The Library That Made Me

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Stephen Page.

Stephen Page AO is a Nunukal/Ngugi Man of the Quandamooka Peoples and a Mununjali Man of the Yugambeh Nation, South-East Queensland. He was artistic director of Bangarra Dance Theatre from 1991 until 2022. He was one of the State Library of NSW’s Creative Fellows in 2026 and RECLAIM, the show he created, was performed in the Mitchell Library Reading Room in September.

I'm Stephen Page and this is the library that made me.

I was born in 1965, number ten of 12 kids. My parents lived on the fringe of Beaudesert, Mununjali Land of the Yugambeh Nation in south-east Queensland. They grew up on my father’s Freshwater Country. When David, my second-eldest brother, was one, we moved to the Bronx of south Brisbane. My mum had to get a housing commission house in the city because my older brother Phillip had epilepsy and needed medical resources. My father was reluctant to leave his Country because of the city challenges, an Aboriginal man in the early ’60s, before the 1967 referendum. He always worked on the land. He was a timber cutter, a linesman, a jack of all trades, an extraordinary worker right up until the day he died.

So I was brought up in Brisbane on a new estate. Our house was always busy. It was only a four-bedroom and there were always a lot of kids. Cousins would come down from the bush, so we were always looking after relatives. Dad would pick us up and take us back on Country in an old Bedford truck he had made through parts. All the boys would all sit on the back trailer.

I remember my first day at primary school. We were lined up for health checks — the Aboriginal kids all got checked. Because of my fair skin they couldn’t work out which line I would stand in. I was really upset because I couldn’t be with my brothers. They separated me because of my skin colour. But I moved over into the other line. Going through school I always felt I was looking after my brothers. They were darker than me. Racism, discrimination, separation, segregation … I felt like I was always caring for what they were going through.

In terms of education, books, libraries, we didn’t have the resources. My mother didn’t have the time to concentrate on education. At school you couldn’t focus on wanting to learn because you were too busy worrying about the energy there, and the segregation. I’d say my education was average. I wasn’t a great writer or speller. I loved art. I loved music. Anything to do with performance.

Dad would find an old TV at the tip — our first TV came from the dump. He could fix it. Someone lent the girls a little record player. They would share their singles and albums. Mum and Dad loved musicals. Mum grew up with musicals.

My brother Phillip had epilepsy. When I was about 12 I was at home and he had an epileptic fit and he never came out of it. He died in front of me. Usually there were a lot of people in the house but not that day. After witnessing him and not being able to help in anyway, I probably carried a lot of that early trauma. And watching my brothers segregated, it all built some anger in me.

So when I got to high school I was pretty obsessed with my identity. I was kicked out of the history class because I wanted to know why we weren’t learning Aboriginal history. I got expelled for a week. I rebelled against learning and education. I don’t know if it was from being traumatised by the system or the dysfunctional big family and the survival of everyday.

I got through Year 11, I don’t know how. We had to do an English essay. I chose Alice in Wonderland because it was at home. I remember I wrote this whole different version from my perspective, with a Black lens, relating it to our upbringing, urban displacement of culture. I don’t know where that comes from, I really don’t.

But the one thing I loved was pop culture, all that early ’80s pop music. I was obsessed with the Top 10 charts and the evolution of punk into new wave. My brother David loved it as well. He was a pop star at the age of 15. This Aboriginal kid having a Top 5 hit in Brisbane! My mum’s best friend was a seamstress and she would make his costumes. There was something about his experience and the theatre and performance side of all that. When I was quite young I used to choreograph pieces at home with the brothers, I would direct plays, or mimic the musicals we used to watch.

At school I did music and though I wasn’t great at any instruments, I was good at concepts — directing the music or putting it in a performance. I remember choreographing 40 girls dancing to a Devo song. All the boys would wonder why I wasn’t going down to play sport, then they found me with all the girls, choreographing. A couple of the boys wanted to be in the piece because they liked a couple of the girls. I think it was natural that I was going to end up in the performing arts.

I worked at the Brisbane Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Legal Service in social justice. The poster for the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander dance college was on the wall — ‘For careers in dance apply’. My cousin filled the application out.

Three months later at 16, the end of 1982, I was going to Sydney on a TAA plane to audition for dance college. By the time I got to the college there were First Nations students from all walks of life — traditional, urban, stolen, language. Everyone was carrying a sense of cultural trauma, yet we were all there to learn this discipline of dance. I then auditioned for Sydney Dance Company, who gave me a contract for three years. By the end of the ’80s, I was directing the whole show at the college, their first First Nations director. By 1990 I took over Bangarra Dance Theatre. It’s bizarre.

I was fortunate to find a profession where story — how you interpret story — had a place. Culturally it’s a three-dimensional experience: I was working in visual form, I was working in dance, I was working in music. All the things that became medicine for me fell into my lap professionally. I found out that I was heavily dyslexic — I don’t know if that is something that is collected in the way you experience, the way you grow as a young child into a young adult.

At Bangarra we always moved as a clan. I came from the biggest clan. There was always a story within that clan. I used to hate the word choreographer because I always felt I was a storyteller — I could direct, I could bring creative clans together. We could believe in a story where all our mediums become one to express the spirit of that story. I tend to love process more than I love a product. I love getting in there with the story, and creating and starting with a blank canvas, a little poem, or a little creation story.

In my First Nations universe, I got to go north, south, east, west and build beautiful relationships with creatives from all walks of life who entrusted me with their story. When I go on Country to traditional environments where practices are surviving culturally, I’m like a three-year-old child. I love nothing more than to listen to song and language and the creation philosophy behind traditional stories. That’s been my big step of inspiration, of responding in a contemporary way.

Once I stepped away from Bangarra in 2022 — I created 40 works there — I was able to get a bit of clarity on memory, and the journey. Sometimes you wonder about your fate in life. I always feel like there’s a guiding spirit. I love my spirituality. I’m much more aware of it as I’ve gotten older.

When I was first introduced to traditional culture I was angry. I was angry at colonial displacement. I was angry that my parents could not pass language on. I would push my father’s triggers. I’d ask, ‘Why did you not learn language and pass it on to all of us?’ I did not realise at the time that everything was taken from him. He could not answer. He would just say, ‘Doreen’ — that was my mother’s name — ‘come and grab this boy. He’s annoying me.’

The day he died I was at his hospital bed. He sang a language song to my brother and me. He never spoke language. My brother and I were crying. My father had extraordinary principles and resilience, values that were gifted to him traditionally. When I think about him hiding as a nine-year-old in the cellar of a white pastoral stockman because your mother was his maid …

His mother had him under a birthing tree at Tamrookum Creek just outside of Beaudesert. We used to go there and fish with him at the creek opposite. I would wonder why we would go there. He did know, but we didn’t know. We weren’t allowed to talk. We had to reserve energy. We had to culturally meditate on the land. There were these strong principles and values that were taken away. I always had this line: ‘to hunt quietly’. I learned that from him the most. I think that might be part of listening. Observing. I don’t think we do enough of that now. Digital immediacy has poisoned our senses. I think people are longing to be part of community and clan.

I’m very thankful that I ended up in art. First Nations kinship system art is the biggest medicine. You dream, you tell the story, all the other mediums come in and listen and it’s played through songmen and digeridoo and the dancers embody it, and it all connects as one ceremony. We’ve all got our ceremony, our process for our ceremony. Whatever that ceremony is.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Rhys Gard.

Rhys Gard is a writer, chef, bookseller and former director of the Mudgee Readers’ Festival. His first novel, Four Dogs Missing, was shortlisted for the 2024 Ned Kelly Award for Best Debut Crime Fiction.

I'm Rhys Gard and this is the library that made me.

I was 16 when I properly discovered the library. It makes sense, looking back, that the reason I’d been sent there was to study crime fiction. The subject was HSC Extension English and the elective was Australian Crime Fiction. The recommended reading was Peter Corris and Garry Disher. The school library didn’t have the novels, but they purchased copies and I raced through each one.

I grew up in Narrabri, a small town in north-west New South Wales. Cotton country — about seven hours’ drive from either Sydney or Brisbane. In 2001 it had been declared ‘Australia’s Sportiest Town’ by the Nine Network’s Today Show. I still remember going to the oval to watch Steve Liebmann and Tracy Grimshaw broadcast its athletic achievements to the country. For a bookish kid without any hand–eye coordination, it wasn’t always easy preferring books and stories to a football and a sweaty scrum.

My high school was public, with around 500 or so kids in attendance. When I was there it had a decent-sized library above the science classrooms. There was even a mezzanine level with a few tables and books. Mostly everything on the shelves was relatively new because a student had decided to burn it down 15 years earlier.

Of course I’d been to the library before this, but I’d taken the space for granted. It didn’t take long for the free periods in the library (read: time to study without a teacher) to become my favourite part of the day — to be able to sit in solitude, among books, thinking, dreaming, reading and working. It’s no lie to say that the moment I realised I wanted to be a writer was one of those magical moments in the Narrabri High School library when I was still a teenager.  

It was only me and one other friend who took the English Extension course. Sometimes we studied together but mostly we worked alone. Looking back, I realise how formative that time has been to my education. How valuable it was to be able to read and write and discover the world. To me, there’s always been a beautiful sense of solitude to libraries. Generally speaking, one doesn’t go there to socialise.

While I attended libraries sporadically throughout my university days in Sydney, it wasn’t until I moved to Mudgee that I became a regular attendee again. For years I’d been toiling away in hospitality: running restaurants, cooking, working long hours. When the pandemic hit, I suddenly had time to burn. It was the first time there were days to read and write without worrying about other responsibilities. I joined the local library in Mudgee, where to this day I regularly borrow books. I love that you’ll find novels in their original jackets, with markings from readers in the back (Mudgee Library books have a paper slip stuck inside the back cover, where people can put their initials or a mark to remind themselves that they’ve read the book), and there are tea stains on some pages. There’s a certain unexplainable authenticity to a library book you just can’t match with a brand-new paperback. It’s a little akin to some musicians preferring an old guitar to one fresh off the factory floor.

While working on my second novel, I fell into the awful and often inevitable trap of feeling like a fraud. I had convinced myself that I couldn’t write to save my life. Anything I did get down felt strained and sad. I decided that I needed to shake up the routine. One day someone suggested working from the library. Didn’t I know they had desks with power points and comfortable chairs to sit on upstairs?

Mudgee Library is housed in a beautiful three-storey 19th-century building with an abundance of natural light. After a couple of days working there, it became a sanctuary where I’d put my earphones in and just tap away on the keyboard. Sometimes, while at home, the distractions became too much. Dirty dishes bellowed from the sink. The lawn longed to be mowed. At the library, there were no such interruptions. It was easier to get into a rhythm and a routine.

It would be remiss of me not to mention how important libraries are in creating and maintaining a literary community in regional Australia. In 2023 I became director of Mudgee Readers’ Festival, an event that exists to share a love of reading with its vibrant central-western NSW community. We are lucky to have the library not only as one of our key venues, but also as a major partner and sponsor. We are able to apply for local grants that enable us free access to the space, where we hold panel talks, run book clubs and erect a mobile bookshop and signing room for visiting authors.

