To Know A Man's Library Is, In

To Know A Man's Library Is, In Some Measure, To Know A Man's Mind.

The Thing That Most Attracts Me To Historical Fiction Is Taking The Factual Record As Far As It Is Known, Using That As Scaffolding, And Then Letting Imagination Build The Structure That Fills In Those Things We Can Never Find Out For Sure.

Sydney In The 1960s Wasn't The Exuberant Multicultural Metropolis It Is Today. Out In The City's Western Reaches, Days Passed In A Sun-struck Stupor. In The Evenings, Families Gathered On Their Verandas Waiting For The 'southerly Buster' - The Thunderstorm That Would Break The Heat And Leave The Air Cool Enough To Allow Sleep.

I Do Believe That Our Modern English Usage Has Become Way Too Clipped And Austere. I Have Been Reading Excerpts From The Journals Of 18th-century Seafarers Lately, And Even The Lowliest Press-ganged Deck-swabber Turns A Finer Phrase Than I Do Most Days.

When I Write A Word In English, A Simple One, Such As, Say, 'chief,' I Have Unwittingly Ushered A Querulous Horde Into The Room. The Roman Legionary Is There, Shaking His 'cap,' Or Head, And Al Cap Is There, Slouching In His Signature Working Man's Headgear.