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Strange Things


My review of Bronwyn Oliver : Strange Things, by Hannah Fink

image: Umbra, 2003


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Dancing the Land

Antony Symons 16.11.42 – 25.2.18



This is the second time

I’ve booked a ticket to Rydal

& ended up not going

not going on the train

I mean

or ‘by coach’

(Trainlink didn’t

seem to know

which one it was

& if it was a bus

where it left from


I am still going

at least I think I am

if Desmond turns up

at 9.30

as promised

in his little white

Citroën van

What to wear?

I have on black jeans

black t shirt

white socks

black leather shoes

Shall I also take with me

the black & gold


Chinese silk jacket

Antony gave me?

The one he was married in?

Or would that be


garb to turn up to

his funeral wearing?

As for the wake

there isn’t going to be one

the family decided

there will be no gathering

before or after the funeral

at Antony’s house

Christa texted this week

everybody will meet

at the Cementary

It’s in Cartwright Street

near East Street

not far from the junction

of Lords Gully &

Solitary Creek

which was

I recall

Antony’s preferred

name for the place

he lived 35 years

& in which

at 1 pm today

he will be buried




I see Desmond standing

on the edge of the lawn

outside my place

waiting for me

to notice him there

wearing a cloth cap

a denim shirt &

faded blue jeans

& looking like

an extra from Minder

It’s raining lightly

as we walk down Morris Street

to the corner where I ask

Where is your car?

It’s up the other way

he says pointing back

the way that we came

So why are we walking

this way? I say

I don’t know he says

& that’s how it is

Desmond is a clown

professionally I mean

though he’s other things too

& so we turn around

& walk back laughing

the way that we came

Morris to Lorne

climb into the van

Goodness Gracious

painted on the side

& drive to Katoomba

without stopping once

cracking jokes all the while

Coffee at the Paragon

hot croissants at

The Little Paris Cafe

where engraved on the mirror

in cursive script

C’est La Vie

it says


unless you’re Antony

he died on the 25th

today is the 9th

I keep wondering where he’s been

all that time

ten days is a while

to spend above ground

when you’re already dead

his just skin & bone

in a fridge somewhere

Lithgow I suppose

That’s what he said to me

a week before Christmas

I’m just skin & bone

40 kilos when he died

according to Ray

who isn’t going to be there

pre-op, oncology, Tweed Heads

I think

If you have to go to a funeral

go with a clown

the jokes don’t stop

as we drive on through

Medlow Bath


Mt Victoria

the Hartleys

until a brief silent panic

outside of Lithgow

looking for the turn off

ah here it is now

lilies by the road

& flannel flowers

sheep pigs & cows

horses in the fields

make a landscape more beautiful

level crossing

dirt road

then the cementary

like a graveyard


with a seminary

I say

(Desmond was raised

a Catholic

in Ellerslie)

& there is the hearse

its tray open wide

& in the back a long coffin

shaped basket

a basket!

inside that basket

Antony’s skin & bone

one last joke

he always was

a basket case

before solemnity descends



Wiradjuri woman

Cean leads

the ceremony

bark & dry leaves

fire in a brazier

green leaves on top

in a brief wind from the south

aromatic smoke

drifts over the basket

just skin & bone

& over us where we stand

or sit under awnings

I can still smell it in my clothes

Cean’s two beautiful daughters

playing at her feet

in pink foldout chairs

feeding leaves to the fire

as she chants & sings

& moves round the grave

dancing the land

in the north west corner

on a far slope of

the Great Dividing Range

under a gnarled old eucalypt

that everybody says

resembles Antony

(as it does)

