Book Burnings. Always The Forerunners. Heralds Of

And So, As Generally Happens, Those Who Have Most Give Least, And Those With Less Somehow Make Shrift To Share.

I Swim In A Sea Of Words. They Flow Around Me And Through Me And, By A Process That Is Not Fully Clear To Me, Some Delicate Hidden Membrane Draws Forth The Stuff That Is The Necessary Condition Of My Life.

I Knew I Was Going To Be A Journalist When I Was Eight Years Old And I Saw The Printing Presses Rolling At The Sydney Newspaper Where My Dad Worked As A Proofreader.

It Is Natural To Want To Forget, Anna, When Everyday Is A Brimful Of Sadness. But Those Souls Also Forgot Those That They Had Loved. You Do Not Want That, Surely? I Have Heard Some Preach That God Wants Us To Forget The Dead, But I Cannot Believe So. I Think He Gives Us Precious Recollections So That We May Not Be Parted Entirely From Those He Has Given Us To Love. You Must Cherish Your Memories Of Your Babes, Anna, Until You See Them Again In Heaven.

Sometimes I Want To Have A Mental Book Burning That Would Scour My Mind Clean Of All The Filthy Visions Literature Has Conjured There. But How To Do Without 'the Illiad?' How To Do Without 'macbeth?