I’ve spent most of my life living in regional communities. We are fortunate in Mudgee to have a wonderful library, an independent bookstore and a yearly readers’ festival. As I feel gratitude moseying upstairs to my usual table, passing people perusing the shelves, I know that I’m not alone.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to reflect on the libraries that shaped them.

Today our presenter is from Gail Jones.

Gail Jones is a writer and academic. She has written two short story collections and 11 novels, and her work has been translated into several languages and has won numerous literary awards. Her most recent novels are One Another and The Name of the Sister.

I'm Gail Jones and this is the library that made me.

One of the most beautiful titles in the world is The Library at Night — a book in praise of libraries, by Alberto Manguel. And one of the most beautiful verbs is the sibilant, breathy, oddly quaint word browse. Browse, like hush, is a library word, one which implies an entire sensorium of inwardness and attention to words.

I should have guessed Manguel’s angle: his epigraph is from Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621) and his first paragraph speaks of the way in which some of us, deep in a public or private room of books, are ‘pathetically intent’ on a search for meaning. Libraries have this dimension: of quest, self-enclosure and susceptibility to pathos.

The first library I encountered was the Mechanics Institute (founded in 1895), standing firm on the main street of Kalgoorlie, in WA. I was about ten years old and our family had moved from the Kimberley, where we lived in a decommissioned quarantine station set on a remote and windy peninsula. There was no library or bookshop in Broome, the closest town, and our main reading material in those days was comics.

The Mechanics Institute is an iconic building: two-storey, elegant, with fluted columns and archways along a high veranda, not unlike the 19th-century pubs that lined each side of Hannan Street (eventually, there were 97). So there was a sense of anomaly, mystery and something forbidden to this place.

I have no memory of how I discovered it, or why I was always there by myself, and always, it seems, in late afternoon. The place in my memory is gold-tinted (probably childish imagination) and the light always streaming in slanted glory through the glass doors of the upper level. The librarian, an ancient woman with a tortoise hump and tortoise-rim glasses, took a shine to this lonely child but didn’t know what to do with her, so sat me at a too-high table in front of a set of encyclopaedias. I remember seeing the order there — the way the world succumbed to categories and description — but it was the randomness of our various worlds that truly enchanted me. My method today, as a writer, is rather excursive and pedantic, loving lists, arcane details, and the fanning open of associations, and I do wonder how much this derives from the early reading of encyclopaedias. I developed a lifelong predilection for hushed browses and solitary garnerings.

My second significant library was the Reid, at the University of Western Australia. In my first year at university, I rarely entered the library. Already a misfitted autodidact, I felt I didn’t belong, so set up the conditions of my own exclusion and failure. But when, with poor grades and still insecure, I returned to the Reid and worked up the courage to enter, I found a glorious home and began finally to learn. Above all, I discovered literature and became a devotee. This library is functional, not beautiful, and I never understood why it was fronted by a moat, so that generations of students entered at an upper level by a concrete walkway. This was for me never a place to read, as the Mechanics Institute had been, but a lending library, capacious and generous. I could hardly believe the bounty there. Nowadays, I enter libraries with a sense of inclusion, knowing an always-ready gift is perpetually on offer.

My third library is the old British Museum Reading Room in London. Oh, very heaven! I secured a reading card and ordered up unusual books, sitting elated beneath the beaming oculus of a dome bigger than St Paul’s, surrounded by dark green carpet, chairs and desktops, and the curved walls of the stacks. I had to be interviewed before I was granted admission, and must have sounded crazy with enthusiasm, and deeply colonial. I already knew of Virginia Woolf ’s comparison of entering this reading room to becoming ‘a thought in a huge bald forehead’; this surrealist image has persisted into similar spaces. And when I entered the manuscript room for the first time, I saw handwritten pages by Keats and Hardy, the farewell note of ‘Scott of the Antarctic’, a sample of Wuthering Heights and the scrawled mess of Finnegans Wake, and, there before me, the last page of The Waves, with its closing line, ‘O Death!’ I burst into tears and a kind attendant, with, yes, a Cockney accent, rushed over to ask if I was ‘awright, luv?’ Alberto Manguel liked the conceit of the night library because it seemed that phantoms were there — the voices summoned, the dead resurrected, the deep and personal quiet. This was such a moment, full of presences.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to reflect on the stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Anne Summers.

Anne Summers AO is a best-selling, award-winning author and journalist, with a long career in politics, the media, business and the non-government sector in Australia, Europe and the United States. She has been a leader in the women’s movement since the early 1970s. Her book, Damned Whores and God’s Police was first published in 1975. Her latest book is a collection of pieces published between 1975 and 2025 and is called Witness: People. Politics. Culture. Feminism.

I'm Anne Summers and this is the Library That Made Me.

My love of libraries was instilled in me by my grandmother. Once a week, Nana, as we called her, would pick up my brother and me and take us to the Children’s Library in Kintore Avenue in the heart of Adelaide’s cultural district. (The museum, the art gallery and the adults’ library were strung along the adjacent North Terrace.)

Nana lived on the other side of town. To get to our place, she had to take a bus into the city, transfer to the Glenelg tram and travel the several kilometres to Plympton where my family lived. It must have taken her an hour to get there. The three of us then took the tram to the city and walked about six blocks to Kintore Avenue, where we would spend many glorious hours roaming the world of children’s books.

Then Nana would take us back to the tram, ride to Plympton, take us home and turn around and repeat the journey back to her house in Prospect. I was about ten at the time, my brother two years younger, and I don’t think we really understood the extraordinary physical effort involved in these weekly outings.

Nana was 71, which was considered very old in the 1950s, but she must have been very fit to undertake this weekly act of love for her grandchildren. When I think about it, I realise hers was a lonely life and perhaps the joy we grandkids exhibited during these weekly visits was one of her few consolations.

Twenty years earlier she’d been widowed and thereby liberated from an extemely violent existence. Her husband had frequently beaten her savagely enough to push her through walls and he once put his youngest son in hospital with broken bones. She no longer had to endure this, but she had no companionship. It never occurred to me to wonder why she lived so far away from her two sons and their families.

I have had many and varied experiences with all kinds of libraries since that early attachment. I’ve been chided by the librarian in my birthplace, Deniliquin, in the Riverina district of New South Wales, for wanting to borrow Enid Blyton, and been bemused by an unexpected display of some of my own books in the Spike Milligan Room in the Woy Woy Library. The local library is still a place of connectivity and amazing acts of creativity that, thankfully, continues to lure young people as well as provide stimulus and sanctuary for older patrons.

I’ve visited some of the (Western) world’s greatest repositories of books, the reading rooms of the Library of Congress in Washington, DC, and the British Museum in London. You can feel nothing but awe in such places for the vastness of their collections and what these collections represent in terms of the human endeavour.

One of my early jobs was at the Barr Smith Library at the University of Adelaide, where I had to reshelve books and file catalogue cards while enviously eyeing the students who seemed to be having much more fun and at the same time gaining an education. A year later, I joined their ranks.

At both Adelaide then, later, as a postgraduate in Sydney, the university library became my new workplace. In a pre-photocopy era, I spent hours transcribing notes from the books prescribed for my courses. I ventured beyond the reading lists and made the acquaintance of writers and titles who invaded my hungry head with notions that were subversive and life-changing.

I was part of a radical generation that was demanding an overhaul to the existing ways of being. We — women, Aboriginal people, gays and lesbians — thrived on the ideas that guided us towards the revolutions we wanted. We read, we wrote, we argued. Books became our stock in trade. We devoured Herbert Marcuse and Antonio Gramsci, as well as the writings of contemporary revolutionaries such as Angela Davis and Eldridge Cleaver; before long, there was Kate Millett and Germaine Greer.

I was soon embarked on a new life’s journey, one that before long saw me spend a year in the library that made me: Sydney’s Mitchell Library. Today that entire library is in the much larger Mitchell Library Reading Room — expanded so many more people can use it — in the State Library of NSW complex. But in the early 1970s when I began my research, the Mitchell Reading Room and its manuscript collection was in a much smaller, more intimate room, which today is the Library Friends Room.

Long before digitisation, let alone the internet, historians laboured over the massive card index and the subject catalogue guides to figure out which manuscripts might contain clues to the subject they were pursuing. There was something excitingly intimate about reading an original document, a letter or report, handwritten in ink that had long since turned brown. It was in one such document, the journal of a British marine by the name of Lieutenant Ralph Clark who sailed on the First Fleet, that I came across his use of the phrase ‘damned whores’ to describe the female convicts.

I like to think Nana deserves some credit for where I landed: in a library that enabled me to write a book that changed the way we looked at our history. But she never got to share the glory, having died, aged 90, just a year before Damned Whores and God’s Police was published.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Richard Glover.

Richard Glover is an author and journalist who for 26 years hosted Drive on ABC Sydney Radio. His latest book is How To Ruin A Child: A journey into the alarming, hilarious and ever-changing advice given to Australian parents.

When people talk about the library that changed them, their story is usually set in childhood. The UK journalist Caitlin Moran writes about growing up in a deprived household in Wolverhampton, and how the local library came into her life like the cavalry ‘jangling its spurs, epaulettes shining in the sun’.

Or there’s the novelist Jeanette Winterson, adopted into a strange Pentecostal household in which she was accused of being an emissary from the devil. Her saviour, again, the local library. In particular, the librarian who encouraged her to read from A to Z along the shelves marked ‘English Literature’. Now A to Z, when you do 'English Literature', means you start with the delights of Jane Austen, which is why Winterson still recommends, whenever she speaks, this method, which I think is pretty game for a writer whose name starts with ‘W’.

I can’t quite match these stories. My first library, outside school, was a commercial operation in the Sydney suburb of Wahroonga. Such shops don't exist anymore, and when I tell people the story, they look askance as if I might be, I must be misremembering. But no, it was there. And of course it was a, with Pip's help, there was a librarian here that helped me find the name. It was called the Mickle Book Club. It was 2 Redleaf Ave, Wahroonga, a commercial library.  

Was there no council-run library in our suburb? I don’t know. Maybe my mother liked the trashier books on offer. Maybe the convenience — opposite the supermarket — was worth the money. Whatever the explanation, we’d attend each week, my mother and I, and each select a few books.

And it was here, at the age of ten, in about 1968, I came across the Patrick Dennis novel Auntie Mame. I know most people know it as a film or a musical, but I, it's a book. And a week later I read its sequel, Around the World with Auntie Mame.  And it was the first time I’d read a properly funny novel and I couldn’t stop re-reading it, and marvelling at how words, sitting passively on a page could cause a reader to explode into laughter. Inked squiggles on a page could produce an actual, physical reaction. What alchemy! And I’ve spent the half century since that moment trying to replicate that trick in my own writing.

