AustLit

'We live to the sound of water, quiet water, moving, not much.

'The world was full and noisy and now it is so quiet. We have come here to hide and haven, away from streets of grey and black and steel, whirling colours, particulate vision: the Brownian motion of small various things, from the mosaic world of normal life and an invisible pathogen that dusts it, to this place where I can fill my eye line with only a few things.'  (Introduction)

'It was at a March 2002 camp at the Sydney Academy of Sport and Health where I overheard Steve Jones, who was awarded dux that year, talking about my family.'  (Introduction)

'Every 30 minutes, the Twitter account Random Restaurant (@_restaurant_bot) posts a randomly selected restaurant’s name, address and four images scraped from the location’s Google listing. Some of the more elegant photos, with balanced colours, clean lines and smooth-looking, if not necessarily appealing, food, seem to be taken by representatives of the restaurant in question, but the majority are taken by diners or passers-by who have decided to upload them. These photos rarely follow any aesthetic criteria, but that does not diminish their fascination. I could spend hours wandering a gallery in which these pictures were displayed, taking slow time with them, imagining the worlds they imply, and the intersecting lives they capture.'  (Introduction)

'In one essay, Richard Flanagan describes the phone call that alerted him to the death of wilderness photographer Peter Dombrovskis:

'I was driving to Salamanca through black clouds and heavy-dropped rain that sweeps and slaps rather than falls, while Hobart’s higher suburbs were being coated in snow. The radio news said a solo walker had failed to return from a walking trip to the Western Arthurs. I rang a friend who worked in police search and rescue.'  (Introduction)

'Recently, during Victoria’s spirit-wearying sixth lockdown, I experienced resentment. As occurs when undergoing an emotional sensation, I was not immediately conscious of what I was feeling. I was aware first of the physical manifestations: a shortness of breath, an almost demonic rush of agitation, an acrid bile in my throat and on my tongue. I was reacting to an article in the newspaper, which I had read when I first logged on to the computer that morning, perusing the headlines on the web copy of the Age. Health professionals were explaining that they were sitting on stockpiles of the AstraZeneca vaccine. Those stocks were in danger of becoming out of date and useless because people were demanding the Pfizer vaccine.'  (Introduction)

'Words are weapons. Stories are dangerous, for they define who we are, they define our history; they can be weaponised. Stories and history are tools and weapons of war. Stories can be used as part of genocide, because if you say a people are extinct other people might believe it. Stories can be part of genocide because you can use stories to erase a culture.'  (Introduction)

'It’s one of the paradoxes of cultural history that we are forever denying whatever is transforming the way we experience the world. Just at the moment (though it’s been a long moment) we’re worried about smartphones—the porn, the bullying, the hook-ups with God knows who to do God knows what, the trolls and the pervs and the endless nervy distraction.'  (Introduction)

'As a child I spent occasional weekends with my grandfather. He was a career criminal and a dangerous man. His convictions ranged from serious assault to burglary and armed robbery. He once threw his partner from a moving bus, a woman he had married illegally after deserting my grandmother and her young children, including my father. He was shot on more than one occasion and came close to death. He was also involved in the deaths of other people, men from the same criminal world he inhabited. Surprisingly, he spent little time in prison.'  (Introduction)