His own daughter Zenta


clapping sticks

while Cean dances

his other daughter Ella

shaking with grief

someone tells a story

about a fishing trip

a sea eagle took

a trout from the river

brought down with a stick

it fell at their feet

& they went home & cooked it

the fish not the bird

I tell the tale of

the Chinese silk jacket

what Antony said

when I offered him my arm

drawing himself up

to his full five foot seven

I have never fallen down

once in my life

& I don’t intend to now

& how he’d sing lieder

impeccably enunciated

in a pure unwavering voice

when the pain got too bad

Ray Minniecon says sorry

sorry, Antony, mate

Dancing The Land

your last sculpture

never found its spot

at Circular Quay

where the troop ships depart

where the troop ships return

Ted, the grandson

says it the best

from dust we come

to dust we return

dancing the land

then they release the doves

flying up past the tree

untangling his soul

Desmond places on the basket

a St Christopher

I find an obol

in the pocket of my wallet

& place it there too

ginger flowers

peacock feathers

three lines of white clay

Cean paints on the wicker

a warrior’s farewell

to speed him on his way



Turns out there is

a wake of a kind

after all


in the amphitheatre

Antony built

with some other workers

below the Showgrounds

in Pioneer Park

looking west from a slope

of the Great Dividing Range

out towards Bathurst

Dubbo beyond

dancing the land

scones with jam

& whipped cream

three varieties

of sausage roll


cheese & tomato

pickle & ham


the exotic note

a box of baklava

mugs of tea or of fruit juice

a bottle of white wine

nobody dares open

lest the drunken ghost

of Antony in his cups

appear cursing among us

I sling the silk jacket

about the shoulders

of the bust of an explorer

anomalously presiding

We don’t stay for long

dancing the land

laugh all the way back

to Sydney again

& when I get in

there’s four missed calls

from a fellow at Trainlink

who’d ordered me a taxi

from Lithgow to Rydal

& Rydal to Lithgow

station to station

& coach to coach

at either end of the day

I call Trainlink back

& try to explain

I’ve been to a funeral

in Rydal

I say

Oorgh says the bloke

that’d be Antony

how did it go?

Did he get a good send off?

The best

I reply

the best we could do



His ghost it will walk

walk those hills

in a long black veil

or silk embroidered jacket

dancing the land

all the long years

of the dissolution of

the ‘civilization’ he hated

until it passes away

as pass away it must

& what was & will be

joins again with what is

what was & will be

just skin & bone

dancing the land





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The Summer Exercises


Over the summer I read three books about Sydney – a kind of trilogy I suppose. Only Mirror Sydney (Giramondo, 2017) is contemporary; the other two were published ten (The Summer Exercises, UWA & Historic Houses Trust, 2008) and thirteen (1932 : a Hell of a Year, Macmillan, 2005) years ago. You could not find three books more different however. 1932 is a vivid, if scatty, account, by Gerald Stone, of various news stories current during the year the Sydney Harbour Bridge opened, with a strong focus upon the politics of The Other Dismissal (Premier Jack Lang by NSW Governor Philip Game). Mirror Sydney, from a blog of the same name by Vanessa Berry, is an eclectic and idiosyncratic account of various places, past and present, in the metropolitian area; it includes charmingly naive hand drawn maps and is never without interest, although for some reason (the prose style?) I did not enjoy it quite as much as I thought I would. The Summer Exercises is something else again: entirely engrossing and (in my experience) without precedent. Author Ross Gibson has spent years studying police photographs of crime scenes in Sydney. For this book he assembled 175 such images and used them to illustrate a narrative which takes place over the month of January, 1946. The narrator is a chaplain accompanying police on their rounds; the main characters include three Sydney cops, a black jazz trumpeteer, a runaway boy with a broken leg and a missing woman named Helen. Despite the sticky heat of a Sydney summer, it’s noir, circling round opium dens in Chinatown, the drains and other underground spaces where homeless kids live, and a house, on the outskirts of town, where porn movies are made – and other, unspeakable things happen. The narration is sparse, allusive, ‘poetic’ and scarcely attentive to plot as such; which unfolds, nevertheless, with brutal force. Each day, for 29 days, the chaplain makes five entries in his notebook; each day is illustrated by the aforementioned police photographs; except that: ‘in reality the characters and events and settings in the book bear no direct relationship to the photographs.’ And yet they do. Certain images recur and, although they have their own provenance (detailed in the back of the book), they come to stand for certain characters, certain motifs, certain situations, in the story. It is an extraordinary performance, in which you read two narratives, that of the ‘real’ story of the photographs and that which Ross Gibson has constructed around them, in tandem. To add to the engimatic quality of the images, some come from a stolen camera so that no-one knows exactly what they show; some have become detached from their files so, again, their actual origin is obscure; and some, like the wonderful cover image, are mysterious just because of what they are. Most of them are from the late 1940s and 1950s; and they bring to mind a sort of prequel, and another extraordinary piece of publishing, City of Shadows: Sydney Police Photographs 1912-1948, by Peter Doyle with Caleb Williams (Historic Houses Trust, 2005).