School libraries followed of course, making me realise that Australian librarians have no morals at all. They will let you borrow anything. ‘Surely there’s been some mistake,’ I thought at 12 years of age as I borrowed Geoffrey Household’s Rogue Male and I borrowed various dystopian horrors from John Wyndham, then all sorts of filth from Sartre to D.H. Lawrence. They have no morals!

All the same, I had to wait some years for the moment a library really transformed me. By 1982, I was 23 years old, and I was working on my history honours thesis at the University of Sydney. My topic was 19th-century Australian physical anthropology and its role in the dispossession of Indigenous Australians.

And much of the source material was here, in the State Library of NSW, mainly in what was then called the Mitchell Library Room, it's now the Friends Room. And if you had any doubts about your own academic abilities, which frankly I did at age 23, this place at least made you feel like a don. There were high windows through which a soft light filtered (you can see how my memory has romanticised the place), there were bundles of letters and diaries boxed and sometimes tied with a ribbon, and an atmosphere of quiet, studious intensity.

And after a few hours of note-taking, I’d emerge, blinking, into the sunlight and — like everyone else — sit on the steps of the Library eating a sandwich for lunch. I can’t remember talking to the other sandwich-eaters. Maybe we were keen to returned, to return to the fray.

There were other libraries of course. In that same year, I spent time in the State Library of Victoria, which I remember for the quaint Victorian desk lamps in the reading room. And then the fusty library of the Victorian branch of the Australian Medical Association, spent a lot of time there, and, later, Sydney University’s somewhat less romantic Fisher stacks. Who remembers the Fisher stacks?

In all these places — and in all the libraries I’ve used since — there isalways  the thrill of the chase. An unexpected letter uncovered at the bottom of the box; an annotation that opens up a whole vista; or the book you’d not discovered until the brilliant Mr Dewey placed it, right there on the shelf, next to the book already on your list.

Recently on a book tour, I visited scores of libraries in both city and country. All were bursting with life — school students, heads buried in homework, plus reading circles for children, author talks, computer lessons, various sorts of social inclusion. A librarian who spotted at one moment seemed much like a social worker, helping a troubled soul, was seen seconds later by me, taking a literary history from a reader before prescribing some future readings.

At moments like this, I would think about that moment in the tiny commercial library in Wahroonga where my hand alighted on Auntie Mame. Or, years later, in the Mitchell Library Reading Room when I stumbled across the monstrous figure of Richard Berry, the Australian professor of anatomy who ended up the focus of my thesis. Or more recently, visiting the State Library’s Reading Room, where kindly librarians, week after week, would load a trolley with copies of The Australian Women’s Weekly from the 60s and 70s, providing much of the material for my book The Land Before Avocado.

Libraries are transformative places. And time after time, they’ve transformed me. And I'd say looking at you they've transformed you as well.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Mark McKenna. 

Historian Mark McKenna is professor emeritus at the University of Sydney and the Australian National University. He has published major prizewinning books including Looking for Blackfella’s Point, An Eye for Eternity, From the Edge and Return to Uluru. His most recent book is The Shortest History of Australia.

Mark McKenna

I can’t be sure exactly when I came across it. It was probably sometime in the late 1980s. I’d driven out to Pericoe — ‘out’ being the operative word — around 65 kilometres west from Eden, on the far South Coast of New South Wales. Friends had recently bought land not far away, and I was toying with the idea of doing the same. As I left the coast behind, and drove an hour or more on corrugated dirt roads through farmland, state forest and dark, tightly packed pine plantations, I wondered if that was such a good idea after all.

Pericoe was the kind of place that you could drive through without realising. Yes, it was there on the map, and it had a postcode, but even today your GPS would struggle to announce that you’d arrived at your destination. Like a lot of towns nearby, Pericoe was a more vibrant place in the late nineteenth century, when the coastal hinterland enticed goldminers and dairy farmers, and there were more pubs than schools and churches.

Unable to find the house I was looking for, I pulled over to check my directions. Walking only a few metres along the road, I noticed a track heading into the bush. It was overgrown, but clear enough to walk single file. I’d only gone a few metres when I reached an old corrugated-iron shed. Maybe 25 square metres at most — it was completely enveloped by scrub.

When I walked inside I saw that the walls were lined with rotting timber shelves. In the far left-hand corner, a handful of books rested on their sides — Shakespeare’s comedies and tragedies covered in thick, protective blue plastic, their pages speckled brown with mould. And there were other books scattered here and there, but I can’t recall their titles. Several had the name John Anderson inscribed on their title page.

I must have stayed there for an hour or more. I wondered why the books had been left behind for the bush rats and lice to do their work. Given the number of shelves, it was clearly a library at one point in time. I’d heard stories of the alternative community that existed at Pericoe in the 1970s, but I couldn’t be certain that this abandoned shed was a relic of its presence.

Alone and silent in the bush, the remaining books seemed to cry out for readers. The library’s vulnerability and humility made it seem all the more precious. Within a few years, when the last book disintegrated or was taken away, it would surely be gone forever. While I knew that it was the fate of most libraries to be broken up, sold, lost, destroyed by fire, war or technological change, the image of this decaying bush library only grew more steadfast in my memory.

In the years since, I’ve discovered that the library was indeed founded by Pericoe’s alternative community. Talking to some of its former members, I’ve also realised that the remains of the library I found — which I’d wishfully imagined as an antipodean version of the lost library of Alexandria — bore few traces of its former self.

In the early 1970s, John Anderson and his architect wife, Mary, bought a 1938 Studebaker — ‘a very theatrical automobile’, as John described it — and drove from the property of historian Manning Clark and his wife, Dymphna, at Wapengo, north of Bega, where they’d helped the Clarks build their timber home to Pericoe, two hours southwest. The idea of the community, said John, was ‘a spontaneous thing … We were escaping something, but we really didn’t have a clue; we were a bit like William Lane heading for Paraguay in 1893, except that we were stoned most of the time.’

John and Mary were eventually joined by ten families — musicians, writers, builders and any number of occasional visitors. On a 240-hectare property, they set up their community as ‘Two Creeks Pty Ltd’, a company jointly owned by its resident shareholders. Among its members were Robert Dalton, son of George Dalton (1916–1961), chief engineer and deputy chief scientist of the Australian Atomic Energy Commission, and grandson of the English poet Robert Graves; Also Stuart Watson, an outstanding fiddle player who later toured with Slim Dusty; the author Steven Lang, whose novel An Accidental Terrorist was based on his time at Pericoe; and Ray Gardaya, a Filipino-American builder and musician, and his partner, Kim. As Ray told me, ‘We helped one another build our homes — mud brick and timber cottages, geodesic domes wired together with tea-tree, and all kinds of improvised structures — we were apprentice hippies.’

The library, which was dubbed ‘the shed’, was where community meetings were held. Everyone contributed books. Across from the library was the dairy, where the cows were milked on a roster. The milk would be delivered daily to each house, where it would be tipped into a waiting jug. The dwellings were linked by a contour track, which was about ten minutes’ walk through the bush, the same track that had to be walked to bring in groceries and vegetables from the community’s organic garden.

The library was the community’s first point of entry. Each member of the community was a librarian — donor, user and keeper of the collection. Books and reading were only one part of its daily function. It wasn’t a library that reflected individual taste and learning — although John Anderson did donate the copy of Alice in Wonderland he’d won as a prize in his early years at Melbourne Grammar — or a statement of the community’s philosophy. It was a library comprised of whatever members brought with them or happened to be reading at the time.

Thinking now about the abandoned library I found 40 years ago, and what I’ve learned since, I’m struck by the fact that a community without a library is no community at all. Even though the Pericoe community had retreated from the world, its members still brought with them the echoes and voices of the culture they’d left behind. When I asked John how the community had broken up, he laughed. ‘That’s another story,’ he said.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today we will hear from Alana Valentine.  

Alana Valentine is a playwright, librettist and director. Her most recent work is Nucleus for Griffin Theatre and Watershed: The death of Dr Duncan, co-written with Christos Tsiolkas, at Opera Australia.

I’m Alana Valentine and this is the library that made me.

Sanctuary Point Library is a baby-blue slatted structure on Paradise Beach Road in the Shoal­haven, on the NSW South Coast. From the exterior it is appealingly irregular — two pointy triangle-shaped roofs, one over the entrance and another beside it, sporting the main oculus of the structure. Behind these points is an elegant, curved space and then a box-like main building with a corrugated roof. It is not unlike a giant blue Lego set decorated with a ball lamp, glass doors and a sturdy access ramp.  

It is the winter of 2021 and we all know what happened then. Many libraries shut their doors for extended periods and when they reopened there were elaborate restrictions, mandatory masks and intermittent opening hours. I had been living in Jervis Bay for some years, regularly visiting a local beach called Murrays, whose creamy sand and glistening cerulean water is so pristine that I frequently saw seals, whales and the occasional dark, shark shape as I was taking my swim and hiking the headland loop.  

In 1969 Prime Minister John Gorton had proposed building a nuclear power station smack bang on the end of this very promontory. The site was cleared, the ocean outflow outlet was installed, and the project was put out to tender. But no tender was ever awarded because our 19th PM was replaced by the Right Honourable William McMahon in 1971, and McMahon immediately put the kibosh on the project.

Fascinated, I applied for and was awarded a small research grant from the Shoalhaven Arts Board to interview local activists including Ev Pettigrew, Janet Mayer, May Leatch and John Higgins, and with the help of fellow peace group rabble rouser Michael Cox, I had a riveting exchange with Alec Souris, who was part of the team that built the excellent road out to Murrays Beach through what is now called Booderee National Park.  

Alec regaled me with tales of his many romantic liaisons, often in cahoots with his anti-nuclear waterborne ‘peace squad’ actions, and even that time he lay down in a Nowra street to block the access of a particularly noxious local politician!  

The Shoalhaven Library catalogue indicated that it held a local ‘activist’ newsletter called The New Bush Telegraph but that because it was reference material, I could only view it at the library’s Nowra branch. COVID restrictions meant that I was unable to travel more than five kilometres from my home, but everyone I spoke to told me that this magazine would provide an invaluable snapshot of the decades I was researching. When I explained my position to librarians Ursula, Anne and Damien, they unhesitatingly set out to get me a special exemption, arranging to have ten years of the newsletter delivered in the ‘overnight special loans bag’ to the Sanctuary Point Library, and I spent that hard, lonely winter hunkered down there, reading about disputes over trail bikes in wilderness areas and pollution by industry in the Shoalhaven River. I laughed and cried that so much energy and work and commitment meant that the area still sang with the songs of birds, is a sanctuary for marine life and the health of us humans.  

Shoalhaven Arts and Entertainment Centre hosted a first development reading of my work-in-progress stage play. Then I interviewed several remarkable pro-nuclear scientists and more high-profile anti-nuclear activists. And then I conceived of the idea to write an entirely fictional play — with only two actors and a premise that means the work is categorised as a nuclear power rom-com! In March 2025 Griffin Theatre company produced a critically acclaimed four-week season at the Seymour Centre of my play Nucleus.

