday, with Michie’s announcement in the newspapers, detectives from the New South Wales Vice Squad received instructions to visit bookshops around Sydney, purchase copies of Portnoy, and take note of anyone they saw buying the book. Two detectives, Mitchell and Quill, received additional instructions to visit Halstead Press and find out how it had happened. They collared Aubrey Cousins on the doorstep, and interviewed him for half an hour in his office to get what they wanted. Then they told him that he could be prosecuted. ‘Yes,’ Cousins replied, ‘but we have acted for a reputable firm — and we are not censors. So, how are we to know?’

  Meanwhile, the book was arriving in bookshops. In Melbourne, at around mid-morning, a crowd of 600 surged into Robertson & Mullens and overturned a counter, knocking down the store’s assistant manager and nearly trampling him in their rush to get copies.7 ‘I expected some sort of rush this morning — but nothing like this,’ the store’s managing director said. ‘It was a stampede.’ The store sold out almost immediately; when it received 200 copies more that afternoon, it sold them all in eighteen minutes.8 The demand was huge. Cheshire’s Bookshop, on Little Collins Street, received 500 copies at 12.30 pm — and had sold out by five o’clock.

  In Sydney, Angus & Robertson’s paperback manager, Paul Grainger, told his staff that Portnoy would be coming and that they needed to be vigilant about who they sold the book to. ‘The biggest risk that Angus & Robertson and the individual staff were running was in selling the book to a minor,’ he said later. ‘… I knew that it was one of the most fatal mistakes we could possibly make. So, I made it clear to my staff that if they had any doubts as to the age of the person trying to buy the book they should ask for ID — and if the customer had any arguments about that, they should talk to me.’ Word had spread that Angus & Robertson would be selling the book. Even before it was delivered, people were queuing up to ask for it, wanting to know when it would come in. When it did finally arrive, at 11.30 am, there was a rush. ‘We virtually didn’t have time to unpack it,’ Grainger recalled. ‘People were already there and wanting to buy it.’9 Copies of the book had to be kept behind the counter, in their cartons, to be plucked out and slipped into bags as people purchased them. There was no time to do anything else.

  The queues never seemed to shorten. Customers continued to arrive and to line up. Some bought one copy only; others took a stack. The cartons soon began to empty. The 500 copies that had arrived that morning were gone by two o’clock. The arrival of another delivery, at 4.45 pm, saw Angus & Robertson sell 100 copies more before the store closed at 5.30 pm. Said Grainger, laconically: ‘The book sold fast.’

  Grainger was vigilant throughout the day: keeping an eye on the people queuing, and, if anyone appeared underage, informing them that they could not purchase a copy from Angus & Robertson. ‘I was aware that this book should not be sold to people under eighteen,’ Grainger said. ‘Penguin mentioned that the book should not be sold to people under eighteen … I followed that advice.’ So, too, did his staff: ‘I have no doubts that no one sold a copy to a minor.’

  They did, however, sell a copy to police officers Mitchell and Quill. Minutes after midday, the two arrived in the shop, joined the queue, and purchased a copy. They did not reveal that they were police officers and did not speak to anyone — but they did note who was buying the book. Then they went around the block to 137a King Street, where James Thorburn’s Pocket Bookshop was also selling copies. Thorburn, an amiable, bearded Scotsman with a marked intolerance for censorship, was there, but was soon to leave for Eric Willis’s office. Later claiming that Penguin had asked him to give — not to sell — a copy of Portnoy’s Complaint to Willis directly, Thorburn nonetheless settled for meeting with Willis’s assistant. He handed over a copy of Portnoy, gave his name, address, and business details, and was undeterred when informed that by giving the copy to the assistant he was ‘virtually publishing the book’, and could be liable to prosecution. He was aware, he said.

