I Think Writers Are Very Anxious.

The Rain Began Again. It Fell Heavily, Easily, With No Meaning Or Intention But The Fulfilment Of Its Own Nature, Which Was To Fall And Fall.

The Only Thing That I Was Equipped For With My Very Mediocre College Arts Degree Was To Get A Job In Teaching.

At The Time It Seemed Like A Natural Development Of My Interest In What Was Going On Around Me In Society.

Writers Seem To Me To Be People Who Need To Retire From Social Life And Do A Lot Of Thinking About What's Happened - Almost To Calm Themselves.

On Melbourne Summer Mornings The Green Trams Go Rolling In Stately Progress Down Tunnels Thick With Leaves: The Bright Air Carries Along The Avenue Their Patient Chime, The Chattering Of Their Wheels.