That this play made it to the Sydney stage is the kind of casual miracle that those who work in the arts will understand the precarity and sweetness of. It could not have happened without those librarians who went out of their way to collect a local newsletter whose historical archive is not online and that is likely held in no other place in the world, who catalogued and preserved it, who worked around restrictions to allow me to read it. And all this with no guarantees that work of any literary value would ever materialise from their labour or mine.  

As a playwright, I have an ornery obsession with accessing primary sources, ‘to hear it quote from the horse’s mouth’. Libraries hold stories in their archives that yearn to be uncovered, as I did at the National Library of Australia when I accessed some 20,000 letters sent to Lindy Chamberlain-Creighton to write the play Letters to Lindy.

There are plans for a new Sanctuary Point Library — tussles over federal grants and council capacity — and I wish the project well. But this little blue structure has already played a pivotal role in contributing to contemporary Australian culture, nestled as it is among shining Eucalyptus punctata and cone-laden casuarinas, visited by glossy black cockatoos, grey kangaroos and, very gratefully, me.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Penelope Seidler.  

Penelope Seidler is an architect and heads Seidler Architects. She is involved with many arts organisations and has founded chairs of architecture at the University of Sydney and the University of NSW.

I’m Penelope Seidler and this is the library that made me.

When I was about ten and excited when a library opened at Wahroonga. I had heard about libraries from my older brother and sister and I knew it was smart to bring home borrowed books and then exchange them every week or so. I used to ride my bicycle to the library on Saturday to replace the books borrowed on my previous visit and chose two new books. The library always had interesting displays and the librarian was always friendly.

I don’ t know what put an end to these visits but my next memory of a library was at school. It subscribed to various English magazines, which I found irresistible. I learned of an imaginary and unreal world from the Illustrated London News, Country Life etc. I was especially drawn to the covers of Country Life, which always featured a beautiful young lady, invariably wearing a pearl necklace and twinset, who had recently announced her engagement to a young gentleman of note, maybe someone titled or someone from the military. There was one a week, they were neverending. I followed the royal family’s movements and events in the Illustrated London News. The school did not subscribe to American or even Australian magazines as far as I can remember… perhaps there was the National Geographic Magazine but nothing popular like the Australian Women’s Weekly.

I left school in 1955 and then my life commenced for real! I enrolled in Arts at Sydney University — a world of wonder, excitement and intrigue. I was starring in the University Revue, I drank coffee and talked with clever people all day, there was Robert Hughes and Clive James. This was the good life. It certainly beat school!

Of course we were obliged to write essays. I found this daunting. A list of references was given and it was a race to get to Fisher Library and find the recommended books before they were snared by others. Fisher Library was still in the university quadrangle back then, upstairs in what is now called MacLaurin Hall. I was unsure how to write an essay… I still am. I watched friends attack the catalogue cards with their Dewey numbers and I followed. I recall sharing two books with a friend for our ancient history essay. She copied out various passages very quickly and I tried to keep up, she handed in her handwritten essay in two days and scored a high mark. I did my best following her but did not score as well.

I had a lot to learn about essays and was happier when I switched to architecture a couple of years later. And I become a wife. (I married Harry Seidler, already a purposeful and notable architect, on my 20th birthday, on the 15 December 1958.) We architecture students commenced our studies in the quadrangle rooms, but then the architecture faculty moved over to the other side of City Road in 1959. It was the first building to be built offsite from the university campus at Camperdown, and it was lonely! The architecture library was on the ground floor. All the relevant books were removed from Fisher, including gorgeous historical Beaux Arts–era first editions. It was a sensual and visual treat to thumb through these books full of fantastic drawings and mostly imaginary buildings. But there was no permanent librarian and so it was not long before these grand books began to be damaged and disappear, and the library was closed.

Most of my visits to libraries have been architectural pilgrimages. My favourites include the baroque Austrian National Library in Vienna, of 1726; the neo-Gothic Bodleian Library at Oxford University, of 1749; the circular Reading Room at the British Museum, 1857; Henri Labrouste’s Bibliotheque Nationale de Paris, of 1875; and the Louis Kahn–designed Library for the Phillips Exeter Academy, in USA, of 1971. All these buildings have in common their soaring structures — the reader is dwarfed and inspired.  

The State Library of NSW, I sense, is my library. I have an odd feeling of possession. After all, it does house all my husband’s archive, including his architectural plans and drawings, and his incredible war diaries from when he was interned as an ‘enemy alien’ in England and Canada during the Second World War. I spent many hours there as a student, I confess mainly for social reasons — I never did master the Dewey Decimal System. Life is now so much easier with computers and electronic typing, no more laborious note-taking by hand.

One day not long ago, I was standing in the Library’s imposing entry hall, admiring the gorgeous floor mosaic of Tasman’s map during a speech of welcome. I turned and noticed for the first time plaques on either side of the doors leading into the grand Mitchell Library Reading Room. On one plaque was the name of my father, Clive R. Evatt KC, and on the other the name of my uncle, Dr H.V. Evatt KC. (My father was a barrister and NSW Labor politician, my uncle a High Court judge and federal Labor government minister.) My sense of belonging expanded. I am proud to call the State Library of NSW ‘my library’, just as it is the library of everyone in NSW.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Sarah Holland-Batt.  

Sarah Holland-Batt is an award-winning poet, editor and critic. Her poems have been widely published in international journals and magazines, including The New Yorker and Poetry, and have been translated into several languages. Her book The Jaguar won the Stella Prize in 2023.

I’m Sarah Holland-Batt and this is the library that made me.  

My hometown, Surfers Paradise — with its gold-bikinied meter maids, sleazy casino and skyline blighted with high-rises — was an improbable wellspring for poetry in the 1980s. My friends and I spent our childhoods outdoors: at the beach, in swimming pools, or roaring around the canals in tinnies. Lackadaisical afternoons were devoted to swimming lessons and tennis, and weekends to fishing on the Broadwater. If not for the first library in my life — my father’s — I might never have left that hypnotic orbit of sun and water.

My father’s library was catholic and idiosyncratic. The selection reflected his upbringing in England: shelves dominated by Kingsley Amis, C.S. Forester, Graham Greene, Agatha Christie, Evelyn Waugh, D.H. Lawrence, Isaac Asimov, Ayn Rand and P.G. Wodehouse. There were page-turners by Ian Fleming, Dick Francis and Michael Crichton. There were technical books on chemistry, mathematics, hydrodynamics and minerology, computing and chaos theory. There were encyclopaedias of rocks and minerals with colour photographs of cinnabar, malachite, amethyst and quartz. There was a copy of Fowler’s Dictionary of Modern English Usage, and a smattering of philosophy: Aristotle, Spinoza and Camus. There was a book of vicious Russian fairytales with illustrations of Baba Yaga’s hut roaming the woods on chicken legs. There were sets of Churchill’s A History of the English-speaking Peoples and The Second World War. An obsessive, my father hand-laminated the covers of all his books himself. Observing his careful stewardship, I learned that books were to be not only read, but revered.

Despite the fact I had a tottering bookcase of my own, I spent countless hours browsing my father’s shelves, settling on Golding’s Lord of the Flies and Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. I felt intense joy when encountering words I didn’t yet know, each recalibrating my understanding of how precisely language might fit the world, and I hoarded them like jewels. These books led to other books, and those to others again, creating a daisy chain of desire that could only be sated with more books.

My father was a voracious reader and understood this impulse well, so it became our ritual on Saturday mornings to go to the local council library. Squatting in the shadow of the Gold Coast’s shopping colossus Pacific Fair, the Mermaid Waters Library — with its pitched roof, round picture window, and mission brown exterior that gave it the look of a rustic barn — was another unlikely harbour of literature. But every week, my father and I disappeared into our respective sections, and emerged with our stacks. We both always seemed to have the maximum number of titles on loan. Occasionally my father would be one or two shy of his quota, and I would always find extras to fill the slots.

My father liked to sit and sample the books he was thinking of borrowing, so I did too. There was a particular alcove framed by a potted monstera, where striped sunlight fell from the picture window onto the books, and I’d curl up there with my haul. What I remember best from those vetting sessions was a dreamy sense of freedom, and a hunger that verged on greed. I could have any of these books, I thought: in a sense, they all belonged to me.  

Growing up in a household where chocolate, television and other pleasures were strictly rationed, the notion that books were a limitless treat was exhilarating. Wandering the library’s displays and carousels, I also learned about the beauty of the chance encounter. I often didn’t know which book I was looking for until it found me.  

In the intervening years, I’ve loved many libraries, among them the University of Queensland’s Fryer Library, where I studied as a student, and NYU’s Bobst Library, where I went to escape my minuscule Manhattan apartment and write my second book. In each of these spaces, I’ve grappled with ideas that have required further chasing down to comprehend, much as I chased the authors I loved as a child. One text still leads to another. Above all, libraries have taught me that literature is a continuing conversation in which there is never a final word.  

Last year, I received an email from a high school student wanting to speak with me because she was writing an essay on my poetry. On our call, she asked several questions I’d anticipated — and at the end, an unexpected one. She wanted to know why there were so many rocks and minerals in my poems. As a poet, I like to think that all my linguistic decisions are conscious, but I’d never even noticed this — though immediately I understood why those words were there. They were straight from my father’s library, from his encyclopaedia of minerals, and I’d carried them with me until they were part of my atmosphere, invisible and elemental as air.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW. 

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Ali Cobby Eckermann, recorded live at the State Library of NSW in 2023.

Ali Cobby Eckermann is a Yankunytjatjara poet from South Australia whose work has been published and celebrated around the world. Her most recent book, She is the Earth, won the Indigenous Writers’ Prize and Book of the Year at the 2024 NSW Premier’s Literary Awards.

Ali Cobby Eckermann 

The library that made me.

If I answer this question literally there is only one library that I recall spending a lot of time in, and that was the library at Brinkworth Area School. This is where I attended primary school in the late 1960s and early 70s, where I grew a yearning for learning, encountering racism for the first time and not understanding why I was feeling so hurt. Until then I hadn’t really encountered bad behaviour. Bible stories were the only stories I knew growing up in my adopted German Lutheran family and I truly believed that good triumphed over bad.

The library was a small tin shed lined with bookshelves and second-hand carpet. The librarian invited me to join the stamp-collecting group, which I did so I didn’t have to be out in the playground. Monthly stamp sets arrived in the post; our mailbox was an old cream can tied to four iron droppers, along the roadside at Hart, which was about a mile from the farm on our pushbikes. I still remember the beauty of the Cocos Keeling stamps, which were my favourites, and also how many different stamps there were with the Queen’s face. My parents bought me a stamp album and I sat at the table in the library by the small window with the yellow curtain arranging stamps as directed. This was the first time I needed solace. So now, when I think of libraries I think of that need for solace. There is a solace that I love when I am writing.

