A person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction, and in either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury.

Hobart rests under Mount Wellington, as seen from Bellerive. September 2010.

I'm going to get myself a kayak and paddle to work every day. You just watch me...

Friday Book Club!

If you're a ready, log on to GoodReads and let me know what you're reading and what you're thinking about what your reading...

This week! Just finished Stephen Fry's début novel Liar, from 1991. I'm a Fry fan, but I'll be honest and admit that I found this one a little uneven. The most enjoyable parts for mine centred on the filthy-mined 'public school boy buggery years'. It then goes off the rails as it morphs into turgid Philology lecture through to spy thriller.

It should be of little surprise that the most enjoyable section are those painfully intense "boy loves boy" sections that are obviously rooted in Fry's own experience of boarding. Indeed, much of this was to re-emerge in Fry's enormously entertaining extent autobiographical Moab is My Washpot.

Comments

Gemma Wiseman said…

Stunning shot of Mount Wellington! I have been there a few times and always it seemed exceedingly windy! But o what a panoramic view from the top!

24 September 2010 at 14:55

Kris McCracken said…

It can certainly get a bit of a blow up! The morning that I took the shots of us in the snow was as calm as I have ever experienced up there though. It was lovely.

24 September 2010 at 15:00

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

This will hurt me...

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