The Pages by Murray Bail Page A

political theory; the Russian novels; utopias; various anthropological subjects. It required study. He filled almost to overflowing the emptiness of his childhood and youth with density – with grey matter. Even at breakfast he had his nose in a book. For eight months every Thursday morning an analysis of a Shakespeare play was given by one man. Beginning with the first, each play was examined in detail, until every play was done. A one-man show. Among the talents of this popular lecturer was the ability to read parts, switching from a la-di-da voice of a king to a high, clearly enunciated woman’s whether mother, queen, witch, loyal daughter.
    After the first year, Wesley concentrated on subjects he was interested in – discarding, for example, colonial and post-colonial fiction, yes, and the slide-shows that represented the history of European painting and architecture – and law, and Old Norse – until, after some hesitation, he turned to philosophy, a subject he had avoided, where he immediately caught the attention of one lecturer.

10
    IT WAS A puzzle to Lindsey that these two women showed no interest in walking around the property. Visitors from the city, for instance, couldn’t resist looking into the shearing shed. The impulse is common to associate an unfamiliar composition with a familiar one; why, some people squint up at the clouds and spot the windswept features of Beethoven or Karl Marx, and even Queen Victoria. The bare ground between the homestead and the scattered sheds had the appearance of a piazza in a dusty, out-of-the-way village in southern Italy. Dog there scratching himself. But these women were happy to sit all day in the kitchen, nibbling biscuits. The brainy one, who was supposed to know all there was to know about philosophy, fiddled with a spoon. She hadn’t been out in the sun, and was not given to saying much. She was somewhere else. Lindsey saw again her attractive matter-of-factness; and in recognising it, although hardly knowing her, she imagined they could like each other.
    Meanwhile, the gold-jangling arm and hand movements of her friend, Sophie, expanded the kitchen, which was large to begin with, as she explained how she ended up coming on this trip, for by talking about it she was talking to herself. It had been a telephonic nightmare cancelling her appointments. For some time now she had been turning away new clients, as they were called. People, she said, had become desperate to talk. They talk virtually to anyone who will listen. You see them on television. It’s a matter of have-to. It’s themselves they want to talk about. As a qualified listener I do my best to guide them, Sophie told them. We pick up clues. Invariably what is said has been said by many others before, in slightly different form. It is certainly the age of anxieties. Many pressures today.
    â€˜As you know, Erica was coming here to work. Oblivious of this fact I had gone to see her. One of Erica’s qualities is her subtlety. I had no idea she was coming out here. I was not in good shape. This man – I won’t say who, in case he’s a friend of yours – meant a huge amount to me. I mean, we were at ease together. As well, here’s a man who made me laugh – me, of all people. I realised I was happy. Believe me, stacks of men are dull. They’re all selfish, I know that.’ She turned to Erica. ‘And I have known you for how many years? Have you ever seen me with a man who has suited me better, and who has put up with my less attractive parts?
    â€˜Whatever. This ideal situation collapses. It sent me into a shocking spin. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know where to turn, what to think.’
    Erica stirred, ‘He was married.’ She also wanted to say she had never met the man.
    â€˜Yes, but it wasn’t insurmountable. We were in the midst of discussing that very situation. I don’t understand why he decided to finish