My practice of Aboriginal culture always sees the world as circular. I see libraries as venues of solace, reading as solace, writing as solace, the creation of art as solace; a way of putting up a barrier against the bullies or the behaviour in the world that I don’t embrace or understand. Unfortunately that doesn’t go away; it’s just the way humankind on this planet exists. It has been humbling on my life journey to know the bad can’t go away, and rewarding to witness that good will override bad; it just takes a bloody long time and a lifetime of consideration and effort.

And then if I shift the meaning of what library made me, I would have to say the desert. I’ve shared publicly before that I ran away at  the age of 17 from a society I didn’t feel part of, out to the Nullarbor Plain on the edge of the Great Victoria Desert, to a tiny place called Ooldea along the Trans-Atlantic Railway line. There was a plaque there dedicated to Daisy Bates for her missionary work. Randomly, groups of Aboriginal people would arrive from Yalata in the south, camping across the railway track for several days waiting for a goods train to stop and pick them up as they were doing cultural business up and down the line. I used to walk over to make sure they had water as there was no shed or shelter, they camped among the low spinifex bushes under the stars. Sometimes I could offer apples, or oranges or some sandwiches. Sharing food was risky, not to trigger my partner because he was a jealous and violent man. And I remember how kind the women were, always laughing and talking in language to me. I look back now and think they must have recognised me (as family) because I have my grandmother’s face, I’ve been told that many times, and I have my mother’s face, I’ve been told that many times as well. They must have been curious like ‘Whatcha doing out here with all that bruising on your face?’

There was only six people living at Ooldea in the fettlers’ camp. Somehow despite the domestic violence I was okay. This was big desert country and during the days I used to walk with the dogs. I visited the nearby sandhill country, finding artefacts along the dunes. It’s the only time that I’ve dug down into the sand with my hands and the joy of water seeping into the hole and having a drink. I remember finding a mulberry tree and having a feed, sitting quietly by myself. Reading country is a wonderful skill. I remember there was solace. And there was rich learning. Learning in a practical sense, in a known and tangible sense and also in a spiritual and unconscious sense. Through the years I’ve learnt to focus on that instinctive learning that I was encountering back then, because those lessons are arriving consciously now. And so there is a part of me that knows that true learning takes 20 to 30 years.

The desert also provided me with an encyclopaedia of people, my family, the old people, the children, brothers and cousins, sisters and aunties and friends, all fabulous holders of knowledge. I carry my stories deep within wherever I travel. My eyes are honed for knowledge. And as a grandmother my heart is very honed for solace.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Markus Zusak, recorded live at the State Library of NSW in 2022. 

Markus Zusak is the author of seven books, including the The Book Thief — a New York Times bestseller which has been adapted into film, and into theatre productions around the world. His latest book is the memoir Three Wild Dogs (and the Truth).

This is the library that made me.

My mum wasn’t screwing around when it came to school projects. We could have walked up the street to Engadine Library, which would have been easier, but as she always said — in her Australian-German accent:

‘For this, you need Sutterland.’

(She meant Sutherland.)

As the youngest of four kids, I was the last link in a long chain of homework and school assignments — usually completed in those giant sideways project books. Whether it was satellite dishes or Africa, geology or Albert Einstein, we drove to that bigger library of our youth, or better (since it was the 80s), our neighbourhood flux-capacitor. We needed answers of space and time.

Not far from the railway line, hunched with a small gathering of other council-brown buildings, was the old Sutherland Library.

We arrived as a small tribe; we had assignments simultaneously. I’d be looking through those beautiful, now-antiquated card catalogue drawers while my eldest sister researched the Peloponnesian War. (My brother, true to form, would be fart-arsing around in the picture book section, avoiding work.). That was our life growing up

Some of the books we borrowed.

Some — from the reference section — we made copies. We put coins into the photocopy machine, praying the words wouldn’t trip down the side of the page …

Last of all, it’s likely we went to Sutherland because it was open till 9 pm. In that long-gone world where the shops shut at five on weekdays, and were fully closed on Sundays, that was pretty wild.

Us Zusaks knew where the work party was.

Fast-forward to the new millennium, 2003. At some point, I’d gone down to the old library site and found it abandoned, following directions then to the new Sutherland Library, on Belmont Street.

A cream-coloured building.

Modern furnishings.

Automatic doors!

The future was an extravaganza.

By 2003, I’d started writing what would be my fifth novel. It was supposed to be a novella — maybe a hundred pages — but it was steadily growing beneath me. It was called The Book Thief, and after a year of false starts, I found myself, quite suddenly, alive at the time of writing. What I mean is that mostly you’re working on a book and it isn’t taking flight. In my case, I was writing and researching, side by side. I would ride my bike from my home in Gymea to the library. I’d return with a backpack full of books and a head full of new ideas which is almost the greatest thing about any library — sometimes you only need to be there. You’re putting yourself in a place of ideas, so your mind is open to almost anything. And that’s exactly what happened.

I was researching Nazi Germany and Hitler and everything in between. In my book, I had children playing football on the snowy streets, and I wanted them to imitate their heroes. These days, the first thing a writer might do is google ‘Famous European footballers of the 1930s’, but back then, I didn’t even see the internet as a real resource. My first port of call was the library — it still is, actually — though I wasn’t expecting a result.

On a hot January morning, I rode my bike to the library and entered its modern-yet- hallowed doors. There was a young boy in my novel called Rudy Steiner, and he was becoming my favourite character. He was also my footballer-in-chief. In my visions, he would commentate himself as he played, pretending he was one of the greats.

When I walked into the library that morning, I was vaguely contemplating the search. I entered the concourse, and it hit me — for there, facing outwards in the Sport section, was an almanac of the modern Olympics. There were several former champions on the cover, and among them was Jesse Owens.

I stopped walking.

I knew instantly that I didn’t need famous footballers from that time — I had one of the great icons of the 20th century. In a matter of seconds, I saw Rudy Steiner running alone one night at the local athletics field, imitating the great Jesse Owens. I saw how it would continue as a plot point throughout the novel — culminating hundreds of pages later in the final chapters of the book. I fell in love with Rudy, at that exact moment, completely …

In terms of a library that made me, I don’t want to be flippant now, or untrue. My time spent in both iterations of Sutherland Library has been a lasting part of my life. It’s embedded in my school assignments. It changed the course of my life’s work.

For me, Sutherland Library is every library — a place that has awakened me time and time again. It’s always the place to start looking for what’s hardest to find:

To be alive at the time of writing.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

You’re about to hear from David Gaunt. David Gaunt is co-owner of Gleebooks with Roger Mackell, a partnership they formed in 1978. Gleebooks has been one of Sydney’s best independent bookshops — and a cornerstone of the city’s reading culture — ever since.

I’m David Gaunt and this is the library that made me.

I’m a blessed (and cursed) creature, a boomer baby. Not only that, I’m one born in 1951, the post-war apex year for births. But while many of the advantages of that serendipitous birth timing are well documented (and yes, that included Oslo school lunches of a cheese and salad sandwich, cup of milk and apple that the school provided, school bursaries, free universities, the advent of Medicare, no-fault divorce … need I go on), we were hard done by in other ways. The worst bland food diet, ancient playground equipment, few public swimming pools, primitive public transport (at least in my bit of southern Sydney) and seriously overcrowded schools. My own, Peakhurst Public, housed 240 students in my year alone, all strictly gender-separated, in unairconditioned portable classrooms. And no municipal library in our municipality in the early years.

My family were readers (no TV till I was 12) so my earliest library memories are twofold. The canny teacher librarian at school aroused our competitive instincts to read at least a book a week. And, simply responding to that instinct, I did. This led to a situation where, at age 11, an unhealthily large amount of my understanding of Australian history came from the writings of Ion L. Idriess. The school library had dozens of his books, and I devoured them all, to the delight of the librarian.

Other books were out there, but how to find them? Certainly, the need for my older brother and me to catch two buses to access the ‘local’ library at Rockdale, almost ten kilometres away, tested our enthusiasm. But that not-so-local library did house a viewable copy of the Stanley Gibbons Stamp Catalogue, an invaluable information source and strong incentive for nerdy junior stamp collectors. 

The breakthrough in the story of the library that made me, however, came with the long overdue opening of the new Hurstville Municipal Civic Centre in 1962. I remember feeling civic pride in the beautiful new library inside the civic centre, and its sparkling selection of new books stretching out of sight. But imagine my disappointment to find that the children’s section was all but irrelevant to me. I had read too voraciously.

My mother, to her everlasting credit, would confront any obstacle to the furthering of her children’s reading. I remain amazed that this shy and retiring woman negotiated the ‘parentally approved’ usage of her adult borrower’s card for me at age 12 (adult borrowers’ cards were for those 14 years and over), and thereby opened up what looked and felt like an unlimited world of words to me. I am forever grateful to her (and not just for that!) and to those enlightened rule-bending librarians, persuaded by my eager desire to read through the dozens of P.G. Wodehouse books I’d spied. They stood in a long row of handsome, new, uniform hardcover editions. And in devouring dozens of them, more than once, over the next few years, I discovered a feast of (gloriously irrelevant) details about England and its caste system, its idle rich, country estates, meddlesome aunts and petty criminals, golf, and romance — for Wodehouse was nothing if not a romance writer. Crucially, though, I discovered the essence of good writing from one of the world’s most accomplished wordsmiths. 

I also bent those adult borrower’s card age rules to get my hands on spicy Ian Fleming spy novels, historical fiction and any sporting biographies I could find. And I spent many happy high school hours in the reference room, on projects and study. Yet it’s that serendipitous Wodehouse moment on my first visit to Hurstville Library that stands out.

Of course, other libraries have featured in my life. The Charles Kingsford Smith Memorial Library at my high school was decidedly uninviting … but then again, we young adolescents wrestling with set texts by Joseph Conrad, H.G. Wells, G.K. Chesterton, Hilaire Belloc and Vance Palmer (for local content) had precious little time for extracurricular browsing in the library. Then a longish stint at the University of Sydney meant I all but lived at Fisher Library, with necessary excursions to the reading room at the Mitchell Library, within the State Library of NSW, to breathe in the lived history of a classical library.

I fell into a bookselling life at Gleebooks almost 50 years ago, and am well overdue to extricate myself. But the upside has always been the chance to discover and indulge in whatever I want to read, whenever I want to read. Our bookshops, like so many libraries, are deeply engaged with the writing and reading communities they serve. For me, there’s been a lifelong joy in books — thanks to those libraries that lit the fuse, and sustained the flame.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

Today you will hear from Michelle Arrow. Michelle Arrow is an award-winning author, professor of History at Macquarie University, and was the president of the Australian association between 2024 and 2026. 

I’m Michelle Arrow and this is the library that made me.

It’s 1993. I’m sitting on the warm sandstone steps of the Mitchell Library with a group of students from my Australian Cultural History class. Normally we would have our classes in our lecturer Richard White’s office, which was in the Main Quad at Sydney University, but today we have an excursion. 

