In 1922, self-exiled English novelist D.H. Lawrence arrived on Australian shores with his German wife Frieda.
Travelling by steamboat from Italy to New Mexico via Sri Lanka, the pair disembarked in Sydney to spend a bit of time rediscovering their land legs. Lawrence was already a well-known writer by this point, with works such as Sons and Lovers and The Rainbow having been published in the decade before. However, this is to say little of his and Frieda’s financial situation.
Passing through Sydney’s famed headlands, the pair held in their possession a modest sum of 50 pounds, and after handing over four of those pounds for two nights’ accommodation in the harbour city, it became evident they’d be needing to find cheaper lodging if they were to spend any significant time in “the continent of the kangaroo”. Boarding the 2pm train from Central Station and heading south, they arrived in the seaside township of Thirroul (now a northern suburb of Wollongong) and took up residence at “Wyewurk”, a Californian-style bungalow overlooking McCauley’s Beach previously leased by a family of 11 children. It was here, writing at the breakneck pace of some 3,000 words a day, that the child-free Lawrence penned his eighth novel, Kangaroo , in a mere six weeks.
I’m ambivalent about Kangaroo. It contains passages as technically and poetically brilliant as any to have been jotted down in English prose before or since, its psychological insights are convincing and artfully un.