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The Anniversary of the Apology

Doug and the Author

I went to see

Sweet Country

at the Dendy

with a whole lot of other greyhairs

and one or two younger ones

These days

I find it almost impossible

to sit in a cinema

without becoming irritated

people eating and drinking

the crackling and the crunching

the slurping

the wet sound of lips

There’s no music in the film

save Johnny Cash singing

Peace in the Valley

over the credits

No trouble, trouble I see

Sam Neill

a capella

a hymn

and one other piece of found music

I forget


in the silence of the Quiet of Silences

you hear

wind over spinifex

you hear

the very quiet waters of the Larapinta

at Yapalpe

the very quiet waters of Kwartatuma

or Rwetyepme

I kept thinking about Doug

I saw him on the way there

he looked worried

I asked him what was wrong

he said something about his mother

as if he might have seen her

just then

in the Darrel Jackson Gardens

he said colours

red brown yellow black

you know

like those Red Indians

he said


most of it I didn’t get

maybe he was taken away from his mother

red brown yellow black

maybe 1971 was when it happened

or maybe that was when she died

he started trying to explain it all over again and then he stopped

never mind

and walked away

No trouble, trouble I see

The other day on the train

I saw a T shirt

C U (in the) N T

it said

Tjoritja, 1929

is where

Sweet Country

is set

True Story

Sweet country

is what Bryan Brown says

when he’s planning to give up policing

and go further west into the tribal lands

of the Arrernte

to found a cattle station


In another part of the movie

standing outside the jail

south of Mparntwe

in Henry

where Hamilton Morris is held

awaiting trial

for murder of a white man

he says

I am the law

You don’t know if it’s him who fires the shot at the end

undoing the fragile recompense

judicial law tried to make

you don’t know who fires it

all you know is a good man dead

Sam Kelly

(Hamilton Morris

the actor’s name)

his wife and his niece in the back of the sulky

covered in blood

their own blood

No trouble, trouble I see

Sam Neill stumbles off into the landscape


What chance has this country got

he says it twice

What chance has this country got

Wind over spinifex

the very quiet waters of the Larapinta

at Yapalpe

in the silence of the Quiet of Silences

I saw Doug again just now

outside the newsagency

he still looks worried

cigarettes from Jack’s cost a dollar each

he only had forty cents

I gave him the change left over after I bought

a manila folder

and an A4 envelope

I had $4.00

in silver coins

the stationery cost $1.60

that left $2.40

I still don’t know what’s bothering him

I can’t read his mind

but he can read mine


When you going away?

he asked

though I hadn’t told him


He touched me on the shoulder

that never happened before

Ok see you when I get back

such soft hands he has

No trouble, trouble I see

Doug went into the army

aged nineteen

it was a job

he was sent to Indonesia

things happened

but I don’t know what

he won’t talk about it

or I can’t hear

he never went back to Dubbo

where he’s from

or he did go back and for some reason

couldn’t stay

his eyes lustrous and dark and fathomless

look into mine

which are green

murky or transparent I don’t know

he starts to say something again and then he stops


never mind

walks away

again again again again again

What chance has this country got

In the silence of the Quiet of Silences

No trouble, trouble I see


February 13, 2018


Photo by Maggie Hall


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Another Irre(parable) World


The other night I was lying in bed reading, as is my wont, and I came across this: ‘It was not necessary to demonstrate facts; it was enough for an author to have written something for it to be true, with no proof other than the power of his talent and the authority of his voice.’ The words echoed strangely in my mind: why? And then I remembered. I quoted this sentence in Luca Antara (2006). I knew it was written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez; knew he was talking about the effect (aged 18) reading Kafka’s Metamorphosis had upon him; but never knew where it came from. Living to Tell the Tale, his memoir, and penultimate book. I checked the publishing information: 2002 for the Spanish, 2003 for the English translation. But excerpts appeared previously, in The New Yorker (2002) and in Zoetrope (1998). Where did I get the quote from? I have no idea. It’s almost as if it was dictated to me by the ghostly voice of Gaby himself. I wrote Luca Antara, mostly, in Auckland in 2004. As with all my books, it is a collage of voices, amongst which the one that is my own may sometimes be discerned; but while I am working I never seem to have the time or the inclination to note down where particular elements of the collage come from. It’s why an academic career was never really open to me: I don’t (can’t) (won’t) footnote. So how curious to read the next sentence: ‘It was Scheherazade all over again, not in her millenary world where everything was possible but in another irreparable world where everything had already been lost.’