Richard begins the class, not by taking us into the library, but by pointing out the large statue incongruously placed between the lanes of the Eastern Distributor: the Shakespeare Memorial, where the man himself, pen in hand, is surrounded by Romeo and Juliet, Falstaff, Othello, and Portia. Richard then takes out a book and reads to us, his accent suddenly broad and clear above the whirr of traffic:

‘Wot’s in a name?’ she sez… An’ then she sighs,

An’ clasps ‘er little ‘ands, an’ rolls ‘er eyes.

‘A rose,’ she sez, ‘be any other name’

Would smell the same.

Oh, w’erefore art you Romeo, young sir?

Chuck yer ole pot, an’ change yer moniker!’

We laughed in delight at the shock of it, the audacity of claiming the library steps as our seminar room. The poem is ‘The Play’, part of CJ Dennis’s The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke, published in 1917. The Shakespeare Memorial arrived in Sydney just a few years later, in 1926. Both Dennis’s poem and the memorial told us something about Australia’s transplanted Britishness and the meanings of the cityscape. Richard nudged us to see Sydney as a text whose meanings changed over time. And this idea hung in the air as we moved inside the library.

I’d moved to Sydney for uni a couple of years earlier, a nerdy and shy kid from the country who spent a lot of time in Sydney University’s Fisher Library as I slowly learned the mysterious social codes of my new world. Surrounded by books, high up in the stacks, it all seemed less overwhelming. Spending time in the library was also an essential part of student life then. You couldn’t conjure up your weekly readings with a few mouse clicks: you had to go to the library and search for them. I gradually became acculturated to Fisher’s systems. I learned to think in Dewey Decimal (the classification system libraries use to organise items by subject). My generation was among the last to receive this kind of analog education, where books were singular, treasured objects, scooped up greedily for three-hour loans, or hidden in the stacks for unimpeded access.

Our city excursion was my first visit to the Mitchell Reading Room. We were a long way from the lino floors and dim corridors of Fisher Stack. Everything, from the curved wooden chairs, the walls of books, the enveloping silence, spoke to the continuity and authority of this elegant, calm space.

The card catalogue, held in dozens of small timber drawers, was a revelation. These small handwritten cards guided you to things you would never have found otherwise. They were a reminder that the library’s collection and catalogue was crafted slowly and steadily, by human hands.

Over the next few years, the Mitchell Library taught me the importance of patience. As a PhD student I spent months, even years there. My thesis was about the history of Australian women playwrights who wrote for stage and radio between the 1930s and 1960s. Without any large manuscript collections to rely on, this was a history of fragments and scraps, many of which were found in the Mitchell Library’s collections. I was lucky enough to be allowed into the Mitchell’s underground stacks to read through the massive collection of the Sydney New Theatre.

I slowly and methodically worked my way through the library’s entire run of the magazine ABC Weekly, scouring it for any mention of women radio writers or broadcasts of their plays. It took me weeks. I felt myself becoming part of the furniture of the place. 

Now, the ABC Weekly is on Trove: I could probably find everything I was looking for ina few days. But the slow accretion of context and texture that I gained from my slow reading was the sort of incidental knowledge that you lose in the speed of online searching. You develop a deep familiarity with your sources, and with an aspect of the past. It helps you feel like a historian.

The Mitchell Library taught me the importance of paying attention. As a full-time academic, I fear that these days I probably spend more time on emails than I do in libraries. But libraries are still the only places where I can sit down to work and the world falls away. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of that feeling.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast. 

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW. 

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them. 

You’re about to hear from Shankari Chandran. Shankari Chandran is the author of five novels including Chai Time at Cinnamon Gardens, which won the 2023 Miles Franklin Literary Award. Her most recent book is Unfinished Business. 

I’m Shankari Chandran and this is the library that made me.  

My footsteps slow when I pass a library. Any library. I am pulled inwards, to its endless stories and the possibilities they hold.  

The public library of a country houses that nation’s stories, even the contested ones. It is a monument to the storytelling we call history. The political history of Sri Lanka is especially contested. Which race arrived on the island first, which warring faction committed the most atrocities, how many people died and how many remain missing. These are the narratives we still fight over. New ones have emerged — how corrupt was the previous regime, how many billions did they steal, how much do we owe China and how many children will starve as a result of it. 

Libraries hold stories, but for me, one library also began a story. My novel, Chai Time at Cinnamon Gardens, was inspired by the burning of the Jaffna Public Library. It uses this act of cultural erasure to explore racism in my ancestral homeland, Sri Lanka, and my chosen homeland, Australia. 

The Jaffna Public Library sits in Jaffna (Yalpanam), the ancestral capital of the Tamil people of Sri Lanka. It was constructed between 1953 and 1959, and its domed ceilings and gleaming white stucco walls stood proudly over the city, more like a palace than a library. It stored one of the largest archives of Tamil culture in the world — at its height, the collection contained 100,000 books, ancient manuscripts and historical records about Tamil civilisation in Sri Lanka.  

It is — or was — a place of almost mythical cultural significance to the Tamil people.  

In 1981, the Jaffna Public Library was burned to the ground by Sri Lankan government security forces. Two thousand years of Tamil culture, history and language were destroyed. Some texts were the only copies in existence and have been lost forever.  

The Jaffna Public Library told a story about the place of the Tamil people in Sri Lanka. The political authorities of that time wanted to suppress this narrative; burning the archive was a quick and conclusive way to do it. For many Tamils, this biblioclasm was the culmination of decades of laws that disempowered the Tamil people. And it foreshadowed the civil war that was to come, two years later. 

That war led to the forced migration of Tamil people to many parts of the world, and for my family, to Australia. It also led to the internal displacement of hundreds of thousands of Tamil people. 

I was born and raised in the Tamil diaspora. For decades, my parents were afraid to return to Sri Lanka because of my father’s political activism. We moved to London and then Australia (where I was raised) in 1977, a few years after the end of the White Australia Policy.  

I call Australia my chosen home because I have left many times and I always long to return. I am deeply happy and connected to both people and place here. From the strength and safety of Australia, I use fiction to interrogate the injustices that drove my family from one home and challenged them to create another.  

Fiction allows me to assert myself in the present, and to understand how that present has been shaped by the past. At a recent literary panel, someone asked me if I felt my fiction was constrained by my ethnicity and our history. This was my answer: I stride into the future with stories, and it is vital to me that I take my history with me. I am uplifted, not burdened, by it. (At the same panel, a reader told me that my latest novel’s assertion of racism in Australia was deeply offensive. I smiled politely and said I find racism deeply offensive and destructive. I wanted to add — but didn’t — ‘Your local library will have a copy of White Fragility’.) 

When the Jaffna Public Library was burned, I became bereft of a history, an archive of the past that helped anchor my place in the present. It is a moment in time that I have memorialised in all my writing. 

As a writer and storyteller, all my work returns to the burning of books and stories. I cannot let go of the burning of books, the burning of the bodies and the burning of truth that followed. 

Through fictional stories about Sri Lanka, I have tried to record our path to war and the terrible mistakes made by both sides. Through fiction, I’ve tried to understand how so many were killed and why there will not be justice for the living or the dead. 

On my last trip to Sri Lanka in January 2019, I returned with three generations of my family. We went to our ancestral villages and saw the continuing effects of the war. My parents took their children and grandchildren to all the places they had loved and left behind. We saw how much had been erased by genocide, how much of our history had been erased by the post-war ‘rebuilding’ of the north. 

We took our children to the new Jaffna Public Library, built on the ruins of the old one. It is a stately building, its architecture an homage to the original design, but its archive will never be the same. We assembled the Chandran grandchildren in front of the library and took a photograph of them with their grandparents, recounting some of the stories that had been destroyed. We whispered the words, because although we were in the Tamil heartland, history had taught us to be afraid. We choked on the words because we felt the grief rise up through our bodies and threaten to overwhelm us. Finally, we pressed and we kissed the words into our children because the stories of their ancestors will help them write their own. 

Standing outside the new Jaffna Public Library, on the hard, red earth of our ancestral homeland, I felt completely at home, while completely dispossessed of home. And I felt the yearning I always feel to return home to Australia and begin a new story. 

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW. 

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuiness from the State Library of NSW.

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.

You’re about to hear from Shankari Chandran. Shankari Chandran is the author of five novels including Chai Time at Cinnamon Gardens, which won the 2023 Miles Franklin Literary Award. Her most recent book is Unfinished Business.

I’m Shankari Chandran and this is the library that made me.

My footsteps slow when I pass a library. Any library. I am pulled inwards, to its endless stories and the possibilities they hold. 

The public library of a country houses that nation’s stories, even the contested ones. It is a monument to the storytelling we call history. The political history of Sri Lanka is especially contested. Which race arrived on the island first, which warring faction committed the most atrocities, how many people died and how many remain missing. These are the narratives we still fight over. New ones have emerged — how corrupt was the previous regime, how many billions did they steal, how much do we owe China and how many children will starve as a result of it.

Libraries hold stories, but for me, one library also began a story. My novel, Chai Time at Cinnamon Gardens, was inspired by the burning of the Jaffna Public Library. It uses this act of cultural erasure to explore racism in my ancestral homeland, Sri Lanka, and my chosen homeland, Australia.

The Jaffna Public Library sits in Jaffna (Yalpanam), the ancestral capital of the Tamil people of Sri Lanka. It was constructed between 1953 and 1959, and its domed ceilings and gleaming white stucco walls stood proudly over the city, more like a palace than a library. It stored one of the largest archives of Tamil culture in the world — at its height, the collection contained 100,000 books, ancient manuscripts and historical records about Tamil civilisation in Sri Lanka. 

It is — or was — a place of almost mythical cultural significance to the Tamil people. 

In 1981, the Jaffna Public Library was burned to the ground by Sri Lankan government security forces. Two thousand years of Tamil culture, history and language were destroyed. Some texts were the only copies in existence and have been lost forever. 

The Jaffna Public Library told a story about the place of the Tamil people in Sri Lanka. The political authorities of that time wanted to suppress this narrative; burning the archive was a quick and conclusive way to do it. For many Tamils, this biblioclasm was the culmination of decades of laws that disempowered the Tamil people. And it foreshadowed the civil war that was to come, two years later.

That war led to the forced migration of Tamil people to many parts of the world, and for my family, to Australia. It also led to the internal displacement of hundreds of thousands of Tamil people.

I was born and raised in the Tamil diaspora. For decades, my parents were afraid to return to Sri Lanka because of my father’s political activism. We moved to London and then Australia (where I was raised) in 1977, a few years after the end of the White Australia Policy. 

I call Australia my chosen home because I have left many times and I always long to return. I am deeply happy and connected to both people and place here. From the strength and safety of Australia, I use fiction to interrogate the injustices that drove my family from one home and challenged them to create another. 

Fiction allows me to assert myself in the present, and to understand how that present has been shaped by the past. At a recent literary panel, someone asked me if I felt my fiction was constrained by my ethnicity and our history. This was my answer: I stride into the future with stories, and it is vital to me that I take my history with me. I am uplifted, not burdened, by it. (At the same panel, a reader told me that my latest novel’s assertion of racism in Australia was deeply offensive. I smiled politely and said I find racism deeply offensive and destructive. I wanted to add — but didn’t — ‘Your local library will have a copy of White Fragility’.)

