What reality was ever made by realists?

The journey is long, the road is dark and frightening, but together we can reach our destination: the Tasmania of which we all dream, where all are welcome and all prosper, made no longer of lies but truth, built not of rich men's hate but our love for our island and for each other.

The fallacy is that you have to hold some sort of stake in the grief or horror in order to write about it - I think the opposite is true.

We remember nothing. Maybe for a year or two. Maybe most of a life, if we live. Maybe. But then we will die, and who will ever understand any of this? And maybe we remember nothing most of all when we put our hands on our hearts and carry on about not forgetting.

I think it's always wrong of writers to make too much of the pains of their labors, because most people have much worse jobs and suffer such indignities and hardships.

I'm afraid a lot of people have lost a lot of money over the years betting on me.

Love is the scent of a sleeping back, death a slight draft of bad breath.