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In early 2008, 89 per cent of us thought Rudd to be a 'man of vision'. Recall his essay on Bonhoeffer in The Monthly; the promise of a politics of decency and equality; the Apology; the ideas summit. After that it all goes a bit foggy.
You never read anything good about Facebook. A headline in the Sydney Morning Herald this week declared there are no rules. It has a reputation for superficiality and promiscuous over-sharing. But I haven't had so much fun in years. And I have never felt less alone.
Augustine. Wondrous lesson, that man, but he has been imprisoned by theology. Grant me chastity but not yet, everyone knows that hilarious remark.
Sixty years ago, Jesuit Bernard Lonergan developed an analysis of the boom and bust cycles of economy. He often asked, 'Where were the Christian counter-parts of Karl Marx, sitting in the British Museum voraciously reading and relentlessly studying about political economy?'
The teenage boy .. drunk, taunting, now hanging from .. your latch of jaw
In 1962, Port Kembla was stoked with the dispossessed of the Old World, pouring steel back into the reconstruction of their war-ravaged homelands. Now, it's a ghost town. They're putting together an industrial museum, and that has an ominous ring to it.
Jones' working life has been devoted to stories. In Through A Glass Darkly, she tells of her father's death. Her account questions the experiences behind modern medical miracles, and acts as a guide for understanding suffering and grief.
Good intentions are not enough. Gone should be the days when Aboriginals are marginal to the corridors of power. Perhaps it will not be until we have seen the first Aboriginal Prime Minister that agitators for Indigenous justice will be vindicated.
That Dostoevsky is said to have developed a 'theology of writing' does not mean he arrives forearmed with a set of dogmatic truths. Rather, he practises the narrative and spritual discipline of allowing each character to be heard.
Her face gives little away except .. there is a definite invitation to worship .. which we do in our own way .. hearing in this hall .. built with unholy oil, whispers of war
Much of classic Australian literature concerns itself with deepest frustration — the still birth of hopes and dreams, the futility of aspirations, a yawning emptiness at the heart of things. Louis Nowra’s new novel joins this tradition.
When you get hit by a bullet you never ever forget what it feels like. It feels like you got hit with the biggest rock there ever was. We were going along in the boat and we went around a beach where there was a battle, and a slug hit me in the armpit and knocked me right over.
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