Perhaps because of the coloured marquee with elm leaves pressed against the top like alien faces watching, Writers’ Week had a slightly theatrical air which added to the pleasure. All kinds of people were there, in all kinds of clothes, so that one was torn between wanting to watch the crowd and to listen to the speakers. The marquee seats three hundred people – it was always full, and the organisers estimated that on each day, another two hundred stood outside to listen.
Certain threads ran through the speeches and discussions – the inevitability of the third world war, Aboriginal land rights, and on every side, I heard, quietly, the Voice of Women.
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