The mere brute pleasure of reading the sort of pleasure a cow must have in grazing.

Pretty little flower blossom. Natone Street, Lindisfarne. September 2013.

Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls, David Sedaris: A new book! That's a rare thing these days. Like the one I reviewed last week, this is a hit and miss collection of essays and anecdotes with enough of a light touch to keep things ticking along. Worth a look. B-.

Two Views, Uwe Johnson: A book very much of its time, this novel is essentially about the divisiveness of East and West Germany. The tale of two lovers (acquaintances would perhaps be closer to the mark), what the reader faces is an immense accumulation of detail to build the two "views" while two people endeavour to reach each other. The politics remains in the background, but remains a ubiquitous presence. I can't say that I particularly enjoyed reading this, but can recognise the skill. C+.

The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood: This is not the first time I've read this, but I'm not sure that I find myself believing any more than I did last time. I can see where she's going with the conceit, but it still didn't grab me. C+.

Blue Skies, Helen Hodgman: I'm sure that this is the first novel that I've ever read that is set in Hobart. Thus, it's a real shame that it didn't like it at all. A vacuous and annoying narrator and ludicrous conclusion has a tendency to do that I guess... D-.

The Odd Angry Shot, William Nagle: This one I did like, very much. Raw and honest, it's an interesting insight into the Australian experience of fighting in the Vietnam War. Equal parts brutal and moving. Highly recommended! A-.

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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. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

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...

This will hurt me...

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