Doctors are the same as lawyers; the only difference is that lawyers merely rob you, whereas doctors rob you and kill you too.

'Lest We Forget' on July 22, 1939. Ummm, did anything else happen around that time? St Johns Park, New Town. February 2010.

Transparent Things by Vladimir Nabokov is one of the master’s late works. It is ostensibly the tale of an odd American, and the memory of his four trips to a small village in Switzerland over the course of his life. The narrative provides an opportunity for reflection on this fellow’s turbulent life. Moreover, it affords the author the occasion to demonstrate a little literary flourish and walk the reader through themes of time, love, authorship, and the metaphysics of memory.

As such, it can be a little hard going. There’s a vivid description of the struggle our protagonist has in climbing up part of a mountain (to reach a ski lift). It very much resembles the task of grasping Nabokov’s thematic exertions. It’s a well constructed piece, but a little too clever by half. Although characterisation is one of the author’s great strengths, the experimental ingenuity on display robs the novel of the necessary warmth to keep us hooked.

One of the joys of reading – contrasted with some of the more passive forms of entertainment – is the reward for effort. One of Nabokov's greatest strengths is the multilayered nature of his novels, which expands the opportunity for reader to take more away from a novel than most. For me, the problem with Transparent Things – and I am certain that this is deliberate – is that what is in essence a very remarkable but simple story, is clouded by layer upon layer of stylistic tricks .

In this sense, the novel is more about what we can’t (or aren’t allowed to) see. The author has control, lets us know it, and never really lets up. Because of this, we’re unable to identify or connect with any of the characters. Ultimately, reading becomes more a cerebral exercise than a pleasure. That’s fine by me, but it didn’t quite ‘click’ for me.

Keep it in mind if you fancy a challenge.

Death in Venice, by Thomas Mann, presents the tale of an aging (but great) author confronting what he posits as the duality of life: logic and reason versus passion. The object (note, not subject) that provokes this philosophical tension is a beautiful young boy whom the great author falls in love with.

The intention then, is to construct an exploration of the conflict between the god of reason, Apollo, and the god of unreason, Dionysus. Therein lies the greatest challenge of this book, the unceasing – and casual – reference to Classical mythology.

However, don’t let it put you off. Instead, see it as an opportunity to learn.

The protagonist has dedicated his life to Apollo, the god of reason and the intellect, In doing so, he has denied the power of Dionysus, the god of unreason (passion). Essentially, he has led a life of suppression and repression. The obsession with a love that can never be fulfilled, the trip to Venice is essentially one of destruction.

This may well seem very much like spoiler-material, but both title and every page of the story ‘gives the game away’. As such, it is at once an incredibly painful and fulfilling read. Check it out.

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

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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