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“For him, England has always been a land of fairy tales: a world of pictures, of black-and-white sketches depicting pale, chubby children eating currant buns. A land of fairies and witches, hedgerows and secret gardens, goblins and magical woods. When he arrived he was surprised to find it looked almost exactly as it did in the stories. The trees, the meadows, the little brick houses. He had not come to a real country, but a story come to life. Every day, then, he woke to a fantasy. And no matter how solid and cold and uncomfortable it was, he could never feel it was a country as such, could never quite believe that it had been formed from the same molten stuff that had made his birthplace. England was always secondary, always derivative, always an aftereffect of a story. Perhaps this is why, now, he can decide to leave it.”

“Australia is a land that offers a vision of the world as it was at creation, a country of new beginnings. It is where one comes when one needs to feel close to the original ferment of the earth. That is the story, is it not? Great men have become part of this place in one way or another and Henry has made it his business to know of these things... It is not a bad place. But it is not quite what Henry thought it would be. It is not the free place he was promised.”

“Today he'll talk about Hardy's elegies. "But what are they about?", his students will ask. They want the love story. How he hates this question, understanding, now, in the shade of his office, that poetry is among the few things that can survive this question. If the poem is very good it is very hard to say what it is about. It is this and it is not that. It seems like one thing and then, after a while, not so much, one's understanding always shifting with the images and the sounds. He'll add something on Tennyson, perhaps, something on rhyme. Something about that very question, about poems being on of the few things that cannot be summarized or that can survive such an evil with something left over, something else. Something remaining. A trouble. A pleasure. A little extra.”

“He thinks often of the letter Charlotte left for him. "The story that starts a marriage," she wrote, "is very often the same story that ends it." Or rather, the seed of the end is planted in the beginning. It is the sadness of marriage that one can only learn where the end begins when it is too late; by then love is over and one is left bearing the various carapaces of wedlock - the little roof over our little house, the hate you wore on our honeymoon, the umbrellas we each carried of an English summer to keep us safe from unwanted rain. We err, she wrote, because we think happiness is a state in itself, when really it is only a symptom of love.”