'Every now and then I find myself in a reading funk—a period where neither novels nor short story collections, nor the kinds of long-form journalism and narrative non-fiction that I usually enjoy, can really draw me in. At these times, reading poetry can help; it aids a kind of slowing down that can be exactly what I need. Doing something else for a while can help too, but that normally involves the kinds of distractions—social media, television—that make it more difficult to engage with a book. Usually it’s just a matter of allowing time to pass, then finding the perfect book or story to get me all excited again. Often, literary journals provide the spark.' (Editorial introduction)
Only literary material by Australian authors individually indexed.
'Easter falls on the first Sunday after the full moon, which this year happened to be just over a week prior to Anzac Day. This meant that the two public holidays in 2017 came thick and fast, so I connected them symbolically, and to the events of the world that were swirling around them.' (Introduction)
'When I was thirteen I thought being Dutch was really crap. So boring and useless. We couldn’t stop our country being invaded by the Germans. And we couldn’t beat them in the World Cup final either, even with Cruijff and after being 1-0 up within the first two minutes. We made one ugly little car called a DAF that no one wanted, and everything had an old people smell. We spoke a stupid language which you could only use to communicate with other boring Dutch people. Things and people from England and Amerika, on the other hand, were exciting and interesting. When the opportunity came to go and live in England where the Beatles and the Stones (and the Who! and the Kinks!) were from, I couldn’t believe my luck. But the harsh reality was that the life of a fourteen-year-old schoolboy in the outer suburbs of London in the early 70s was no picnic. And I was still Dutch!' (Introduction)
'Fernley’s sister is a moth. Wrapped up in her quilt cocoon. Her money box is a ladybug. A fat, round ladybug with a dumb-arse smile. It sits on a shelf above her head.' (Introduction)
'I was aware of the notebook before my grandmother Judy died. I did not read it, hold it in my hands, or flip through its pages until after her funeral. It is a small, spiral-bound book with no lines. Perhaps sold as an artist’s sketchbook, the paper slightly heavier than a regular notebook. A picture of white flannel flowers has been pasted onto the cover. In it Judy recorded quotes from writers such as Oscar Wilde, Vladimir Nabokov, William Morris, Lord Byron. I knew my grandmother read a lot and was an avid library user. I, naively and snobbishly, presumed she read the indistinguishable pastel-coloured shelf-fillers libraries stock in the thousands. Yet her notebook is full of handwritten quotes from the types of writers you aren’t likely to see in the large print section of the library.' (Introduction)