[image : Kay Nielson : Scheherazade & the Sultan 1918-22]


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I must have already met Jan Preston. I came home one day and there she was in the hallway, sitting opposite Gordon Campbell, talking non-stop; as she was wont to do. Mary was moving out; Jan had come about the room. Gordon and I said yes, something he, at least, would come to regret—piercingly and quite soon. Jan was enrolled at Teacher’s Training College in Karori. She’d come down from Auckland after completing a music degree the previous year. And she wasn’t well. She was recovering from the Hepatitis B infection she’d contracted from her last boyfriend, a Maori guy called Arthur Mita. I knew Arthur and, frankly, have never been able to imagine he and Jan together. But there you are. They were.

Mita wasn’t his surname, it was an alternate Christian name. His Maori name. I can’t remember his actual surname, although I think I saw it written down once. Everyone called him Arthur and then (if he wasn’t there) they’d say, Arthur Mita, as if there might be another Arthur around who wasn’t him. He was a tall slender handsome man who was always laughing, showing a wide mouth lacking a few white teeth. I used to play chess with him. I’d go round to his big old three storey house at 14 McDonald Crescent, between Willis Street and The Terrace, and we’d convene to an upstairs sitting room and play a game or two. Arthur was another in the long line of great Maori chess players. He was a superb tactician and he invariably won; I felt good if I came even close to troubling him. He played as much above the board as on it: the mind games were incessant and, despite his unfailing good humour, deadly serious too. Especially after I got together with Jan. What you doing with her, man? he would say. What indeed.

McDonald Crescent was a squat. It was alleged to have been the Firetrap Castle of the James K Baxter poem; though some say that was further up the road at number 26. There may have been some kind of urban commune at #14 for a while but now it was just lived in by people like Arthur, an unapologetic hedonist with no ideology, except perhaps an objection towards the paying of rent. Arthur was the cook at Macavity’s, a hip restaurant off Plimmer Steps in the city. He might have been a partner there too. Other partners included Rachel Stace and Peter Fantl. The food was magnificent, especially the salads, full of exotica, including nuts, like pecans, we’d barely heard of before. The servings were huge. Usually, around 10.30, they’d close the door and the partying would begin in earnest and go on until after midnight. Or later. The restaurant guests, mostly friends anyway, would stay on to drink and smoke and carouse. There was always music playing. Steely Dan. The Rolling Stones. Link Wray. Roxy Music.

Peter too was a tall handsome slender man with a wide white smile which did not lack any teeth. He was the son of an architect, a man who escaped Prague, aged 15, on a kinder transport, a train, on the eve of World War Two. Bob Fantl had come to New Zealand in time to enlist in the Air Force and fight in the war in the Pacific. He married a German woman called Clair Woolf and they built a simple and elegant house in Wilton. Bob was a colleague of Ernst Plischke. A pioneer environmentalist. Pete sometimes lived at home but usually had a place in town. 67 Fairlie Terrace, for instance, just around the corner from 96 Kelburn Parade, a house his parents were said to own. His only sibling, a sister, Judy, died in 1971; he told me about this after my own sister Rachel died in 1975.

Pete was a good cook too; and a dealer; someone you could go to to purchase any kind of drug. Remarkably, in Wellington in the mid 1970s, you could find just about anything—with the exception of those things, like Ecstasy, that hadn’t been invented yet. And maybe not opium, which had been obtainable in Auckland earlier in the decade but was now quite rare. Heroin, certainly. Buddha sticks were starting to arrive, very strong marijuana heads that came threaded around small skewers of bamboo; hence the name. Speed, of course. Pills of all descriptions, generally divided into just two categories, uppers and downers. Acid. Traffic lights were ubiquitous, small cylindrical tablets in three colours, red, orange and green. Cocaine was available too, if you had the money. Everything else was cheap as. Halcyon days.