When the Jaffna Public Library was burned, I became bereft of a history, an archive of the past that helped anchor my place in the present. It is a moment in time that I have memorialised in all my writing.

As a writer and storyteller, all my work returns to the burning of books and stories. I cannot let go of the burning of books, the burning of the bodies and the burning of truth that followed.

Through fictional stories about Sri Lanka, I have tried to record our path to war and the terrible mistakes made by both sides. Through fiction, I’ve tried to understand how so many were killed and why there will not be justice for the living or the dead.

On my last trip to Sri Lanka in January 2019, I returned with three generations of my family. We went to our ancestral villages and saw the continuing effects of the war. My parents took their children and grandchildren to all the places they had loved and left behind. We saw how much had been erased by genocide, how much of our history had been erased by the post-war ‘rebuilding’ of the north.

We took our children to the new Jaffna Public Library, built on the ruins of the old one. It is a stately building, its architecture an homage to the original design, but its archive will never be the same. We assembled the Chandran grandchildren in front of the library and took a photograph of them with their grandparents, recounting some of the stories that had been destroyed. We whispered the words, because although we were in the Tamil heartland, history had taught us to be afraid. We choked on the words because we felt the grief rise up through our bodies and threaten to overwhelm us. Finally, we pressed and we kissed the words into our children because the stories of their ancestors will help them write their own.

Standing outside the new Jaffna Public Library, on the hard, red earth of our ancestral homeland, I felt completely at home, while completely dispossessed of home. And I felt the yearning I always feel to return home to Australia and begin a new story.

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast. 

I’m Phillipa McGuinness from the State Library of NSW. 

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them.   

Today you will hear from Grace Karskens. Grace Karskens is emeritus professor of history in the school of humanities and languages at the University of NSW. She is the author of multi-award-winning books including The Rocks, Life in Early Sydney, The Colony, A History of Early Sydney and People of the River: lost worlds of Early Australia. In 2026 she joined the Library Council of NSW  

I’m Grace Karskens and this is the library that made me.

Opposite our school on Windsor Road at Baulkham Hills, in north-west Sydney, there stood an old weatherboard School of Arts building. Inside, it was dim and cool, and the roar of the traffic muffled and faded. Down some creaking wooden steps was a library — just one room, lined floor to ceiling with books, and filled with their comfortable musty smell. Dust danced in the shafts of sunlight pouring through the old sash windows.

Baulkham Hills in the 1960s was exploding. Thousands of new houses were rising on old farmlands, narrow roads were choked with fumy traffic, schools were filled to bursting with children, new buildings of unrelenting dreariness were appearing on every corner. We spent our lives waiting for lumbering buses, which were always late and always packed. I remember that first library in the old School of Arts as a kind of sanctuary, like stepping back momentarily to an earlier time.

But best of all, it had books by Enid Blyton.

We had lots of books in our house. Mostly they were heavy, dark tomes with incomprehensible Dutch titles. They were like dignified old relatives, kindly, but imparting a certain gravitas to our raw, new, brick-veneer home. In my bedroom, carefully lined up on top of the wardrobe, was a set of Enid Blyton books, about 11 volumes, all hardbacks with deep red covers. I’d been gifted them by a family my mother knew. I loved those books, read them again and again. I was proud to be the owner of my own little library.

Then in 1968 we got our very own library at Baulkham Hills! I was thrilled. It was a modest, single-level blond-brick building with a flat roof, big glass doors, scratchy industrial strength carpet and fluorescent lighting. Every Friday I borrowed three books (the maximum), read them over the weekend and returned them on Monday. The children’s section had lots of good books, but there was no Enid Blyton. It was very puzzling. I desperately wanted to read more of her books. I wondered if our library was perhaps too small and unimportant to have them.

So, one day I decided to make my way to the big city: Parramatta. With its substantial buildings and smart department stores, Parramatta was the bustling centre around which still forming satellite places like Baulkham Hills orbited. A trip to Parramatta was an outing, an event. The library there was sure to have Enid Blyton! I caught the bus after school, found the library, marched up the stairs (stairs!) and through the heavy swinging doors. It was huge. Where were the children’s books? I spied a librarian behind a desk, made a beeline for her and, mustering my most grown-up voice, asked confidently: ‘Do you have Enid Blyton books?’  

The librarian paused, leaned over the desk and over me, fixing me with a severely disapproving glare.’ Certainly NOT!’ she barked crossly. I can’t recall what else she said because my world was crashing around me. Dying of shock and embarrassment, I picked up my globate school case and fled.

It must have been about a year later that my Dad took me into the State Library of NSW in Sydney. Sydney! That fabled, faraway place, with its cool, shaded streets between the canyons of glamorous tall buildings, the gracious, tended parks and gardens, and everywhere glimpses of glinting water. Dad was doing a metallurgy course at TAFE and needed the library to study. Walking with him into the magnificent, airy reading room, I gasped: it was a grand palace of books, like nothing I’d ever seen. There were books on every side, lining the walls on three levels. Light poured in from a vaulted glass ceiling and from rows of stained-glass windows. Elegant metal stairs led up to narrow balconies where you could wander and browse among books to your heart’s content. There were proper big desks where you could read, and an air of hushed reverence.

Dazed and happy, I wandered and browsed until eventually I spotted a book of Hans Christian Andersen stories. I pulled it out carefully and carried it down the steps. I must have recovered from my encounter with the librarian at Parramatta, because before I sat down to read, I ventured up to the desk and asked the librarian if the library had any children’s books. She nodded kindly, checked in a drawer of cards and wrote down the title on a piece of paper for me. As I read it, a wave of wonder, a sense of the uncanny, of magic, whirled over me. For it was the very same book of stories by Hans Christian Andersen that I had in my hands. Miracles Didn’t happen to kids from Baulkham Hills, and yet, among all those thousands of books, I had somehow found the only book for children.

I returned to the State and Mitchell Libraries as a university student, then as a freelance consultant and later as a historian. When the Mitchell Library moved from its sequestered wing into what had previously been the Reference Library Reading Room, where I had found the Hans Christian Andersen book all those years ago, I rejoiced. Over the past five decades, the wonder of that first encounter has only grown with each astonishing discovery I have made in that place, each recovery of lost stories, places and truths. The Mitchell Library is our knowledge-holding place, our labyrinthine memory palace, our mysterious trove of discovery and learning. I was right about the magic. I know it as our sacred space. 

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast.

I’m Phillipa McGuinness from the State Library of NSW. 

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to reflect on the libraries that have shaped them.    

Today you’ll hear from Jonty Claypole. Jonty Claypole is CEO of Red Room Poetry and co-host with Sophie Gee of the popular podcast Secret Life of Books. 

Jonty Claypole

Despite what you might imagine, libraries and obsessive-compulsive disorder don’t go well together. Sure, there’s the cataloguing, the quietness, the shushing and firm finger-wagging, but the presence of other people remains a problem. Far from being quiet, they fidget, pick their noses, scratch their balls, giggle with their friends and flirt. While I have loved some libraries, I harbour unChristian feelings about the people I share them with.

Then there’s the books themselves. Stained, dog-eared, dirty and well thumbed. Some even have laminated covers, smudged with oily fingerprints like the windows of suburban trains. Libraries, like public transport, require frequent handwashing. The obsessive-compulsive’s favourite library is their private one. There alone, books can be controlled like citizens of a totalitarian state, through advanced strategies of population control. They can be regimented alphabetically, by genre, or according to colour (although police checks should be mandatory for those who practise the latter).

My library was formally established in 1995, when I unpacked two cardboard boxes in my narrow room on the ground floor of Peckwater Quad in Christ Church college at the University of Oxford. Less than 50 books in total. Half pilfered from my parents, without their permission, and therefore of dubious provenance. The other half legitimately purchased as part of the reading requirements before term began.

A new friend lent me his copy of Ian McEwan’s Black Dogs. His name was rubber-stamped inside the cover, with the legend ‘ex libris’ (Latin for ‘from the library of ‘) above, suggesting a vast room in the English countryside with south-facing windows, ornate shelves carved by Grinling Gibbons (the Michelangelo of woodwork), and books bound in the skin of unborn animals. Rather more modest than Virginia Woolf, I dreamed only of a rubber stamp of my own, through which to engineer the apotheosis of my paltry collection of paperbacks into a heavenly libris.

Oxford was full of bookstores. Brash, modern chains, like Waterstones, as well as down-at-heel second-hand stores like Mr Charrington’s shop in Nineteen Eighty-Four. The proprietors were dishevelled men in cardigans with an air of failed academia, multiple cat ownership and pornography.  

I dislike second-hand books for the same reason I dislike library books, but life on a student grant has its own compulsions. I acquired outdated editions of the classics. Dostoevsky and Tolstoy translated into Edwardian English (“It’s jolly cold, today,” said Raskolnikov). Zola with all the dirty bits excised. I was morbidly fond of an anthology of English poetry called Other Men’s Flowers, compiled by Field Marshal Archibald Wavell, whose authority in the field of poetry seemed to lie solely in the fact he defeated the Italian Army in Libya during World War II.  

My thirties were the golden years. Working for the BBC in London, I had a decent salary and no dependents. I could stop at Daunt Books near Broadcasting House in Marylebone and buy whatever I liked. First-hand, mind. I was done with other men’s flowers.

The glory days were short-lived. I fell in love and moved in with my girlfriend. Constance frowned as my best friend Roly and I carried in box after box of books, bickering and banging walls as we went. The Laurel and Hardy of intellectual colonisation. I put several boxes into the attic as a gesture of good will and assembled new bookcases in the spare room and on the upstairs landing to accommodate the rest.  

Then there was the question that Hamlet almost, but didn’t ask: to blend or not to blend? This was a proxy for deeper anxieties about cohabitation. Were we ready to fuse our personalities together? Biographies and exhibition catalogues were fair game, but there remained a metaphysical angst about novels and poetry. If her poetry mixed with my poetry, did we still exist as separate entities?

Over the years, these reservations fell away. The rate of acquisition doubled. Arranging our bookshelves was like three-dimensional Tetris, with micro-units of books laid horizontally across others or stuffed in behind. 

When our second child was born, we moved to a four-storey house near Hackney Marshes, in East London. This would be our forever home, where the kids would spend their childhood. We installed shelves in every room. Every book found its place. Our library was complete. Some cursory research revealed that customised rubber stamps weren’t even that expensive. Ex libris Jonty Claypole, motherfuckers!

A few months after moving in, we came to Sydney to see my mother, sister and wider family, who all live here. On a whim, we missed the flight home. Worried that our resolve would waver if we returned to put our affairs in order, we asked a friend to oversee the boxing and transport of all our belongings to that invisible country, the Republic of Storage (in this case, an old stable in Sussex). Four years on, we still have no space in our little Inner West rental to justify the shipping costs.

