"In the end a writer is the work that appears under his name, not a personality or character; all that in time gets lost. What remains, embodied in the work, is a consciousness with its own peculiar preoccupations, quirks, questions, doubts, insights; a set of responses to the isness of things, the great plural world of phenomena -- light, colour, landscape, atmosphere, all the tumbling paraphernalia of living and, more quietly, a voice with its individual cadence."
So says David Malouf as he contemplates his life as a writer, and what got him there.