Jan’s background was different from mine. She was the talented daughter of working class parents, born in Greymouth on the West Coast of the South Island; her family, like many Coasters, migrated north to sunny Hawkes Bay, where her father, Ed, was a milkman in Napier. Her mother, Tui, had the drive and ambition which impels children towards achievements of the academic and / or the artistic kind. Or into addiction. Jan’s brother Edward was a primary school teacher; her sister Gaylene, still at that stage in England, an art therapist who became a film maker. Jan was the youngest of the three, a classical pianist. She played the works of Scarlatti, Scriabin, Schubert, de Falla, Stravinsky, amongst many others, and had in Auckland been recruited into the avant-garde performances which composer Jack Body, principally, staged during those late sixties and early seventies years.

Alan Brunton, in July, 1968, had participated in one of these events: Jack Body produced a chance music composition that involved four people sitting at switches which they flicked when a light beside them lit up by some chance process. I was one of the switchers. In 1972 Jack’s multimedia production Sexus debuted at the Maori Community Centre Hall in Fanshawe Street in Freeman’s Bay. Body invited choreographer Jennifer Shennan to work with him to produce Sexus, an erotic and gritty stage-performance. This brought together six scantily clad dancers, a filmic projection and Body’s own sonic score. The dancers were paired to represent a spectrum of bodily encounters—male/male, male/female, female/female. Their movements were enacted in conjunction with the projected image of an ambiguously gendered man, who repeatedly performed a series of gestures and actions that confused the coded behaviour of conventional masculinity.

I remember the dancers moving before a large screen where the 16mm b&w film Jack made was projected. One of them was Deborah Hunt. The boy in the movie was young, androgynous, with long  straight glossy hair, filmed with his locks cascading over his face and shoulders and his hands caressing his naked torso. Was his name Gerry? He was, briefly, a campus hero. I wonder what happened to him. Jennifer Shennan, though a little older, was Jan’s bosom friend in those days and the two women resembled each other so strongly they were often taken for sisters. The other half of the Sexus program was a performance of Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Kurzwellen, for six players with short wave radio receivers; Jan was one of these players.

I saw the show with a frisson of excitement but without understanding what was actually happening. I don’t remember Jan being one of the players. I never met her in Auckland, never even heard of her; though another of her boyfriends, the paradoxical and enigmatic Wilton Roger, was an acquaintance of sorts. I remember Wilton tacking up hand-written poems on the wall of Dean and Snail’s house at Leigh. Seven cauldrons for the Prince is a (Poundian?) line from one of those verses. Later he became an aficionado of the works of Wallace Stevens. He also played saxophone.

It turned out Jan had a ghostly encounter with me too. In 1972 I had been a member of the Scratch Orchestra; under the inspired direction of Phil Dadson, we performed Cornelius Cardew’s The Great Learning, a setting for percussion and voice of a Confucian text translated by Ezra Pound. Phil had studied with Cardew in London; then founded his own Scratch Orchestra in Auckland. You didn’t have to be able to play: a large number of enthusiasts pooling their resources (not primarily material resources) and assembling for action (music-making, performance, edification). As part of the lead up to The Great Learning, I cut a stencil and one night, with a couple of friends, took a spray can and inscribed the words The Streets Are Laughing across the veritable streets of Auckland. Jan had seen this inscrutable message on a path in Albert Park and wondered who its author might have been. It was me.

Either Sally or Alan—or both—knew of Jan’s work as a musician and a performer in Auckland. It may be that, the same night Alan asked me to contribute to the publication that became Spleen, he and Sally asked Jan to do the music for the upcoming, and inaugural, Red Mole show: Whimsy and the Seven Spectacles, staged in the Student Union building at Victoria University on November 30, 1974. I remember Jim Stevenson, the lawyer, and Alan’s friend since student days (and still), reciting; and his wife Jenny, whom everyone said looked like Mick Jagger, dancing. Jan played Igor Stravinsky’s Circus Polka for a Young Elephant on the piano. That was a riot.

