Half of this book is about growing up. Our family consisted of four boys – I came second – and one girl. Our father was a clergyman when the churches were still a most powerful force in the country. Living in what is now called ‘rural and regional Australia’, we moved every fourth year to a new district. Even in the smaller towns our life – I am surprised to rediscover – was intersected by events and people now of national significance.
In the other half of this book I learn to be a historian: I am still learning. I started young, and by the time I was thirty I had written, as a freelance writer, more books on Australian history than probably had any professor of the time. I am talking about quantity, not quality. This book comes to a halt when I reach about the age of forty. I do not end this memoir of my life for any valid reason; I simply thought that I had written enough.
Actually I wrote much of the book at the start of this century. I had the idea that my memory might become weaker, and that therefore it was sensible to write something sooner rather than later. In fact my memory remains fairly tight, or so I believe. Lately I went back to the pages compiled about fifteen years ago and read them again. Occasionally they were erroneous, and so I verified many episodes with the aid of the pocket diary I kept each year and the letters I had carefully saved. Probably errors will remain in this book though I have tried hard to avoid them. Memory, it is said, is not a skilled worker.
I must express my gratitude especially to the team at Penguin Random House – my publisher Nikki Christer, editors Rachel Scully and Katie Purvis, and designer Alex Ross. I am also indebted to John Day, the notable Wangaratta gardener, with whom I discuss my books at nearly every stage of the writing, and to my wife Ann and my daughter Anna.
Geoffrey Blainey
March 2019