The Labour Party of today has fits of horrors of the very thought of somebody like me might saying that they bought in white Australia. But I believe they did.

Old age is an ordeal, of flesh and mind. Of winding down, of slowing down, of dying cells. It's accepting the loss of physical attractiveness and replacing it with the power and wisdom that can only come with old age.

We're working-class people, which means we don't get rich or have maids. Be content with what you are and what you have.

The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.

I want to know what they look like, their height, and colouring, physique and speech pattens.

It's a dead give away of an inexperienced writer if every character speaks with the same voice

I think explicit love scenes are a turn off unless it's the kind you read with one hand.