Otherwise the show, as I recall, was wordy, static, frieze-like. Egyptian. There were three other performers apart from Jim & Jenny and Sally & Alan (couples in those days ((Jan & Martin)) came with an ampersand): Ann Hunt, now Robinson; Jim Spalding, a Canadian song and dance man; Erola Whitcombe. As with Sexus, I understood very little of what went on. Afterwards, perhaps in response to that perplexity, Alan told Jan there were seventy-seven levels of meaning to everything he wrote; it was up to others to work out what they were. This became, for years afterwards, a running joke between us. However, like Arthur Mita’s mind games, it was deadly serious as well. I have spent years trying to figure out what those seventy-seven levels of meaning might have been; in some ways I still am.

photo Sexus by John Miller


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(I used to be in a band called) The Ejaculating Pharaohs

7584862762_dfd33da75e_bWhen you enter the first of the seven Egyptian rooms at the Ashmolean Library in Oxford, a group of three figures greets you—two towering statues of the god Min, with his phallus in his left hand and a flail in the right; between and before them, an animal figure usually described as a lion. It might just as well be a frog—with teeth. The statues of Min were dug up at Koptos (Qift) by Flinders Petrie in the 1890s and brought back to England. They are pre-Dynastic. That is, older than the records. One altogether lacks a head, the other has its detached cranium suspended, as it were, above its torso in the place where it would once have been. They are mere slabs of stone with relief ornaments; apart from the cocks themselves, massive cylinders of stone which have mostly gone now, which were inserted into apertures drilled into the body of the statue and projected who knows how far beyond it? Flanged? Or not? The statue with the floating head still has the stump of its erection plugging the hole made for it; in the other, all you can see is the empty socket. The hands seem turning backwards around. Min, Lord of the Processions, God of the High Plumes, Maker of Gods and Men. The cos lettuce was one of his sacred plants, he was sometimes depicted standing upon a pile of them, because the white latex which oozes from a broken leaf or stem resembles semen. Lettuce. In amongst their grandeur and their strangeness, you have to love the homeliness of the Egyptians. There are suggestions that when a Pharaoh manifested as Min, he had to ejaculate publicly in order to prove his fertility, perhaps into the Nile itself; and there is a sub genre of depictions of an ejaculating Pharaoh. There is even some evidence that the two mysterious shafts in the Great Pyramid of Gaza, aligned to the stars, and sometimes called breathing holes, were actually left there as paths for semen to flow from earth to heaven, from Pharaoh to star. Or vice versa. This whole complex of imagery was suppressed from the books I read as a child and adolescent, probably in order to discourage unhealthy habits amongst the young. The solitary vice. Imagine the damage that might have been done to Empire. Hence, although I’ve been reading about ancient Egypt all my life, until I wandered into the Ashmoleon that rainy Saturday in February, I had not before come across the idea that the Pharaoh inundates Earth (The Black Land) and Sky (where his ancestors are stars) with his semen and so fertilizes the Cosmos. As well as (obviously) initiating the yearly gush and flow of the Nile itself. Yet there was a being who preceded Min: the vast and dark chaos of the waters themselves, call Nu or Nun, and imagined as female. The goddess Nu existed when the sky had not yet come into being, when the earth had not yet come into being. Before the Imperishable Stars of the North, before the Unwearying Stars of the South. She was the Cosmos and, in fealty, the first letter of her name, N, was written as a wavy line of water. For the Egyptians, as for the Sumerians, the world existed within an infinite ocean, which was only kept from engulfing the earth by the air we breathe, the atmosphere. The back of the sky, which we call space, was to them the surface of an ocean; where air met water. So that, you might say, when Min or Atum or Ptah or Osiris or whoever (they all did it) fired off his semen, it wasn’t seed that fell upon stony ground; but a salty deposit made into the great ocean of the Cosmos. As humans, they thought they must have come out of an egg that came itself from Ocean. Were they wrong? It doesn’t matter whether you think of the Seven Seas (they are really one) or whether you think of ‘Space’, through which comets and other heavenly bodies, containing organic compounds, perhaps Archaea too, hurtle. It’s the same thing: that envelope that surrounds us, where we cannot live, and without which we cannot live. The twin gods in the Ashmolean are vast, vestigial, slabs of carved stone, potent in conception almost beyond imagining; but nugatory now, like big mistakes. They seem somehow to fulfil Shelley’s ironic prophecy: Look on my works ye mighty and despair. Meanwhile, whether you think about it or not, Ocean roars on.


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