'Crap,' said Janet. 'He was a whinger and he wrote it down. That's not poetry.'

Ideas came swarming through her, and like many people who labour in the obsession of solitude, she lacked the detachment to challenge them.

'The devil's everywhere,' he said. 'Not just at Brunswick one day and somewhere else the next. He's everywhere.'

And always Melbourne, Melbourne, Melbourne, over and over the same photo in glaring greens and reds, of a tram, huffy, blunderous, manoeuvring itself with pole…

The best of our fiction is by novelists who allow that it is as good as they can give, and the worst by novelists who maintain that they could do much better i…

I regard criticism as an art, and if in this country and in this age it is practiced with honesty, it is no more remunerative than the work of an avant-garde f…

Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen.