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Recommended reads
Luminous Moments
Sir Paul Terence Callaghan GNZM FRS FRSNZ (19 August 1947 – 24 March 2012) was a New Zealand physicist who, as the founding director of the MacDiarmid Institute for Advanced Materials and Nanotechnology atVictoria University of Wellington, held the position of Alan MacDiarmid Professor of Physical Sciences and was President of the International Society of Magnetic Resonance. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Callaghan The Bush
Don Watson Watson grew up on a farm in Gippsland, took his undergraduate degree at La Trobe University and a PhD at Monash University[1] and was for ten years an academic historian. He wrote three books on Australian history before turning his hand to TV and the stage. In 1992 he became Prime Minister of Australia Paul Keating's speech-writer and adviser and his best-selling account of those years, Recollections of a Bleeding Heart: A Portrait of Paul Keating PM, won both The Age Book of the Year and non-fiction Prizes, the Brisbane Courier Mail Book of the Year, the National Biography Award and the Australian Literary Studies Association's Book of the Year. In addition to regular books, articles and essays, in recent years he has also written feature films, including The Man Who Sued God, starring Billy Connolly and Judy Davis, and Passion, a film about Percy Grainger starring Richard Roxburgh. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Watson Parting Shots Matthew Parris Matthew Francis Parris (born 7 August 1949) is a British journalist and former Conservative politician. He writes a weekly political column for The Times. Listen to live excerpts here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00n85t5 The Noonday Demon Andrew Solomon Andrew Solomon (born October 30, 1963) is a writer on politics, culture and psychology, who lives in New York and London. He has written for The New York Times, The New Yorker, Artforum, Travel and Leisure, and other publications on a range of subjects, including depression,[1] Soviet artists,[2] the cultural rebirth of Afghanistan,[3] Libyan politics,[4][5] and deaf politics.[6] His book The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression[7] won the 2001 National Book Award,[8] was a finalist for the 2002 Pulitzer Prize,[9] and was included in The Times list of one hundred best books of the decade.[10] Honors awarded to Far from the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity include the 2012 National Book Critics Circle Award,[11] the Media for a Just Society Award of the National Council on Crime and Delinquency,[12] the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award,[13] and the Dayton Literary Peace Prize.[14] |
Michael King, OBE (15 December 1945 – 30 March 2004) was a New Zealand popular historian, author and biographer. He wrote or edited over 30 books on New Zealand topics, including The Penguin History of New Zealand, which was the most popular New Zealand book of 2004.[1]
http://www.amazon.com.au/Penguin-History-Zealand-Michael-King-ebook/dp/B00B54FMXK/ref=sr_1_fkmr3_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1423167669&sr=8-2-fkmr3&keywords=short+history+of+new+zealand+michael+king |
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The Musket Wars
By Ron Crosby http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Musket_Wars Ron Crosby was born in 1949 and spent the first 30 years of his working life as a court lawyer, initially in partnership for a few years in Auckland, and from 1975 in Blenheim where he still lives. He was admitted to the Bar in 1971 and gained an LLB Hons at Auckland University. He married Margy, who is of Te Rarawa/Te Aupouri descent, in 1971 and they have three adult children. In 2002 Ron formally retired as a partner of the law firm Gascoigne Wicks, but continued as a consultant to that firm predominantly in resource management and iwi fields for another six years finally retiring at the end of December 2007 to concentrate on writing. His personal interests include a wide range of sports, and his interest in exploring on foot the bush and back country areas of New Zealand has led to an interest in writing on New Zealand history. |

The Surgeon of Crowthorne
by Simon Winchester, OBE (born 28 September 1944), is a British author and journalist who resides in the United States. Through his career at The Guardian, Winchester covered numerous significant events, includingBloody Sunday and the Watergate Scandal. As an author, Winchester has written or contributed to more than a dozen nonfiction books, has written one novel, and his articles have appeared in several travel publications, including Condé Nast Traveler, Smithsonian Magazine, and National Geographic.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Surgeon_of_Crowthorne
by Simon Winchester, OBE (born 28 September 1944), is a British author and journalist who resides in the United States. Through his career at The Guardian, Winchester covered numerous significant events, includingBloody Sunday and the Watergate Scandal. As an author, Winchester has written or contributed to more than a dozen nonfiction books, has written one novel, and his articles have appeared in several travel publications, including Condé Nast Traveler, Smithsonian Magazine, and National Geographic.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Surgeon_of_Crowthorne
The Power in Girls
Christine Jensen Burke http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christine_Jensen_Burke Chris has climbed mountains in Nepal, China, Africa, Malaysia, South East Asia, South America, New Zealand, Antarctica, Australia, North America, Europe and Pakistan. In 2013, Chris became one of only a small handful of climbers, female or male, to reach the summit of 4 x 8,000m peaks in a 12 month period when she reached the summit of Lhotse, G1, G2 and Manaslu. She followed these climbs up by climbing 3 x 8,000m peaks in 2014 (Makalu, K2 and Cho-Oyu). Born in Timaru in New Zealand's South Island, and with dual New Zealand and Australian citizenship, Chris climbs in the ANZAC spirit, so the ‘Kia-Ora – Cooee’ is always with her. Chris spends her free time with family and friends, and raises awareness for the following charitable and community organisations: The Eggtober Foundation (Sydney based), the Australian Himalayan Foundation (which also partners with the Himalayan Trust of NZ). She also undertakes and assists with private charitable and educational initiatives in Nepal. She was previously a Partner at leading Australian law firms Gilbert + Tobin and Minter Ellison. Her home bases are Sydney Australia and Rakaia, in Canterbury, New Zealand. |
Sensible Sinning
Professor Bernard Brown Bernard was born in 1934 in the village of Hadleigh, in Suffolk, East Anglia. He studied at Leeds University from 1952-56, where he also began writing and was on the editorial board of Gryphon, the university’s literary journal. During the 1956 Suez Crisis he was called up and served in the RAF, stationed mainly in Singapore. After undertaking a short service commission he was awarded a Sword of Honour for coming top of his intake. Following his national service Bernard remained in Singapore, lecturing in Malay Customary Law part-time at the University of Malaya, then later becoming a full-time lecturer there in the Faculty of Law. In Singapore he also became friends with the distinguished English poet, DJ Enright. In 1961 Bernard moved to New Zealand, joining the Faculty of Law at the University of Auckland. He later became an Associate Professor of Law at the university, where he still teaches part-time. He also spent three years as Foundation fellow on Papua New Guinea Law at the Australian National University in Canberra. His publications include the poetry and prose collections Surprising the Slug, Unspeakable Practicesand Sensible Sinning. Bernard was awarded Life Membership of the New Zealand Society of Authors in 2010. |
From Fashion of Law in New Guinea (Butterworths, Sydney, 1969)
"Counsel: Was the witness's wife present at the sing-sing?"
Pidgin Interpreter: Long taim dispela sing sing i kamap, meri bilong im stop wantaim long ol, or nogat?
"Dialect" interpreter to witness: Was your wife present at the sing-sing?
Witness: My wife has always been disobedient and uncooperative.
"Dialect" interpreter: Yes but the judge wants to know whether or not she was at the sing-sing?
Witness: She frequently even insults me.
"Dialect" interpreter: Yes but was she at the sing-sing?
Witness: She is lazy. I often have to cook my own meals.
"Dialect" interpreter: You can tell the court about that later. Was she at the sing-sing?
Witness: In fact women generally are unpredictable, volatile, capricious.
"Dialect" interpreter: Look, do me a favour and answer the question.
Witness: She wasn't worth the bride-price.
"Dialect" interpreter: Look, I'll get into trouble in a minute. Was she at the sing-sing?
Witness: One enters marriage with high hopes but very often it is a saddening experience.
"Dialect" interpreter: If Iose my status as an interpreter over this I'll fix you when the court has gone. Was she at the sing-sing?
Witness: What sing-sing?
"Dialect" interpreter: You know the one when Sam over there got fresh with her.
Witness: Of course she was there, how else would the trouble have started?
"Dialect interpreter to Pidgin Interpreter: Yes.
Pidgin interpreter to court: Yes."
Say's something for real-time translations. :-)
"Counsel: Was the witness's wife present at the sing-sing?"
Pidgin Interpreter: Long taim dispela sing sing i kamap, meri bilong im stop wantaim long ol, or nogat?
"Dialect" interpreter to witness: Was your wife present at the sing-sing?
Witness: My wife has always been disobedient and uncooperative.
"Dialect" interpreter: Yes but the judge wants to know whether or not she was at the sing-sing?
Witness: She frequently even insults me.
"Dialect" interpreter: Yes but was she at the sing-sing?
Witness: She is lazy. I often have to cook my own meals.
"Dialect" interpreter: You can tell the court about that later. Was she at the sing-sing?
Witness: In fact women generally are unpredictable, volatile, capricious.
"Dialect" interpreter: Look, do me a favour and answer the question.
Witness: She wasn't worth the bride-price.
"Dialect" interpreter: Look, I'll get into trouble in a minute. Was she at the sing-sing?
Witness: One enters marriage with high hopes but very often it is a saddening experience.
"Dialect" interpreter: If Iose my status as an interpreter over this I'll fix you when the court has gone. Was she at the sing-sing?
Witness: What sing-sing?
"Dialect" interpreter: You know the one when Sam over there got fresh with her.
Witness: Of course she was there, how else would the trouble have started?
"Dialect interpreter to Pidgin Interpreter: Yes.
Pidgin interpreter to court: Yes."
Say's something for real-time translations. :-)
The Magpies (1941)
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_magpie)
By
Lieutenant Commander Denis James Matthews Glover DSC (9 December 1912 – 9 August 1980) was a New Zealand poet and publisher.
_____________________________________
When Tom and Elizabeth took the farm
The bracken made their bed
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
Tom's hand was strong to the plough
and Elizabeth's lips were red
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
Year in year out they worked
while the pines grew overhead
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
But all the beautiful crops soon went
to the mortgage man instead
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
Elizabeth is dead now (it's long ago)
Old Tom's gone light in the head
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
The farms still there. Mortgage corporations
couldn't give it away
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies say.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_magpie)
By
Lieutenant Commander Denis James Matthews Glover DSC (9 December 1912 – 9 August 1980) was a New Zealand poet and publisher.
_____________________________________
When Tom and Elizabeth took the farm
The bracken made their bed
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
Tom's hand was strong to the plough
and Elizabeth's lips were red
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
Year in year out they worked
while the pines grew overhead
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
But all the beautiful crops soon went
to the mortgage man instead
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
Elizabeth is dead now (it's long ago)
Old Tom's gone light in the head
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies said
The farms still there. Mortgage corporations
couldn't give it away
and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
The magpies say.
For all we have and are - 1914
Ridyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)
For all we have and are,
For all our children's fate,
Stand up and take the war,
The Hun is at the Gate!
Our world has passed away,
In Wantonness o'erthrown.
There is nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone!
Though all we knew depart,
The old Commandments stand:-
"In courage keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."
Once more we hear the word
That sickened earth of old:-
"Now law except the Sword
Unsheathed and uncontrolled."
Once more it knits mankind,
Once more he nations go
To meet and break and bind
A crazed and driven foe.
Comfort, content, delight,
The ages' slow-bought gain,
They shrivelled in a night.
Only ourselves remain
To face the naked days
In silent fortitude,
Through perils and dismays
Renewed and re-renewed.
Though all we made depart,
The old commandments stand:-
"In patience keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."
No easy hope or lies
Shall bring us to our goal
But iron sacrifice
Of body, will, and soul
There is but one task for all -
One life for each to give.
Who stands if Freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?
Dulce Et Decorum Est
(published 1920 - posthumously)
(Wilfred Owen 1893-1918)
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks.,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge.
ill on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And onwards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ....
Dim, through he misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me guttering, choking drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
An watch the white eyes writhing in is face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin:
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gurgling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friends, you would not tell us with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Note the history behind "the old lie"
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dulce_et_decorum_est_pro_patria_mori
Chemin Des Dames (1915)
(Crosbie Garstin 1887-1930)
In silks and satins the ladies went
Where the breezes sighed and he poplars bent,
Taking the air of a Sunday morn
Midst the red of poppies and gold corn -
Flowery ladies in stiff brocades,
With negro pages and serving-maids,
In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan,
With brooch and buckle and flounce and fan,
Patch and powder and trailing scent,
Under the trees the ladies went -
Lovely ladies that gleamed and glowed,
As they took their air on the Ladies' Road.
Boom of thunder and lightening flash -
The torn earth rocks to the barrage crash;
the bullets whine and the bullets sing
From the mad machine-guns chattering;
Black smoke rolling across the mud,
Trenches plastered with flesh and blood -
The blue ranks lock with the ranks of grey,
Stab an swagger and sob and sway,
The living cringe from the shrapnel bursts,
The ding moan of their burning thursts,
Moan and die in the gulping slough -
Where are the butterfly ladies now?
Ridyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)
For all we have and are,
For all our children's fate,
Stand up and take the war,
The Hun is at the Gate!
Our world has passed away,
In Wantonness o'erthrown.
There is nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone!
Though all we knew depart,
The old Commandments stand:-
"In courage keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."
Once more we hear the word
That sickened earth of old:-
"Now law except the Sword
Unsheathed and uncontrolled."
Once more it knits mankind,
Once more he nations go
To meet and break and bind
A crazed and driven foe.
Comfort, content, delight,
The ages' slow-bought gain,
They shrivelled in a night.
Only ourselves remain
To face the naked days
In silent fortitude,
Through perils and dismays
Renewed and re-renewed.
Though all we made depart,
The old commandments stand:-
"In patience keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."
No easy hope or lies
Shall bring us to our goal
But iron sacrifice
Of body, will, and soul
There is but one task for all -
One life for each to give.
Who stands if Freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?
Dulce Et Decorum Est
(published 1920 - posthumously)
(Wilfred Owen 1893-1918)
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks.,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge.
ill on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And onwards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ....
Dim, through he misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me guttering, choking drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
An watch the white eyes writhing in is face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin:
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gurgling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friends, you would not tell us with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Note the history behind "the old lie"
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dulce_et_decorum_est_pro_patria_mori
Chemin Des Dames (1915)
(Crosbie Garstin 1887-1930)
In silks and satins the ladies went
Where the breezes sighed and he poplars bent,
Taking the air of a Sunday morn
Midst the red of poppies and gold corn -
Flowery ladies in stiff brocades,
With negro pages and serving-maids,
In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan,
With brooch and buckle and flounce and fan,
Patch and powder and trailing scent,
Under the trees the ladies went -
Lovely ladies that gleamed and glowed,
As they took their air on the Ladies' Road.
Boom of thunder and lightening flash -
The torn earth rocks to the barrage crash;
the bullets whine and the bullets sing
From the mad machine-guns chattering;
Black smoke rolling across the mud,
Trenches plastered with flesh and blood -
The blue ranks lock with the ranks of grey,
Stab an swagger and sob and sway,
The living cringe from the shrapnel bursts,
The ding moan of their burning thursts,
Moan and die in the gulping slough -
Where are the butterfly ladies now?

CLOUDED SKY
(Bewölkt Himmel)
By Hermann Hesse (German: [ˈhɛɐ̯man ˈhɛsə]; 2 July 1877 – 9 August 1962) was a German born Swiss poet, novelist, and painter. His best-known works include Steppenwolf, Siddhartha, and The Glass Bead Game, each of which explores an individual's search for authenticity, self-knowledge and spirituality. In 1946, he received the Nobel Prize in Literature.
Dwarf shrubs blossom between the rocks. I lie and gaze into the evening sky, which for hours has been slowly covering itself with small, silent, tangled clouds. Winds must be blowing up there, though here one can't perceive a trace of them. They weave the cloud like threads of yarn.
As the rising of moisture and the raining down of water on the earth follow each other in a certain rhythm, as the seasons, and ebb tide and flood tide, have fixed times and sequences, so everything within us moves according to laws and rhythms.
There is one Professor Fliess, who calculated certain numerical progressions in order to indicate the periodic repetition and return of vital occurrences. It sounds like the Cabala, but presumably the Cabala is also knowledge. The very fact that German professors make fun of it speaks well for it.
The dark waves in my life, which I fear, come also with certain regularity. I don't know the dates and numbers, I have never kept a continuing diary. I do not and will not know whether the numbers 23 and 27 or any other numbers have anything to do with it. I only know: from time to time there rises in my soul, without external cause, the dark wave. A shadow runs over the world, like the shadow of a cloud. Joy sounds false, and music stale. Depression pervades everything, dying is better than living. Like an attack this melancholy comes from time to time, I don't know at what intervals, and slowly covers my sky with clouds. It begins with an unrest in the heart, with a premonition of anxiety, probably with my dreams at night. People, houses, colours, sounds that otherwise please me become dubious and seem false. Music gives me a headache. All my mail becomes upsetting and contains hidden arrows. At such times, having to converse with people is torture, and immediately leads to scenes. Because of times like this one does not own guns'; for the same reason, one misses them. Anger, suffering and complaints are directed at everything, at people, at animals, at the weather at God, at the paper in the book one is reading, at the material of the very clothing one has on. But anger, impatience, complaints, and hatred have no effect on things, and are deflected from everything, back to myself. I am the one who deserves hatred. I am the one who brings discord and hatred into the world.
I am resting after one such day. I know that for a while now rest is to be expected. I know how beautiful the world is'; for the time being, it is more beautiful for me than for any other person; colours fuse more delicately, the air flows more blissfully, the light hovers more tenderly. And I know that I must pay for this with the days when life is unbearable. There are good remedies against depression: song, piety, the drinking of wine, making music, writing poems, wandering. By these remedies I live, as the hermit lives by his prayers. Sometimes it seems to me that the scales have tipped, and that my good hours are too seldom to makeup for the bad ones. Then sometimes I find that, on the contrary, I have made progress, that the good hours have increased and the evil ones decreased. What I never wish, not even in the worst hours, is a middling ground between good and bad, a lukewarm, bearable centre. No, rather an exaggeration of the curve – a worse torment and, because of it, the blessed moments even richer in their brilliance.
Despair fades away from me, life is pleasing again, the sky is beautiful again. Wandering is meaningful again. On such days of return, I feel something of the mood of recovery: weariness without any particular sorrow, resignation without bitterness, gratitude without self contempt. Slowly the lifeline begins to rise. I hum a line of a song again. I pick a flower again. I toy with my walking stick again. I have overcome it again. And I will have to overcome it once more, perhaps many times.
It would be wholly impossible for me to say whether this cloudy, silently, disturbed, unravelled, sky is mirrored in my soul or the reverse, whether or not I read the image of my own inner life in the sky. Sometimes everything is so completely uncertain! There are days when I am convinced that no man on earth can recognise certain moods of air and clouds, certain tones of colour, certain fragrances and movements of moisture as finely, as exactly, and as truly as I can, with my old, nervous senses of poet and wanderer. And then again, as today, it can become doubtful to me whether I have seen, heard, and smelled anything after all, whether everything I took to be true is not merely an image cast outward, the image of my inner self.