Welcome to Eureka Street
Looking for thought provoking articles?Subscribe to Eureka Street and join the conversation.
Passwords must be at least 8 characters, contain upper and lower case letters, and a numeric value.
Eureka Street uses the Stripe payment gateway to process payments. The terms and conditions upon which Stripe processes payments and their privacy policy are available here.
Please note: The 40-day free-trial subscription is a limited time offer and expires 31/3/24. Subscribers will have 40 days of free access to Eureka Street content from the date they subscribe. You can cancel your subscription within that 40-day period without charge. After the 40-day free trial subscription period is over, you will be debited the $90 annual subscription amount. Our terms and conditions of membership still apply.
There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
In The Fickle Pendulum, Paul Scully deftly weaves centuries of human exploration — from the doubt of St Thomas to Galileo's scientific certainties. Journeying through epochs, blending faith with skepticism, Scully makes the arcane comes alive, offering readers a profound immersion into the expanse of human introspection.
I sense them in the air when it’s said there’s little or no chance of a storm — they are apostrophes to themselves, shaped like diacriticals. This is a mundane observation to offer up when the flash closes the light out —that loss of speech to pyrography.
Perhaps we were too directive / as we tried to guide while staying connected / with one so young, distracted. Yet there was response. Rules relaxed to laughter / as through best and worst we mucked / together; skills and knowledge grew / living side by side.
Amid shifting perceptions and the fluidity of names, our understanding of self dances on the edge of subjectivity. Traversing the landscape of literature, we're invited to confront our own reflections, to ask what truly defines us in a world that is ever-evolving, and to look beyond the obvious and into the heart of our shared human experience.
I have played Gandhi, King Tut, gangster, giant, elf, / but a lifetime of lifetimes destroyed my mental health: if you’re all things to all men, you’re no one to yourself.
In an age where social media revels in candid snapshots of daily life, where is the line between what is private, personal, and public? As media columns increasingly hinge on intimate, unabashed tales, some view this as a poignant evolution, while others see a reckless blurring of boundaries. This exploration challenges our understanding of self-disclosure in a world ever-urging us to share.
Simultaneously scientific and evocative, 'Origins' an oratorio by Nicholas Buc, offers a modern songline with the story of creation, evolution, and extinction. As we stand at the precipice of a referendum to recognise the first peoples in our constitution, can this musical piece remind us of the value of the stories that shape our understanding of the universe and our place within it?
It's all very well to remove excess furniture, but furniture is not books. How many chairs does one need? Chairs are not books. To reduce a library as a household expedience is to objectify the books. Their contents are emptied of value, their history relegated to out-of-date. They have no more meaning than books in an Ikea display room. (From 2019)
Can Artificial Intelligence write good poetry? While AI has vast linguistic resources to mimic human poets and creating compelling verse, there remains a distinction between competence and true poetic brilliance, mirroring the broader debate around our relationship with AI, and the very essence of human creativity.
A forgotten, faded poem by Judith Wright, found in a second-hand book, explores the tension between humanity and the rise of computers in the 1960s, artfully questioning the supposedly superior nature of these early machines, reminding us of the enduring value of human experiences and qualities.
Ian McEwan's Lessons marked a sharp twist in a five-decade literary career, and presents an opportunity to reflect on his expansive body of work. The one-time literary rogue and Booker laureate now stands as the unquestioned doyen of modern English fiction, his audacious work perpetually navigating undercurrents of unease.
We pass North Head, that place of isolation, unspoiled silence still where campfire smoke would once have greeted / Arthur Phillip with his claim. We’re on our second drink by now / and some among us pause, imagining a Gadigal / imagining that we’re / the first ship of some Final Fleet / returning whence it came.
49-60 out of 200 results.