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With detectives Ginger Rogers and Shelley Swert in pursuit, Lin finds himself drawn into a deadly immigration racket, with a cast which includes a film-maker just in from LA, a Buddhist monk, a millionaire bachelor artist, a masseuse, a maniacal violinist, and a refugee assassin. Part thriller, part ethnic noir, dark and comic by turns, Original Face offers a sensuous and highly coloured portrait of the jostling energies that make up life in the contemporary Australian city.

Drawing its title from an ancient Zen koan , the novel traces the complicated manoeuvres by which people mask their identities, and the accidental pathways by which these hidden selves come to light. This ancient riddle is about appearance and identity. Who are we really? We have a presence that can be accounted for by background, and a presence that appears in what we do and how we interact.

Kam Louie 雷金慶 | The University of Hong Kong - leondumoulin.nl

They are known, and know themselves, in many different ways. Giramondo Publishing There was a photograph of an old man with a prophet's beard and funny clothes standing outside an odd corrugated-iron dwelling in the middle of nowhere.


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Roger Jose lived with his Aboriginal wife in an upside-down water tank in a place called Borroloola. He used to push her along in a wheelbarrow because she was too fat to walk. He was about as far beyond the pale as you could go This highly original book - history, travelbook, memoir, quest - sets out to discover Roger Jose, perhaps a distant relative, and his life in a remote Aboriginal community on Australia's farthest shore, reading world literature and evolving his own radical philosophy.

Roger's chosen motto, still pinned up in Borroloola, was 'Man's greatness is the fewness of his needs. This book is the absorbing response of a modern writer to his own heritage. Praise for Black Sheep: "Nicholas Jose's report on Australia's Far North has an engagingly anecdotal air, but the easygoing surface is a cover for a disturbing story of dispossession and genocide. Black Sheep is an engaging read, an alternately breezy and disturbing account of one man's cameo role in a still unfolding historical drama. There's an appealing sense of him beginning to go a bit troppo and some satisfying moments of travel writing.

It provides a sensitive cross-cultural study.

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At the book's heart is the concern for connections, to country and to people, a concern that haunts many Australians Books such as Black Sheep are an essential part of the conversation. Hardie Grant Books, Melbourne, September Profile Books, UK, September A seductive love story set in contemporary Shanghai, The Red Thread intertwines the lives of two pairs of lovers across the centuries. Shen is a young, American-educated appraiser for an auction house. Ruth is a gifted Australian artist he meets, it seems, by chance.

And Han is a beautiful, enigmatic woman who both facilitates and complicates their relationship. The Red Thread is an unforgettable, evocative novel of love and destiny, art and beauty, and the passion that ties one person to another forever. An intimate, lyrical story about the ties that bind people together, past and present, East and West, physical and spiritual.

Praise for The Red Thread:. Its unforced sense of mystery derives not from whimsy but from the subtle substance of experience. Australia: www. This often happens because all people want is a Black Poet without distinctions being made. There is no consideration given to the poet. They are sorely uninterested in Wanda Coleman, who she is or how where she comes from affects her work. The poetry is almost irrelevant, because "we all know" what African Americans have been about for odd years.

That we are individuals, often intellectuals, have competing styles and clashes, never seems to have entered into the discussion.

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I often quote these lines from Robinson Jeffers' poem "The Bloody Sire," in the course of political discussions to persuade friends and colleagues from being too dependent on utopian expectations or simplistic conclusions. These lines—and the poem itself—are usually well received; the listener invited by them to consider the hard, compelling, and yet beautiful facts of nature—both of the natural and human kind.

In the end, these lines confirm the exquisite tension between our highfalutin ideals and the ineluctable fact of gravity. I always feel a little wiser and a bit more in awe of the world when I read or recite these lines. Although I love the entire poem, the first lines are the most important:. When I die choose a star and name it after me that you may know I have not abandoned or forgotten you.

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I am a stage 3 cancer survivor. My daughter was 2 years old when I was diagnosed. I was terrified that she would not remember me. Now that I am in remission, I value every day I have been granted because I know in my situation it is probably borrowed time. My girl is nine years old now. I still try to make every moment with her count so that she will always know that I will never abandon or forget her. This line comes to me often as I go out any door, or comes to me as a reason to not go out at all. Each morning, as news streams in, I recoil from the fanaticism and irrationality and lies on any side, if sides remain possible.

Children are dying.


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Then I recite this lovely and haunting line, what passes for morning prayer, to prevent myself from going numb, and to keep a spark of faith, no matter how dim, alive in this new millennium. God, give us a long winter and quiet music, and patient mouths, and a little pride--before our age ends.

The lines of this prayer by Adam Zagajewski come to me at least once week when I see--and fight not to absorb--the pain of conflict that exists at every level in the world--whether it is listening to the rising death toll from the most recent war, enduring yet another rumor about the conflict between the administration and faculty at the university where I work, or trying to understand the most recent fight for control within the sports boosters association at my children's school.

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We feed too much our hunger to win and be right. We value too little the spark of creativity and beauty that gets extinguished when we fail to nurture the best in ourselves and in others. I do, me. When I am exhausted in the fight, I remember these words. I pray these words.


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Then I found the lines bestowed on me a way to deal with November, a happy and tragic month in my family of scattered siblings, a month with four more of our birthdays including my own, but also the anniversary of deaths--our parents and a younger brother--when we were all very young. We eleven siblings grew up separated by great distances, but I am always amazed when we get together how well we know and love and enjoy each other.

So in November I remember the families that took me and my brothers and sisters in. I remind myself, smiling quietly, about the futility of anger. In , in a huge lecture hall filled with restless and very young students, I heard I. Richards read Shakespeare's 73rd sonnet in his sonorous, unforgettable voice. I became an instant English major. The line that resonated with me most, despite my conviction that I would never grow old myself, was "bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang. Now, of course, it runs through my head, it even gives me pleasure, every time I look in the mirror with my glasses on.

Sing only this for me, sing me this well, and I shall say at once before the world the grace of heaven has given us a song. These lines run through my mind any number of times each day. The lines remind me that every moment of life has a bit of music about it, a bit of poetry hidden in it. Whether I am looking at the blooming of a beautiful flower garden, or watching the traffic on the city streets, these lines help me find the pleasing rhythm that exists in all of us.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous, or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular, but because it never forgot what it could do. We all want to be great, don't we? I want to write fantastic poetry and be known to all the world. I want to be famous. But when I read "Famous" by Naomi Nye, and particularly these lines, I began to wonder if being famous could mean being common and useful as well as extraordinary and worshiped.

Everyone knows what a pulley is, or a buttonhole. We use them every day, and although we may not sing their praises in poetic verse, we would dearly miss them if they were gone. I want to be comfortable to people. I don't want to be in the limelight; I want to be in the dim light, in the place everyone comes home to, to a place where I would be missed if I were gone.

Long about February, when winter's darkness still hovers, I begin thinking of spring and my first grandson's birthday on Feb. I always purchase hyacinths. Their fragrance reminds me of my fourth grade teacher, Mary Sue Hendrix, who introduced me to the sweetness of hyacinths, good literature, and her own enthusiastic love of poetry and writing. Mary Sue is long gone but each year she lives again in that heavenly scent.

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I was the last person to visit her the evening she died, bearing gifts of hyacinths and a rag doll in the form of an angel. When my mother was hospitalized Mary Sue took me home with her to spend many a night. Having no children of her own, she collected dolls and her home was full of them. She charmed me and the dolls which surrounded my bed with stories and poems - it became our bedtime ritual. This year, when my grandson turned six, his gift was a homemade "grannie illustrated" book of classic poems for children featuring this poem and a large arrangement of hyacinths delivered to his front door.

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft, and from thy slender store Two loaves alone to thee are left, Sell one, and with the dole Buy Hyacinths to feed thy Soul. Rather than bemoaning his fate and giving in to old age, Ulysses refuses to stop. I hope others see me like that. Silence, imperial silence, I have felt your beauty In the hour of formlessness; it cupped me up Like an autumn wind moving into space. Monumental silence, I too have something to tell, I too have a passion to arise, and the honor To possess this passion—.

Carlos Bulosan's poems were published in the US in the 30's, 40's, and 50's and he died alone and forgotten in Seattle because of poverty. The two times I had spoken up and pointed out a racist comment uttered by some white guys, I was beaten up and kicked around with cowboy boots. I remembered these life saving words by Carlos Bulosan because he, too, also survived many beatings. Especially after having written in a poem, "I learned that it was a crime to be a Filipino in America.

When she heard the news, my mother caused the Greek fleet to be deprived of favorable winds on its way to Troy. I discovered this little poem during a time in my life when I was really struggling with my relationship with my mother. We were pretty much estranged and I was trying to find a constructive way of dealing with the negative emotions that flowed directly from my childhood and years of abuse suffered at the hands of a deeply troubled mother.

All of the memories of my childhood were tainted by the raw feeling I had toward my mother. Like the swift lancing of an old, festering wound, this poem began to drain the bitterness out of my childhood memories and I began to be able to see, for the first time, the absurdity and humor in much that I experienced.