A brief tomorrow. (Ryan).(Editorial)

THAT LEGION of "independent journals of opinion" which set bravely forth to war against "the establishment", against stuffiness, against constipated conformism--where are they now? Alas, they resemble nothing so much as rows of tombstones in some sombre war cemetery--warriors of their day, fallen on the field of battle.

The few survivors are all deeply scarred or profoundly changed. Who would recognise today's issue of Meanjin or Quadrant (let alone the Bulletin) as a lineal descendant of its first parent?

In the half-century since the end of the Second World War, we readers have often watched the assaults by these guerillas, as they harried the entrenched troops of the mass media. But who recalls, for instance, Harold Levien's Voice, which battled great odds, and survived through half a decade of the 1950s? Michael Cannon, prolific author and fine historian, made his own attempt in the "independent journal" field, virtually single-handed, but who remembers that today, when they consider the famous author of The Land Boomers?

One masthead which evokes a memory is Nation. This slim fortnightly lasted from 1958 to 1972, an amazing span in a field so full of early casualties. It was published by Tom Fitzgerald (simultaneously writing as financial editor of the Sydney Morning Herald) and his friend George Munster, a remarkable intellect from Middle Europe, a free spirit not trammelled by any visible means of support.

Nation did not merely enlighten and excite its readers, but was also a nursery for young writers. I am not sure whether in every case it is literally tree that Nation saw their very first piece into print, but certainly Robert Hughes, Brian Johns and Bob Ellis, among many others, found their literary feet there.

(Re-read today, time has not dealt kindly with all their then-brilliant apercus: Johns, writing in January 1960: "Bob Santamaria is sunk." What? In 1960? But that's journalism.)

Nation's content was so meaty and cogent, its writing so clear and strong (especially Tom Fitzgerald's own editorials) and its independence of view so transparent, that any writer, famous or unknown, was honoured by an invitation to write for it. (And it wasn't for the money, I can assure you, even if its exiguous fees were denominated in old-style gentlemanly guineas.)