"I had no idea I was living in a perfect time. All I saw were irritations… There would always be some crisis. I thought these upsets were so bloody terrible. Hugh gone missing, Hugh fighting, Hugh distressed, so you can imagine it is a late-summer morning and I am painting and all I can hear are the cockatoos ripping the shit out of the trees above my head, and the cries of magpies, kookaburras, the bull at Mrs. Dyson’s, and amongst all this many smaller birds, orioles, honeyeaters, grass wrens, butcher-birds, the sweet rush of the wind in the casuarinas by the river—I can hear a great roaring cry, not a bull calf, but like a bull calf on its way to being a steer, and although I continue painting I know this is my brother coming home—big sloping shoulders, meaty arms, lumbering along the narrow bitumen with his shirttails out and the empty billy in his hand and his whiskery face crumpled like a paper bag and that odd, Roman nose, flowing with snot and this is why, even when I lived in Paradise, I had no fucking idea of where I was."
Peter Carey, Theft