“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”

DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)





12 June 2018


The large corvid, Strepera versicolour, or Grey Currawong, is not populous in these parts but are usually not far away. They are also closer to black than grey and a bit larger than the magpies. I have a pair with a fedgeling their size in my backyard lilly-pilly tree.

Many viniculturers think Currawongs eat grapes. I've never seen that here, but in one studious morning, the mother harried all this bark from my bedroom eucalypt, feeding on the beasties which had lived safely beneath. 

She takes about twenty minutes to remove every earwig from the bark of an old metre-tall Shiraz trunk.

They are very furtive birds who chink and clink rather than sing. Do they spread eutypa?

No comments: