Susan Green

A few weeks ago, I helped a friend called Michael Uniacke to launch his book, Deafness Down. Here’s the short speech I gave.

Many years ago, I had a phone call from a total stranger called Michael Uniacke. He’d heard that I was a writer and writing teacher, and he wondered if I’d like to meet up with him and talk about the possibility of editing a book he was writing.

I must have asked him what kind of book: he must have told me it was an autobiography – and I’m pretty sure I told him that I was absolutely and utterly a fiction writer. Nevertheless, we did meet, at a cafe, and we sat talking for a long time. The upshot of the conversation was that, though I was a fiction writer, I agreed to have a go at being an editor as well. I am not an editor’s toenail, but it was with an unskilled but enthusiastic can-do spirit I entered into the project. And with great shame that I remember the many pages scribbled with red marks and the subtle-as-a brick comments. But Michael bore with it all very patiently; he wanted to learn; he wanted to communicate, and he wanted to tell his own unique story.

There – I’ve used the word – ‘story’. We humans love a story. Story is how our brains work, it’s how we understand our lives, it’s how we understand others and ourselves. Michael’s story centred his experience of deafness, and to me that subject was fascinating and utterly new. Not only did it do what good fiction and biography and memoir can do – which is to open a window into another person’s inner life – but it was genuinely educative. Like most people not personally touched by deafness, I’d never come across the concept of ‘deaf culture’. Michael talked to me about the 1880 Congress of Milan, where educators of deaf people made a decision that signing was to be more or less banned. I encouraged him in his interest and exploration, and he came back with the most extraordinary stand-alone piece of writing. It was so dramatic, so imaginative that I was astonished. Who would have thought that this kind of story-teller was sitting there inside?

My work on the project ceased – I had a baby. Now, that baby has just started University! – So this was all a long time ago. However, there’s nothing wrong with a long period of gestation for a work such as this. Autobiography is about life seen and understood backwards – how can it be anything else? And the long view brings a greater perspective.

Which brings me to the original title of the book. It was ‘The Dragonfly’. This last week, in the very hot weather, I spent many hours in my neighbour’s pool. I rescued quite a few drowning bees, and watched the dragonflies skimming the surface. As I understood it, back then, the dragonfly symbol related to deafness in this way – the dragonfly, with its 360 degree vision aligned to its hovering, skimming flight, is able to sensitively and almost invisibly extract from the air what it needs to survive. The metaphor is the superbly attuned senses; the toughness; the survival. I wondered what else the dragonfly might symbolise, so of course I Googled.

And found that to the Japanese, it represents power, agility and victory. To the Chinese, prosperity, harmony and good luck. That’s very nice, I thought. But it was the Native Americans, to me, who said it all. They believe that, because it can fly in all directions – that means up and down and backwards as well – looking though those amazing eyes , it can represent a being who sees the world through many perspectives. And seeing the world like that, is emotional maturity. And that is a very lovely and very appropriate meaning for Michael’s story.

So that is the story of my involvement, over 20 years ago, with that part of Michael’s writing career. His passion to communicate hasn’t abated.I’m happy and honoured that he’s asked me to help celebrate.

Deafness Down and its sequel, Deafness Gain, are available in print from online book retailers, at Stonemans Bookroom in Castlemaine and as an eBook from www.tuq.pub/book/deafness-gain/

I’ve been having a few sleepless nights lately. Change of season? Change of life? Who knows. It’s all right as long as I am lying comfortably, resting, but as soon as I start becoming cross (with myself, the world, or with my husband who is lying there, fast asleep and breathing) I get out of bed, make a cup of herbal tea and read for a bit.

Quite a bit of our latest book group novel – The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver – was read way, way after midnight. I got a third of the way through but didn’t finish it – and I’m not going to, or not anytime soon, even though I loved the writing, the voice, the language; I loved the narrator, too, and his story and the exotic setting in Mexico with Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera…

I stopped when I got to the part where I could see the train wreck (the House Committee on Un-American Activities) ahead – and I knew it was just going to make me too, too sad. Especially given the news at present, with right wing hysterics chucking wobblies all over the political show, here and everywhere.

Anyway, enough of that. My prescription for sleepless nights is a paperback, not too long, and with a guaranteed happy ending.

A Civil Contract by Georgette Heyer filled the bill beautifully. It was a very sleepless night indeed, and I didn’t nod off till 4 am but not because the book kept me up breathlessly turning pages. Though Heyer more or less invented the Regency Romance genre, this book is almost an anti-romance. Our hero, Adam, is an aristocratic soldier, come back to England from the Napoleonic wars on his father’s death.

He finds mountains of debt (naughty old rake of a Papa) and no inheritance save the family pile. What to do? Marry an heiress, that’s what.

Though he’s in love with the impulsive, emotional Julia (such a beautifully annoying character; you can see  the author’s sympathies lie with sense, not sensibility), he has not only the estate but his mother and sisters to think of. So he dutifully does the right thing, and weds plain, prosaic Jenny Chawleigh.
The ‘contract’ of the title is the marriage,  arranged by Jenny’s  father, a rich merchant who wants his daughter to ‘go up in the world’. Everyone has many lessons to learn; Adam in particular must learn to cope with his father-in-law’s overbearing but well-meant meddling: Jenny with her new status, her relatives – and her hidden but very real love for her husband. By the end of the book, Heyer’s shown that dreams of romance are all very well, but a real life marriage is a matter of adjustment to reality. Those unromantic daylight qualities of affection, shared interests, comfort and kindness go a long, long way – perhaps further than moonbeams and starshine.

(By the way, isn’t that a shocker of a cover? Georgette Heyer’s books went through numerous editions, and some have covers that are quite lovely. And some, not so much.)

And for something completely different, Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London – the first in the best-selling Peter Grant series – was a cracker of a book to get one through a long, dark night. Harry Potter meets police procedural. Funny and clever. Though I couldn’t say the ending was entirely happy, the killer was caught! I’ve reserved the next two from the library…

Hurry!

The other day I found this poem, on a scrap of paper, in a novel. It was my handwriting, but I can’t remember copying it out. I Googled for the poet – it is Ernest Dowson.

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter
Love and desire and hate
I think they will have no portion in us after
We pass the gate

They are not long, the days of wine and roses
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

I needed a novel for another train trip, so this time I picked something I’d read long ago. As is often the case, re-reading was even better.  And as Fifth Business is the first of a trilogy, I have a lot of reading ahead of me on this long weekend.

It begins on a winter’s day  in 1908 in the small town of Deptford in Ontario, Canada. Two schoolboys are coming home from sledding in the snow. They’ve had a quarrel, and one of them – Percy ‘Boy’ Staunton, the son of a wealthy family – throws a snowball with a small rock in the middle of it. It’s meant to hit Dunstable Ramsay – but he ducks, and what happens next reverberates through Ramsay’s entire life.

It’s a magical novel – wildly inventive, funny, rich, strange, complex –  taking in small town life and morals, business, politics, war, teaching, religion, myth, art, theatre, sex, magic, guilt, love, responsibility… Especially responsibility. Because the snowball – thrown in a typically childish moment of thoughtless cruelty – hits Mary Dempster, the pregnant wife of the town’s Baptist minister. Robertson said of the novel: “I began it because for many years I had been troubled by a question:to what extent is a man responsible for his actions, and how early in life does the responsibility begin?”

In his introduction to my Penguin Modern Classics edition of The Manticore (the second of the trilogy) M G Vassanji writes: We are all responsible for our actions, even as children, the book suggests: no, it proclaims. Our deeds bear consequences, trivial or profound, and we are accountable… But while we may not be judged by a higher court – parental, religious or state – we may judge ourselves. And that is what Ramsay does: he did not throw the stone, but he moved aside and it hit someone else who suffered instead. 

How good to find a new author! I bought The Sea in the Op Shop last year and put it on my ‘to read’ shelf where it’s sat for months. This is the first of Banville’s novels I’ve read and I will be going back for more. Luckily, there are lots more; this, which won the Man Booker Prize in 2005, was his 18th.With a long train trip ahead of me – to visit a friend in Barwon Heads (by the sea!) I wanted a shortish novel…

Shortish it is, but intense, beautiful. I’ve since read Banville described as a great stylist, and I’ve had this idea that I don’t like writing with loads of ‘style’, but I think I’m quite wrong. (As I so often am, and which is a very good thing, actually – but that’s another story altogether). Perhaps I’ve read and not liked prose which draws attention to itself – there’s a particular kind of American writing that I have in mind – but this is something different altogether. Lewis Jones, in his review in the Telegraph, puts it better than I can:

And Banville’s prose is sublime. Several times on every page the reader is arrested by a line or sentence that demands to be read again. They are like hits of some delicious drug, these sentences. One has to stop for a while, and gaze smiling and unseeing into the middle distance, before returning to the page for one’s next fix. For a shortish book, it takes a long time to read.

Here’s a sample; I just opened the book at random.

At times the image of her would spring up in me unbidden, an interior succubus, and a surge of yearning would engorge the very root of my being. One greenish twilight after rain, with a wedge of wet sunlight in the window and an impossibly unseasonal thrush piping outside in the dripping lupins, I lay face down on my bed in such an intense suffusion of unassuageable desire – it hovered, this desire, like a nimbus about the head of my beloved, enfolding her everywhere and nowhere focused – that I broke into sobs, lavish, loud and thrillingly beyond all control. My mother heard me and came into the room, but said nothing, uncharacteristically – I might have expected a brusque interrogation, followed by a smack – only picked up the pillow that the thrashings of grief had pushed off my bed and, after the briefest of hesitations, went out again, shutting the door soundlessly behind her. What did she imagine I was weeping for, I wondered, and wonder again now. Had she somehow recognised my rapturously lovesick grief for what it was? I could not believe it.How could she, who was merely my mother, know anything of this storm of passion in which I was helplessly suspended, the frail wings of my emotions burned and blasted by love’s relentless flame? Oh, Ma, how little I understood you, thinking how little you understood.

I have just had a Pride and Prejudice blow-out. A customer ordered a remastered DVD of the 1980 BBC series, with David Rintoul and Elizabeth Garvie in Darcy and Elizabeth roles. So I ordered it as well, and binge-watched the whole series one hot day. David Rintoul did the rudeness, snobbery and arrogance so well that I wondered if there was  any way that my bad opinion of him could be reversed. But of course, it was.
This P&P was not perhaps as romantic as the later BBC version, but very true to the tone of the book. It ended with great restraint. Darcy and Elizabeth escape from Mrs Bennet’s endless loop of chatter to walk along a country lane together – they talk, Elizabeth thanks Mr Darcy for saving Lydia, he tells her he did it only for her… and we know how it ends. However, their delight in each other isn’t expressed in a kiss or an embrace; rather, they walk and talk, telling to each other the history of their regard, not even holding hands, and finally the camera pulls back, leaving them together under a tree. The canopy hides them, and in leafy privacy they may have kissed at last but it was not for us to see.

Well, then for comparison I had to watch the one we all think of as the classic, the 1995 Colin Firth-in-wet shirt-and-breeches one. Not on the same day, but all in one go, and well into the night.
There was much more emotion on display in this one – more romance – but here’s a funny little difference. In the earlier series, Lady Catherine’s daughter was played as a normal-looking but shy, young woman. As Elizabeth says goodbye to the Rosings menage, Miss de Bourgh steps forward and takes Elizabeth’s hands in hers, mutely expressing her liking for the other girl. It was a moving little scene, and made you think how hellish to be Lady Catherine’s daughter. In the 1995 version, Miss de Bourgh is played for laughs, not pathos, as a snotty, sickly caricature.

Next, the 1940’s movie with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier. I loved that film as a young teenager, but now I find it almost unwatchable. Both the leads are way too old and their performances are embarrassingly mannered, and Garson in particular overdoes the arch, playful charm. Moreover, the costume department for some reason decided to make the clothes early Victorian, with huge puffed sleeves, full skirts and massive bonnets instead of Georgian, and it’s all so wrong. So is the tone of the thing – soft-hearted and broadly comical, instead of ironic and rather cool. However, the supporting cast is a treat. The Mrs Bennett of Mary Boland is fabulously vulgar and garrulous, and the sisters are a fine gaggle of girls.

Finally, I read the book. My Penguin classic contains a couple of wonderful essays and now I feel quite enlightened and full of a new admiration for Austen’s writing. I’m ashamed to realise that in all these years of re-reading P&P, while delighting in the language, the irony, the sharp, clever perception, even the exploration of morals and manners and values in the characters’ journey of (what an out-of-place phrase this is!) personal growth, I’ve really read for the romance. And though I’m an ordinary reader and by no means a student of the  social, economic, political, philosophical and fictional contexts, I found it added to my pleasure in the novel to consider these things. I’ve ended by questioning my own perception, which is nearly half a century old, that Pride and Prejudice is a romance at all.

Here is a rather long but lovely quotation from the introductory essay by Tony Tanner for the 1972 Penguin Classics edition.

…Jane Austen was brought up on eighteenth-century thought and was fundamentally loyal to the respect for limits, definition and clear ideas that it inculcated… In the figure of Elizabeth Bennett, she shows us energy attempting to find a valid mode of existence within society…In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Blake writes: ‘Energy is the only life, and is from the Body; and Reason is the bound or outward circumference of Energy. Energy is  eternal Delight.’ As I have said, I think that Jane Austen’s suspicion of energy increased in her later work. But in Pride and Prejudice she shows us energy and reason coming together, not so much as a reconciliation of opposites, but as a marriage of complementaries. She makes it seem as if it is possible for playfulness and regulation – energy and boundaries – to be united in fruitful harmony, without the one being sacrificed to the other. Since to stress one at the expense of the other can either way mean loss, both to the self and to society, the picture of achieved congruence between them offered in Pride and Prejudice is of unfading relevance. It is perhaps no wonder that it has also proved capable of giving eternal delight.

I’m just about to start something new – I’ve joined a Book Group. My one and only try at being in a book group was about 10 years ago and it wasn’t a success. Our first book was The Vagina Monologues and our second book was Geraldine Brook’s March and that was it. I was quite eager, what with my internet researches on  ‘how to run a book group’ (notes and questions and checklists and all) but it didn’t gel and was mainly about afternoon tea. Which was absolutely fine. My world runs on tea.
But this one is the real thing, administered by the CAE, with a box of books arriving monthly, and proper study notes in a little booklet. Our first book is one I’ve never heard of, Our Father Who Art in the Tree by Judy Pascoe. I’m excited!

My neuroscience reading jag continues. On Monday I bought a new release, Cure: A Journey into the Science of Mind Over Body by Jo Marchant. It’s very interesting, and a review in Saturday’s Age suggested that it could be a new The Brain That Changed Itself.

It’s interesting, yes –  but my goodness, how it suffers in comparison to Oliver Sacks. The depth, erudition, curiosity and above all, the compassion of the man just shine. You just can’t help loving him. And after having read his autobiography On the Move: A Life, I can see why. It’s because he really understands suffering and pain. And guilt, self-loathing,  excess, addiction, passion, speed, drugs, sex, work, obsession, failure, success… He is, also, a very fine writer. He understands ‘story’ as well, and each case history is a beautiful piece of writing. I have borrowed his final book, Gratitude, from the library but haven’t read it yet, even though it is very slim. Because I know I shall be in floods of tears.

Not a flood of tears, but I was definitely moist-eyed at the end of Bel Canto by Anne Patchett.
In an unnamed, poor, Latin American country, a group of amateurish terrorists break in to the Vice-President’s home. There are a lot of guests that evening – a grand party has been arranged to promote foreign trade – but the President, target of the attack, has stayed home to watch his favourite soap opera. The would-be kidnappers are trapped, along with their hostages…a beautiful American opera diva: her devoted fan, a Japanese CEO and his loyal translator: a French diplomat in love with his wife: a cast of young freedom fighters, the Generals who planned the whole fiasco, the Red Cross negotiator who’s seen it all before ….
As the blurb says, ‘…a horrific imprisonment is transformed into an unexpected heaven on earth’. Beautiful, funny, poignant, surreal, romantic, loopy and finally, heartbreakingly sad.

It’s the end of January, last day of the first month of the New Year. I have read six books so far in 2016, and they’ve all been terrific. The two Siri Hustvedts got me so keen that I ordered another of her titles, The Blazing World, from the library. But I think it will have to go back unread; it’s not the right book for now.
I have a half dozen or so ‘to read’ books on the shelf and I hesitated between Nabokov’s Speak, Memory, Ben Lerner’s At the Atocha Station and Bel Canto by Anne Patchett. I took a punt and plunged into Bel Canto and by the first page I was hooked. It’s such a lovely feeling! And I have made yet another cup of tea, checked the rain gauge (20 mls!), put some vegies on to roast for tonight’s dinner… I know it’s the last day of January, but with the rain and dull grey sky and chill in the air, the hot tea and the cooking smells from the kitchen, it feels like winter. Perfect reading weather.

I whizzed through Alex Marwood’s thriller/mystery The Darkest Secret in a rush during the week. Clearly drawing on the Madeleine McCann disappearance, it’s a page turner and cleverly done, with a very effective structure (note to self!). It’s set in two different time periods – September 2004, when three-year-old identical twin Coco went missing – and fifteen years later, in the aftermath of the death of Sean, the twin’s father – and it’s told from a number of viewpoints. You get a kind of rush, reading a good thriller. I can see that they could become quite addictive, but one’s enough for me right now. Too much darkness.

I went straight on to Oliver Sack’s An Anthropologist on Mars. I’m ashamed to say although I knew who he was and the kinds of things he wrote, I’ve never read anything by Sacks before. I have been missing out. I bought this in the Op Shop the other day, in spite of the spooky cover and the fact that the book has obviously been dropped in the bath. I’d been primed to pick it off the shelf, I think, because in the last couple of  weeks I’ve had several customers in the shop to order Gratitude, a series of four essays he wrote during his last months, in which he explored his thoughts and feelings about completing his life and facing his death.

The subtitle is ‘Seven Paradoxical Tales’. Case histories, I suppose, but told with compassion, humanity, humility, care and love. From my online reading of comments and reviews, I see these qualities (and more) are the hallmarks of Sack’s work. I feel I’ve got a better – bigger – idea of what it is to be a human, to think and feel, to create and act and relate. Since the bee in my bonnet is always memory, my quote of the week is this, from chapter called ‘The  Landscape of his Dreams’, about Italian Franco Magnani, living for many years in the US, but painting obsessively, exclusively, with photographic detail and accuracy, the village of his birth, Pontito,in Tuscany.

One may be born with the potential for a prodigious memory, but one is not born with a disposition to recollect: this comes only with changes and separations in life – separations from people, from places, from events and situations, especially if they have been of great significance, have been deeply hated or loved. It is, thus, discontinuities, the great discontinuities of life, that we seek to bridge, or reconcile,, or integrate, by recollection and, beyond this, by myth and art. Discontinuity and nostalgia are most profound if, in growing up, we lose or leave the place where we were born or spent our childhood, if we become expatriates or exiles, if the place or the life we were brought up in is changed beyond recognition or destroyed. All of us, finally, are exiles from the past.

I’m not one of those people who can’t let go of books. Book shop customers often love to talk, and to talk about their love of books, and for some their book collections have an almost sacred character. They would never dream of letting them go, selling them, giving them away; it’s as if they are part of them, part of what makes them who they are. I wonder how far away some of them are from having some kind of hoarding disorder – you know, where your possessions are part of you, like your hair or nails, like a limb, and no matter that you can’t move in your house, the books must stay.

Last week I did a big cull of my bookshelves and donated 4 shopping bags of books to the Salvo’s Op Shop. The building has decent-sized eaves out the front, and it’s under those that we locals pile our bags and boxes of donations when the shop’s not open. There was so much other stuff piled up outside that my bags weren’t really under cover; when I drove past the following morning I realised that they’d have sat all night in the rain (11mls in my rain gauge, so yes, quite a wetting). I was a bit distressed, actually. A waste of books. I didn’t want them anymore, and I wasn’t upset or sad to see them go. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d been your bog-standard ordinary paperbacks – thrillers or self-help or airport fiction –

But quite a few of them were my mother’s books, uniform Everyman volumes of Anglo-Saxon poetry and Jacobean plays – books on literature and language and drama, all with her name and address and the date inside, in that clear, left-slanting handwriting that never changed, not even when she was very old. I’d hoped that someone – the right person – would snap them up and treasure them. Some people can’t bear books that have been handled or owned (I have a friend who won’t borrow from the library) but I like a bit of personality with my books – inscriptions, names, dedications, bookplates…
In the late 1990s and early 2000s, the bookshop where I work  had a second-hand section. Tracey, the owner at the time, would often buy from deceased estates; whole libraries, hundreds of boxes, a life-time of reading and thinking and collecting. We both still remember one lot from an old lady in a nearby township. Each book was stamped in blue ink with

BIENVENUE
Barker’s Creek

She had a fascinating collection – lots of European works in translation, lots of history, left-wing politics and philosophy, lots of poetry and literature. As I sorted and priced, I used to make up stories about her. I’ll always have a friendly feeling towards that cultured and interesting lady from Bienvenue and I hope that whoever buys Mum’s un-soggy books will feel the same about Helen Harris of Elsternwick.

