We met at the gym. I can remember the handful of occasions I had seen her before we spoke, before she flowed inside the parameters of her name. Continue reading
We met at the gym. I can remember the handful of occasions I had seen her before we spoke, before she flowed inside the parameters of her name. Continue reading
Haruki Murikami’s Dance Dance Dance has one of the best first pages I have read, but I’m still going to give it away.
The novel opens as follows: Continue reading
To my mind, Ken Lay is more than just a police chief; he’s an exceptional public figure, fighting to make a crucial difference to Australian society. Continue reading
“Young men love war and old men love it in them.”
-Cormac McCarthy,
The Crossing.
Phil Rothfield recently published an editorial in The Daily Telegraph that has gone viral across the Facebook pages of many of the people I know. It’s a pretty inflammatory screed, and I’m surprised any credible newspaper would publish it; the comment about ‘allowing’ women to fight on the card alongside men must have left feminists, along with fight-fans, scratching their heads. Continue reading
“He woke all night with the cold. He’d rise and mend back the fire and she was always watching him. When the flames came up her eyes burned out there like gatelamps to another world.
“A world burning on the shore of an unknowable void. A world construed out of blood and blood’s alkahest and blood in its core and in its integument because it was that nothing save blood had the power to resonate against the void which threatened hourly to devour it.
“He wrapped himself in the blanket and watched her. When those eyes and the nation to which they bore witness were gone at last with their dignity back into their origins, there would perhaps be other fires and other witnesses and other worlds otherwise beheld. But they would not be this one.”
Cormac McCarthy,
The Crossing
p.73
It’s remarkable how many ‘Classic’ art works, if not the majority, received a very shaky reception at their initial publication. It makes you ask the question; how could a self-respecting, intelligent professional reviewer have failed to see Moby Dick/Pride and Prejudice/Lolita for what they so ‘obviously’ are? How is it that William Blake never exhibited, and Van Gogh never sold a painting? Continue reading