Cirrus@Austlit

'Three icons hung on my parents' bedroom walls when I was a child. Two were Russian, one Greek. The Greek one was my favourite. It depicted St George and the Dragon, the painting on the wood overlaid by a sheet of beaten, carved silver metal, so that George was clothed in armour, and the dragon in shining scales. Saints' stories, in general, didn't attract me; the romantic, thrillseeking, dreamy child that I was vastly preferred stories of knights and ladies, wizards and fairies. I found many of the saints either dull or weird; but St George, as he was represented on the icon, was different. He was like a knight, slaying a monstrous beast; he could be tied in to the stories I loved, of Arthur fighting monsters, of Perseus slaying the dragon. This icon appealed to my father, too, though my mother thought it overdone and veering dangerously close to the fantasy she rejected.' (Author's abstract)

'Writers' festival have mushroomed in Australia in the last 20 years or so, with festivals big small and in between, general or themed, held in every state and territory and in city and regional areas. It seems the public appetite for these events only grows; and speaking at festivals is an inescapable part of any writer's calendar these days. Internationally, writers' festivals are also growing, and not only in the 'usual suspect' areas; from Bali to Slovenia, all kinds of places are getting in on the act.' (Author's introduction, 141)

'Some of my favourite book finds have come into my hands not by word of mouth or reviews or prior knowledge but by cheer chance: the eccentric jewel suddenly spotted amongst the lucky-dip gimcrack of junk shop and school fete, car boot sale and charity shop shelf. And these days, very often in that virtual combination of all those venues, the Internet.' (Author's introduction, 152)

'If you were a bookwork as a child, your memories are measured not only in family or school or public events, but in stories you read. You remember vividly the smell, the touch, the sight of certain books. You clearly remember picking them up from the shelf - an ordinary act - and thenthe extraordinary happening as you open the book and fall straight into another world. The pure pleasure of it, the immediate liberation. For me, who loved fairytales and fantasy, who longed to go through looking-glass, the wardrobe, stepping through the borders into another world, where anything might happen, it was also a blessed escape from the confusing, disturbing and tumultuous family dramas that dominated my childhood. In those stories of another worlds, I found pleasure and consolation, transformation and possibility. And I found my own calling as a writer.' (Author's introduction, 198)

An essay on the strange kinship of three vivid myths