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I know and love people who struggle with depression. I've lost friends to suicide. Depression was my constant companion at times and suicide an alluring, far country. A recent novel delves into the life of a family reeling from the suicide of a child, and shows that even in the deepest recesses of grief, joy can interrupt.
Adams once told me about his room of gods. It's chockablock with deities from myriad cultures and creeds. While Adams is revered as Godfather to Australia's atheists, at heart he remains a young boy huddled under the covers at night; buried under the considerable challenges due his story of origin.
David Marr's withering piece on Tony Abbot completes the political trinity. These writers manage the impossible: they have me feeling sorry for politicians. Well, almost. I'm not sure if such magnanimity is allowed in an election year. But what a pleasure to discover those grey Canberran corridors harbouring such a chiaroscuro of emotion.
Author Kathy Lette recalls: 'We girls were little more than a life support system to a pair of breasts ... Once I realised Germaine Greer wasn't just rhyming slang for beer, I wanted to write down our story.' Puberty Blues is what you get when teenage girls with a grudge show the world what they're made of.
You could you call it coincidence that the week I'm asked to write on budgets, ours blows out. I call it life. Such is the cyclic nature of our 1.5-incomes-and-two-kids lives that just when we think our savings are safe, a new enrolment fee is due, the kids' jeans are suddenly a size too small and I've run out of nappies.
New York Archbishop Timothy Dolan said recently that sanctioning gay marriage could lead to demands for the legalisation of polygamy. US author Sidney Callahan argues that, gay or straight, we all strive for 'pair bonding that contributes to equality and unity'.
Sydney mother Grace Wang was left paralysed from the waist down due to a botched epidural. When I first heard her story I recalled my own epidural experience with my firstborn, looking fixedly down at the floor trying to ignore the blood pooling around my feet. Childbirth can be a murderous business.
Rape takes away the victim's free will and builds around them a wall of connotation and innuendo. For 40 minutes, American journalist Lara Logan was rendered silent by the mob that sexually assaulted her in Cairo. Little wonder when finally she spoke it came out like a roar.
I sat glued to US actor Charlie Sheen's fall from grace, which came to a head yesterday with his sacking from high-rating sitcom Two and A Half Men. The drama played out by his family, more so than the actor's meltdown, brought back a painful episode from my own past.
As a child of migrant parents, I was taught to respect my elders, to view each wrinkle as the mark of wisdom and a full head of silvery hair as the ultimate badge of honour. I wonder how those in their twilight years feel about young celebrities dying their hair grey in the name of fashion?
The pro-rape website set up by students of a Sydney college may be attributed to a culture that peddles sexualised images to both boys and girls from an increasingly young age. When a young girl's body is stripped of its innocence, we all lose out.
Nikki Gemmell, an agnostic, isn't afraid to confront uncomfortable themes in order to glean a glimmer of understanding. Religion and science may not have the selling power of sex, but each have indelibly shaped individuals as well as history.
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