  The press was on to it. A photographer from The Sydney Morning Herald was waiting outside the room and, when Thorburn left, tried to take a picture. Willis’s assistant refused to allow photographs, but Thorburn was happy to pose and to talk. He was proud of his actions. ‘I’m not worried now about a possible six months’ imprisonment, [or] a possible $250 fine,’ he said outside, in his soft burr. ‘… To ban the book these people must have read it. I can’t see any justification for one person deciding what another should read. By what standards do they play God, to think they are immune from things that others are not?’10

  There was support in the community for Portnoy. In Thorburn’s store, customers said they were buying the book ‘on principle’. The Australian Society of Authors gave its ‘unqualified approval’ to Penguin’s decision to publish the novel, and argued that the principle of how obscenity was established was crucial. ‘It is important that ideas about obscenity should be tested before the court,’ a spokesperson said, ‘and not always decided by ministerial direction or customs officials.’

  There were those in the community who disagreed. A man whose son was employed at Halstead had telephoned the chief secretary’s department on 28 August to provide details of the book’s printing and to express his outrage. Saying that Portnoy’s price was ‘quite wrong’, as it was affordable for young people, the man complained that he could not stop his son from reading the book at work, and was ‘not at all happy about the situation’.11 On the Monday, a magazine editor wrote to Willis to congratulate him on his ‘vigorous stand against pornography in New South Wales’; on the Wednesday, a scandalised woman from Homebush called to report that she had seen schoolchildren browsing the book in a newsagency.12

  Police and politicians used missives like these to justify themselves. The chief of the New South Wales Vice Squad told reporters that his officers had questioned booksellers stocking the novel and that all information would be passed on to the Chief Secretary’s Department. The decision of whether to prosecute would be theirs. There was little doubt that there would be action, though: in a briefing for Willis, they wrote that Portnoy was ‘flagrantly obscene in its detailed description of sex aberration’.13

  Willis attempted to have the best of both worlds. On television on 31 August, he repeated his in-principle view that adults should be allowed to determine what they read, and admitted that standards were always in flux: ‘Some of the books permitted today would not have been permitted twenty years ago.’ He tried to argue that he was simply doing his duty as a minister — doing what the community wanted. But his abnegation of leadership was obvious: ‘This [issue of obscenity] is left to the court to decide from time to time. On moral questions like gambling and obscene publications, I don’t think it is the prerogative of the government to lead, but to reflect the attitudes of the time.’14 Moreover, when asked for his opinion of the novel, Willis was scathing: ‘I have read the book, and it is the greatest lot of filth and garbage I have ever read without even the redeeming feature of it being good literature.’15

  In Victoria, police showed up at Penguin’s
offices at 10.45 on Monday morning.16 In much the same way that Penguin in the UK had provided police with copies of Lady Chatterley’s Lover to avoid incriminating booksellers while its legality was settled, the Victorian police believed the company would sell it copies of Portnoy and volunteer to withhold copies from sale until the courts had dealt with the matter. They claimed later that this was Penguin’s idea, proffered by some intermediary as a conciliatory measure. John Hooker rubbished this: ‘The intermediary certainly was not anyone from Penguin Books.’

  By this point, however, Penguin’s warehouse was nearly empty. The last of the shipments had long gone. Peter Froelich’s changes had proved their worth. Portnoy’s Complaint had left the building. The opportunity to handle the matter with Penguin alone had passed. Michie had known there would be action, and was aware that it would be ‘quite a lively’ week when the book came out: ‘I think we will get 48 hours in Victoria before we are injuncted,’ he had written to Greene.17 Michie had made sure to have two copies of the book on his desk that morning — no more. When Detective Sergeant Kenneth Walters, head of the Vice Squad, arrived in his office, Michie pointed to them: ‘There they are.’

  Walters was dumbfounded. ‘Any more stock?’

  ‘No,’ Michie replied, ‘it’s all gone.’

  Walters purchased a copy for $1.35, made sure to receive a receipt, and left; then, sceptical that the books could have been distributed already, returned that afternoon with a search warrant. Police turned up three boxes that had been overlooked — containing 414 copies and intended for Cheshire’s, on Little Collins Street — but otherwise went away empty-handed. They were shocked that the books had gone, and angered by Michie’s refusal to direct booksellers to withhold Portnoy from sale. Critically, Michie had also refused to make any promises about refraining from another print run.