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Two years ago to the month, I wrote in this column of my despair and disgust of the impunity with which society leaders and politicians didn’t just shade the truth, but buried it six-feet deep and then gleefully stomped on it. In the past week, a couple of things reminded me of that piece and about the role truth plays in our public discourse. It reminded me how fragile our grasp on reality has become, and why that matters.
Australia’s gambling culture, once seasonally grounded in the Spring Racing Carnival, has become a year-round obsession. From family sweeps to the rise of betting apps, gambling has become ingrained in the nation's identity, leaving in its wake a growing crisis of addiction, debt, and societal harm.
With moments of shared perspective and common ground, the weird thing about the CBS debate the debate between the two putative vice-presidents, J.D. Vance and Tim Walz, was how civil and considerate it was and (in its way) how impressive.
As the US election approaches, the focus has shifted from personal narratives to policy positions and voter strategies. Candidates like Trump and Harris have crafted compelling stories, but voters now seek clarity on the issues. With much of the debate settled, the question remains: how will these stories shape the outcome?
By the time the last American bombs had fallen in 1973, Laos had attained the dubious title as the most heavily bombed country in the world per capita. An estimated 270 million bombs were dropped on this small country, 80 million of which remain unexploded.
The Forest Wars reveals how vested interests make life difficult for the scientists and activists who attempt to defend the environment, a war waged through deforestation on one hand and deception and obfuscation on the other. Linenmayer asks: if we continue to allow vested interests to drive deforestation, how long before the forests — and the future they promise — are lost beyond repair?
Social media regulation has been a long time coming. For the last eighteen years we’ve been running a social experiment where we watch what happens when we allow children to grow up with unfettered access to this technology.
The End of the Morning provides a rich reading experience, showing the reader an Australia that has been largely lost. But most readers will have a sense of dissatisfaction: they will want more. An unfinished novel, and an unfinished life.
People visit graves and castles, libraries and mansions, battlefields and places of historical significance to feel a little of the lives of others, to pay homage, to make that human connection. We make secular pilgrimages to places that we have dreamt about or read in books or seen on screen. Wherever we go, these are ultimately visits to places within.
I’m now the same age my father was when he was diagnosed with cancer. I wonder about my own genetics and my two young children. Of course, there are things we can do to potentially influence our destiny, but so much of who we are is written in our bodies in permanent ink.
Australia is quietly confronting a national crisis: one in every four Australian children has been a victim of child sexual abuse, but you would never guess the scale of this crisis, given the lack of urgency from our national discourse.
When we look back a decade hence on the way we lived in 2020, Shirley is going to serve as a literary time capsule. If you’re in search of a visceral feel for what it’s like to live in a specific place at a specific time — namely Melbourne in 2020, as the first pandemic in a century casts a pall over the zest for life itself — this book is a must read.
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