Even The Classics That We Read To

The Great Thing About Being Always Among People Of Noble Manners Was The Inevitable Elevation Of One's Own.

Sydney In The 1960s Wasn't The Exuberant Multicultural Metropolis It Is Today. Out In The City's Western Reaches, Days Passed In A Sun-struck Stupor. In The Evenings, Families Gathered On Their Verandas Waiting For The 'southerly Buster' - The Thunderstorm That Would Break The Heat And Leave The Air Cool Enough To Allow Sleep.

I Am Not Part Of That Earlier Australian Generation Who Set Off On A Deliberate Search For Fame And Fortune In Distant Lands. My Generation Was The First That Didn't Need To. By The 1980's When I Left Home, Our Culture Had Grown Deep Enough And Wide Enough To Encompass All But The Most Rarefied Of Ambitions.

Both My Mum And Dad Were Great Readers, And We Would Go Every Saturday Morning To The Library, And My Sister And I Had A Library Card When We Could Pass Off Something As A Signature, And All Of Us Would Come With An Armful Of Books.

A Book Is More Than The Sum Of Its Materials. It Is An Artifact Of The Human Mind And Hand.