We often forgive those who bore us, but we cannot forgive those whom we bore.

An erosional feature in a flat sedimentary rock formation. Bellerive, December 2012.

Entering Germany: 1944-1949, Tony Vaccaro: A G.I. took his camera with him into Germany and photographed five months of war and five years of occupational peace. Stark photos and keenly observed text. Stunning. A.

Wartime Lies, Louis Begley: An austere recount of a childhood spent by a Jewish boy during the Nazi occupation. A measured, deliberately cold tone throughout results in an emotionally flat narrative that is out of kilter with the content. I really enjoyed this (as much as you can 'enjoy' a Holocaust memoir. The key point around the costs of physically surviving to the psyche of a child is profound. A-.

Poo: A Natural History of the Unmentionable, Nicola Davies: C'mon! Everything you ever wanted to know about faeces! Fascinating. A.

Conference-Ville, Frank Moorhouse: A slice of life among the Australian academic and political amidst the turmoil of the Whitlam dismissal. An interesting snapshot of a time that seems far, far away... B.

Comments

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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