Anyway, the moral of the tale is that next time I am donating books,  they’ll be delivered while the shop was open. Or at the very least, packed in plastic bags.

It’s odd how sometimes everything connects.
In last Saturday’s Age was an article titled The Day the Dog Died… by Aisha Dow. The dog died in the living room, at the foot of the sofa, and it stayed there, decomposing, until  ‘all that was left was a large, perfectly formed skeleton and a muddy brown stain.‘
Horrible, yes? But there was worse. The owner of the dog and living room was a 79 year old woman who’d been in hospital. When a social worker and an occupational therapist visited her home, in order to get it ready for her discharge, they found not only the dead dog, but floors covered with bags of rubbish, cigarette butts and piles of Wheels on Meals containers. Oh, and a cardboard box filled with toilet paper and faeces. As Dow writes, ‘…the workers had stumbled across a squalid household.’
She goes on to explain that ‘domestic squalor is not a distinct medical condition, but rather is described as a living environment that has become so unclean, messy and unhygienic that people of a similar culture would find cleaning and clearing essential’.

This article, combined with my current book, The Making of Home by Judith Flanders, led to much meditating on the notion of ‘home’. My family home, in its three different locations. The various homes I’ve made for myself, by myself and with others. Homes I’ve visited and stayed in, some of which were so ‘unclean, messy and unhygienic’ that it was only an over-developed sense of politeness that made me sip tea from the dirty cup and gingerly nibble the food I was offered. I remembered the house of a childhood friend which was so clean, so neat, so full of light and shiny surfaces and admirable storage solutions that I was homesick, even though our place was always a bit of a tip. This family had no art on the walls and no books. I noticed that more than anything. It felt weird. And the house of an acquaintance that was not especially dirty, but so messy that it looked as if a giant had come along and thrown all her stuff in the air. To find something – the phone, keys, a book, a plate – she shuffled the stuff around, thus covering and hiding other things. Also, weird. But both ‘home’.

Flanders looks at the evolution of the house in Northern Europe, Britain and the USA from the 16th to the early 20th century and shows that what we think ‘home’ is and what it actually was are two very different things. In earlier times, furniture and what we now call ‘home-wares’ were so expensive that nobody had much. The household furnishings of a moderately prosperous family well into the late 17th century formed a very short inventory: a table, some benches and stools, a chair (that is, one chair and one only, for it was not uncommon for the father to eat sitting while everyone else stood), a cupboard, a modest batterie de cuisine and a few tubs, buckets, blankets, trunks and the like. These goods were valuable. They were mentioned in wills; they were handed down the generations. (As were clothes. Another story).
The house was as much a work-place as a living place. The household needed to produce much of what it took to keep everyone fed, clothed and sheltered, and some family members may have also earned money from trades such as weaving or knitting. There was no expectation of privacy. Beds – and only the well-off actually owned beds, the rest of us slept on straw – were in public rooms, for there weren’t separate rooms for separate occupations such as sleeping, cooking, working and relaxation as there are now – it was all in together. Warmth from fire or stove, and light from lamps or candles was concentrated in one area – another good reason for togetherness.

What changed these houses into ‘homes’ as we commonly think of them – as special and separate, almost sacred; retreats from the harsh outside world; places of ultimate comfort and intimacy where you can ‘be yourself’ – was, according to Flanders, the Industrial Revolution and the rise of capitalism.

The article and the book connected with my visit to the Op Shop which has – hooray – just re-opened after the Christmas break. The stuff! (We won’t even talk about the clothes.) It felt wrong, somehow. The piles and shelves of perfectly good, serviceable, not unattractive (and yes, let’s face it, some frankly hideous) crockery and cutlery and bedding and table-linen and assorted home-wares… For under $20 I could have taken home stuff in  quantities that the ‘moderately prosperous family of the late 17th century’ would have found astonishing. They’d have thought I was super, super rich. This stuff has been donated, in most cases, because the folk who owned it have bought different or better stuff. I do it myself, of course. I buy stuff. We all do.

But I also use that brown Derby casserole that my parents brought back from England in 1952.

Home. I have often wondered what it would feel like to live in a house where nothing had a history. Where it was all new. As would happen to us if, for instance, we were in the path of a bush-fire. How would I feel ‘at home’ if my personal history was invisible?