When I ask myself why I became a writer – something I do a lot lately, as I turn forty next week, and am still as dependent on Literature Board grants as I was when I began writing ten years ago – it seems to me the most important contributing factor was the time I spent as a child, flat on my back in Katoomba Base Hospital. I had polio, and at first, was not expected to survive. I was left crippled, and though eventually I recovered the full use of both legs, I think I acquired, during those years, a sense of my own importance. A cheerful, attractive lad, I was spoilt rotten, both by the hospital staff and my own mother. I have never since been able to believe I am not, in some way, different from other people, and this may even be true; I seem to have been left with a certain indifference to the feelings of others. I suppose it’s not surprising I became a scientist, when forced to choose a career for myself.

I was also made to rely a great deal on my own mental resources. I read a bit, comics mostly, but got my schoolwork done by ten a.m., which left me the rest of the day, and the night, for myself. God knows what I did with that time, but I dare say I used my imagination. It chills me to think of one of my own children in a similar situation today; TV and computer games would take care of free time.