From Sex and Anarchy — the life and death of the Sydney Push (1996)

In 19th Century Sydney, gangs called ‘pushes’ dominated Sydney’s streets – most notorious of all was the Rocks Push. From the 1940s to the 1970s, the Libertarian intellectuals of the Sydney Push, disciples of Sydney University’s Professor of Philosophy John Anderson, held court at the Royal George Hotel (now the Slip Inn) and cafes like the Lincoln Coffee Lounge, Rowe Street:

There is a phrase ‘Sydney scepticism’ that people talk of sometimes. It suggests there is something in the air Sydneysiders breathe that makes them look side-on at life, wary of idealism. Melbourne is supposed to have a headier, more metaphysical brew that makes Melburnians hatch plans for improving the world or the lot of the poor. If there is a difference between Sydney and Melbourne it goes way back. It has something to do with Sydney’s mix of crims and ratbags and radicals (especially radicals) who were convicts or those who followed them. Sydney was not a civilised place. In Victoria they built Marvellous Melbourne, but Sydney was a rough and tumble world, a place that all manner of people passed through in the first hundred years or so; where high ideals for a new society, dreams of a better life, and the harsh reality of imperial England rubbed shoulders constantly. Not homogenous, not proper, and not even trying to be.

Folk singing, Royal George Hotel, Feb 1964, Robin Smith.  State Library of NSW

Folk singing, Royal George Hotel, Feb 1964, Robin Smith.
(State Library of NSW)

When John Anderson arrived in 1927, Sydney was moving away from that; it was entering its most highly Anglicised phase. The internment of foreign nationals during World War I, the hue and cry over the great strike of 1917, had set up a reaction that made the great bulk of Sydneysiders aspire to be more British than the British. By mid-century it was easy to forget how rich and varied Sydney had once been.

Reading the works of European radicals seemed a bizarre and iconoclastic thing to do in 1950, as if it had never been done before. But it had. Not only was the Push an extension of a long bohemian tradition, but the Libertarians were also continuing an intellectual tradition of sorts; one harder to spot, impossible really to trace, carried along in the battered suitcases of migrant German intellectuals and Irish radicals, seen only occasionally, but there nonetheless. Anarchism was nothing new in Sydney.


John Barry, proprietor (standing at rear) from Lincoln Coffee Lounge & Cafe, Rowe Street, Sydney / photographed by Brian Bird c. 1948-1951. State Library of NSW

John Barry, proprietor (standing at rear) from Lincoln Coffee Lounge & Cafe, Rowe Street, Sydney / photographed by Brian Bird c. 1948-1951.
(State Library of NSW)

The role of the bumptious larrikin, the insurgent, the radical, and the underdog, the victories that can never be won, was legitimised by the Bulletin magazine, whose editor, J. F. Archibald, furthered the mythology of rebellion.

Then Nietzsche was taken up by Sydney intellectuals. Norman Lindsay and his circle latched on to him, partly because he allowed them to see themselves, as artists, as something beyond ordinary men, a mistake the Libertarians would never allow themselves to make. The notion of the artist as a godlike creature would not have found favour among them. Nietzsche had something to offer everyone. But his main impact on Sydney intellectualism was to confirm what the convicts and disaffected Irish rebels already knew: God is dead.

Out of all these elements grew the notion of ‘Sydney scepticism’. In the second quarter of the twentieth century came the Great Depression, another World War and the dropping of the atom bomb. It is no wonder that in the third quarter Sydney scepticism, run through the sieve of Andersonianism, should have expressed itself as the pessimistic anarchism of the Push.

The debate of cause and effect was one that frequently occupied Libertarian theoreticians like Molnar and Baker. Some might see it as an old chicken-and-egg argument, nature versus nurture. Philosophers call it the ‘direction of causality’. And like much that occupied the Libertarians, it went back to Anderson.


If one accepted, as Marx had said, that society was shaped by historical forces, what did it mean for human beings? Was their nature shaped by historical forces or were they the driving impetus behind historical forces? Put another way, could social movements change human nature or were changes in human nature necessary to further social movements?

Anderson did not believe in either. He thought human nature unchangeable. But he did accept that from time to time the social barometer shifted. This he attributed to social movements. Human nature had nothing to do with it. To Anderson, social movements were the fundamental units of society. This led his followers into rocky waters, such as the time when one Andersonian, Harry Eddy, backed into a corner at a conference, was pressured into saying: ‘If there were no people, there would still be social movements.’

‘It was a nonsense,’ George Molnar says, a grossly anti-common-sense view that denied the obvious. The Libertarians were not prepared to leave people out of the picture to that extent. Their idea was that if you changed social structures then people would change. Roelof [Smilde], in particular, believed passionately in this. His old girlfriend Marion Hollwood says: ‘He was a crank about it.’

–Ann Coombs, Australian


From Sailing Alone Around the World (1900)

Joshua Slocum, American seaman and adventurer, arrived in Sydney Harbour in his single-handed yacht Spray after sailing from Fiji in 1896:

All government dues were remitted, and after I had rested a few days a port pilot with a tug carried her to sea again, and she made along the coast toward the harbor of Sydney, where she arrived on the following day, October 10, 1896.

I came to in a snug cove near Manly for the night, the Sydney harbor police-boat giving me a pluck into anchorage while they gathered data from an old scrap-book of mine, which seemed to interest them. Nothing escapes the vigilance of the New South Wales police; their reputation is known the world over. They made a shrewd guess that I could give them some useful information, and they were the first to meet me. Some one said they came to arrest me, and—well, let it go at that.

Summer was approaching, and the harbor of Sydney was blooming with yachts. Some of them came down to the weather-beaten Spray and sailed round her at Shelcote [sic], where she took a berth for a few days. At Sydney I was at once among friends. The Spray remained at the various watering-places in the great port for several weeks, and was visited by many agreeable people, frequently by officers of H.M.S. Orlando and their friends. Captain Fisher, the commander, with a party of young ladies from the city and gentlemen belonging to his ship, came one day to pay me a visit in the midst of a deluge of rain. I never saw it rain harder even in Australia. But they were out for fun, and rain could not dampen their feelings, however hard it poured…


"Our Jack" Balmain Regatta, 1889? – Sydney  State Library of Tasmania

“Our Jack” Balmain Regatta, 1889? – Sydney
(State Library of Tasmania)

The typical Sydney boat is a handy sloop of great beam and enormous sail-carrying power; but a capsize is not uncommon, for they carry sail like vikings. In Sydney I saw all manner of craft, from the smart steam-launch and sailing-cutter to the smaller sloop and canoe pleasuring on the bay. Everybody owned a boat. If a boy in Australia has not the means to buy him a boat he builds one, and it is usually one not to be ashamed of. The Spray shed her Joseph’s coat, the Fuego mainsail, in Sydney, and wearing a new suit, the handsome present of Commodore Foy, she was flagship of the Johnstone’s Bay Flying Squadron when the circumnavigators of Sydney harbor sailed in their annual regatta. They “recognized” the Spray as belonging to “a club of her own,” and with more Australian sentiment than fastidiousness gave her credit for her record.

Time flew fast those days in Australia, and it was December 6, 1896, when the Spray sailed from Sydney. My intention now was to sail around Cape Leeuwin direct for Mauritius on my way home, and so I coasted along toward Bass Strait in that direction.

–Joshua Slocum, American, 1844-1909