The Paradox of a ‘True History’

I’ve recently been reading a lot of student essays about Peter Carey’s wonderful, Booker Prize winning novel, True History of the Kelly Gang. It’s been a feature on my course about historical fiction for many years and always provokes a fascinating debate about the idea of ‘truth’ in fiction. Carey’s novel is certainly a convincing history, which makes it all the harder to believe that some of it just isn’t true.

True History of the Kelly Gang tells the story of the famous Australian bushranger, Ned Kelly, in his own words, using an authentic working-class Irish-Australian vernacular language. Kelly, the son of a transported convict, who saw himself as a victim of Victorian colonial, political and social injustice, was hanged for the killing of three policemen, robbing banks and stealing horses on 11th November 1880. By that time, he had already been fictionalised in stage plays and the mythology that defines him today was beginning to be established. 30,000 people signed a petition for his reprieve. Kelly’s ‘Jerilderie Letter’, which he attempted to publish in his lifetime without success, sets out his position and must have influenced the voice that Carey creates.

Nothing in this novel declares it to be a work of fiction, but it is one, nonetheless. Carey himself noted that anyone calling their work ‘true’ must be writing a novel as no historian would ever do that. But the novel tries to suggest otherwise. It is divided into Parcels apparently located in an archive, each one described physically, before the reader enters that chapter of Kelly’s world. The Parcels are introduced by an archivist. It feels true. Anyone familiar with the Kelly legend will be able to identify the fiction, but here truth and fiction are melded together so perfectly, it is a challenge to unravel.

Perhaps this is the paradox of the idea of ‘true history’ in good historical fiction. Carey’s Ned Kelly feels more real than many of the earlier representations. The key elements are there, the home-made armour in his final showdown with the police, the cross-dressing Kelly gang, the terrible suffering of the Kelly women. It is extremely hard not to believe it. It asks us to think about how important fiction is in the construction of history, and how can we ever know the difference? Shakespeare’s Richard III is another example. This version of the king is twisted, evil, self-deprecating and funny by turns, as he sets about murdering many of those around him on his way to power. Historically it’s mostly nonsense, but it has been believed for over 400 years. So where would the writing of history be without fiction? And, actually, why should we let the truth get in the way of a good story?