Fairburn On N.Z.—

Speaking of a certain journal. . .

"What a dreadful bloody rag it is really. For one thing take the short stories—tho housewives day—screamingly, positively funny naughty children—slices of life—a miscroscopic chronicle of the suburbs. And then old——drooling on about rabbit turds—'Today I strangled a hare; I put my fingers into its throat and it quivered' . . . of course he had to cut it down a bit at one stage, you know."

"Oh wouldn't you laugh at the top of your voice.
If ever if came to pass
That Christ went by in a big Rolls Royce
And the bishop went on his arse."

"The Press: slow dripping of water on mud: thought's daily bagwash, ironing out opinion, scarifying the edges of ideas."

"In the suburbs the spirit of man walks on the garden path, walks on the well-aroomed lawn, dwells among the manicured shrubs."