I check on my worldly goods whenever we visit the UK. Opening the hefty wooden doors of my father-in-law’s stable, I see box after box of clothing, knick-knacks, kitchenware, but most of all books, gradually succumbing to mould and damp. My ex libris.

We don’t have many books in our home in Forest Lodge. We buy from Sappho Books, a second-hand bookshop nearby, and borrow from Glebe Library. When I need to dig up something rare, I go to the State Library. Needless to say, I wash my hands a lot. 

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW. 

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast. 

I’m Phillipa McGuinness from the State Library of NSW. 

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to reflect on the libraries that have shaped them.    

You’re about to hear from Yumna Kassab. Yumna Kassab is a writer based in Western Sydney and was the inaugural Parramatta Laureate in Literature. She is the author of The House of Youssef, Australiana, The Lovers, Politica, The Theory of Everything and most recently, Goodbye My Love.  

I’m Yumna Kassab and this is the library that made me.

Where was I at the start of 2020?

I had just returned from a big trip to South America, and a few months earlier my first book — The House of Youssef — had been released. My intention was to work in Tamworth for the duration of the school year and with this mind, I thought I should finally check out Dixson Library at the University of New England.  

My lifelong conundrum has been how to source the books I want to read without going broke in the process. It’s a dilemma that I’ve solved by immediately visiting the library in any place I’ve been, but access to a university library is a glorious thing, especially when it’s free to join for members of the local community.

I still remember that drive north from Tamworth to Armidale in the middle of February. It’s a peculiar mechanism of memory that most details fade and only some are committed to memory.

That was a particular drive: I was listening to Spanish songs and wondering how to explore the thread of Latin America that had opened up in my life. It also was the aftermath of the bushfires that had started burning in the September of the year before.

I had a mental goal as I arrived at the university. It was to fill out the application form to get my library card and then to find books relating to Latin America as per my reading list.

Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges was a long-ago discovery, and I’d read one book by Roberto Bolaño (Monsieur Pain) and one by Clarice Lispector (Água Viva). I hoped that this library trip would supplement the limited books already in my personal collection.

So I was issued a library card by security and I still remember the chat about the nutri­tional benefits of olive oil with a staff member at the front desk. Why is this the detail that remains and the rest have been wiped as if they never happened?  

Memory tends to hinge on the act of routine that is repeated, but this would be my first and last trip to the library, and what was to come has painted this day even more vivid in my memory.

I don’t remember the layout of the library but I know I made a beeline for the shelf where I would find Borges. My reasoning was he would have other Latin American authors on either side. That is how I ended up with the interviews compiled by Magdalena García Pinto in Women Writers of Latin America and The Total Library by Borges. I also borrowed Poet in New York by Federico García Lorca in a bilingual Penguin edition with a photo of the poet himself on the front.

My intention was to borrow these books and to return them at the end of the loan period. That is how life operates in a normal world: you make a plan and then take actions to see through the plan, but I did not end up returning those books in March as I originally intended. Instead, I ended up living in them across all of 2020, to the point where I would dream about Poet in New York and I could quote from that book of interviews.  

These were not my books and I felt entrusted with ensuring their safe return, but I was also grateful to have them during a time when bookstores were shut and libraries as well, as the world began to veer from a path of the predictable and normal. In the years ahead, there would be the pandemic with its lockdowns, there would be the death of two close friends, and the unbearable destruction of Gaza, and the realisation that I no longer knew what was meant by the word normal.

I play this trick at times, a writer’s sort of trick. I write a different return for those books. Rather than asking a friend heading to Armidale to return them for me at the end of 2020, I wind the clock back to March, and Yumna — with her borrowed books — is able to step into the library again as she intended. Had this happened, the world would have reset itself and I would have emerged once more to normality.

Of course this is ridiculous but it’s useful for carefully marking a line in my life.

There’s February 2020, the line, and then there’s this world that is exploding and crumbling at the same time. What existed before has been left behind and all I can hope is that at some point, a normal world will do its best to re-form and finally emerge. 

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW. 

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast. 

I’m Phillippa McGuinness from the State Library of NSW. 

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to tell us about the libraries that shaped them.  

Today you will hear from Anna Funder. Anna Funder is one of Australia’s most acclaimed writers. Her book Stasiland and All That I Am are prize winning international best sellers that have been translated into many languages. Her latest book Wifedom has been widely praised. Anna is professor of practice in creative writing at the University of Sydney.  

Anna Funder 

My first experience of a library was at seven, when we moved back to Melbourne from Paris. Standing among unpacked boxes and cases, my mother said, ‘Let’s leave all this. I’m taking you kids on a walk. To a surprise.’ My brothers and I followed Mum, walking what seemed like a long way — I know it’s only a few blocks now — to the local library, in Carlton. In the entry there was a box of kittens being given away — Mum had seen a flyer. We chose a sweet black one and called him Minou (puss), and we children whispered secrets in his ear all his life. He kept them.

We probably took home books as well. Books too, contained all kinds of secrets between the covers, ones that were shared between you and the writer, ones that the world didn’t tell you out loud. I have marvelled at, and in, libraries all my life. The hum of intense reading that thickens the air. The idea that whatever local library you’re in, a kind, soft-shoed librarian will, after only a few quiet words, bespoke fit you with the book you need. More, they will find any book from anywhere on the planet and call it in, by mail or bus or train or plane, just for you. It’s as if, in their capable hands, every aspect of the world, past or present, can be sifted and sorted, all Dewey-numbered and delivered — for free.

It shocks me that libraries haven’t always been like this everywhere, for everyone, as a right. Of course I know that long ago barely anyone could read, that knowledge was locked up like powerful drugs, contraband or spells, in monasteries. But it’s so relatively recent — only from the late 1800s — that the campaigns for free universal education, and free libraries, have led us to where we are now.

One of the most beautiful libraries I’ve ever seen was one of the earliest of these, the Staatliche Bibliothek at Neuburg an der Donau, in Bavaria. The collection started during the ‘secularisation’ period in Germany from the early 1800s, when books from monasteries and convents were taken and made available to the people. It is housed in a magnificent, double-height baroque oval room, with a walkway all around the rim of the first floor. The ceiling is gilded and gold angels watch over everything, as if to bless knowledge, imagination, incunabula.

As a student in West Berlin in the 1980s, I worked at the breathtaking Staatsbibliothek in Berlin, a 1960s Hans Scharoun–designed building erected in the lee of the Berlin Wall. Inside, the spaces are open, airy, as if to leave room for thought to soar. The feeling I had in there seems, in retrospect, to be the essential feeling I get in all libraries, old or new, local or grand, and it is defined, again, by an angel. Not in gilded wood this time but in the shape of a real man, actor Bruno Ganz — liquid brown eyes, hangdog handsome — in an overcoat. In Wim Wenders’ film Wings of Desire, Ganz’s angel haunts this library. Invisible to the people studying or reading at the desks, he approaches them and listens in on their thoughts, worries, hopes. He is the essence of attention and compassion.

Back at university in Melbourne, I got one of the best jobs of my student days in the English Department Library. It sounds prehistoric now, but I sat at the front desk, typing out index cards for new acquisitions or requests from staff for books or journals — anything from the latest novel, to psychoanalysis, poetry or medieval studies. I read things that had nothing to do with my studies: a smorgasbord of serendipity. Despite my time there, I have never understood the Dewey decimal system: how can numbers tell you what a book is, to a decimal point?

But the library that most made me was the Baillieu Library, at Melbourne University. A multistorey building, the Baillieu had every book you could want and many more, and carrels where everyone studied, piles of books and notebooks next to them. My most profound memories are not of finding what Dewey told me I was looking for, but the excitement of finding what was next to it: things you’d never discover if you followed only reason, or numbers, or an algorithm. Almost 40 years later I see that I have been fruitfully sidetracked my whole life.

The best thing I came across in there I wasn’t looking for either. He was in another carrel, reading architecture books. Utterly unclassifiable, I have had him out ever since, on long-term loan. 

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.

Welcome to the Library That Made Me Podcast. 

I’m Phillipa McGuinness from the State Library of NSW. 

On this podcast, we ask some of Australia’s most loved writers, historians, thinkers and performers to share stories about the libraries that shaped them. 

First up, you’ll hear from Kate Evans. Dr Kate Evans is a radio producer, presenter and critic. She is also co-host of The Bookshelf on ABC’s Radio National. I’m Kate Evans and this is the library that made me.

Dr Kate Evans

Dapto Public Library see also Fisher Library see also Mitchell Library Reading Room. See also card catalogues. See also finding new — or maybe an old — world. 

I have started this reflection in three different ways, in three different libraries, trying to work out what it is I’m trying to pin down when thinking about what libraries have done to me, and for me. It’s made me re-open boxes of research papers, do online catalogue searches, try to find photographs of buildings since demolished; it has forced me to look through folders of copied papers and photographs, to find handwritten notebooks and to notice marginalia (‘tell Jane, Royal Tour menu’; ‘show Ian, Great Fleet pics’, not to mention phone numbers of people whose names I don’t recognise at all). What am I looking for? Is it a memory, is it an argument, is it a way of experiencing the world?

I’ve decided to ditch the obvious catalogue card, the one with the origin story: Library see Dapto Public Library see also Dapto Primary School library see also story of tiny woman in floral shift with large pile of books.  

Despite the satisfaction of the old working-class-kid-gets-to-university narrative, I decided that card was one we’d all seen before too: University see Fisher Library see View over a park see New Life see also What Next?  

Because really, it’s a combination of wide desks in a beautiful space and a particular set of catalogue drawers that shaped me as a thinker and a researcher, and they’re all in the reading room at the Mitchell Library. This is the library that not only changed me, it remains my image of what a library is and can be.

It’s also probably why, as I read books to deadlines every week in my job as a broadcaster/reviewer/arts journalist, my preferred method is to sit at a wide table in the rather vain hope of evoking a calm space in the midst of work and domestic chaos. My haphazard piles of books and paper lean precariously towards the ordered shelves I long for, the basement levels that really would make life a lot easier, if only they could be tunnelled out.

Because early in my research life (a Masters in Public History, a PhD, work as an academic researcher and later a TV researcher for a big history project), I discovered the delight of the card catalogue at the Mitchell, preserved as part of its bequest, but preserving too the work of individual librarians. Both ordered and surprising, constrained yet able to open up entire worlds of ideas.  

I used to investigate any new area by taking out entire drawers, sitting at a table, and reading through every entry under that subject, because what it revealed was a changing world, new (or helpfully, old) taxonomies of knowledge, and highly specific references. It brought me into the sphere of librarians whose handwriting I came to recognise, even if I never knew who was who and which one really was Ida Leeson (who I’d read about, whose hands were all over those cards).  

Photograph, see photographer, see photographs, see photography, see Photo – engraving. See also chalk-plate process.

So, Something Something Something see also Inebriates Home. I wish I could remember what took me there. I do remember that I was chasing various institutions at one point for histories of the homeless and destitute, or those in quarantine, when I found the card that said, ‘See also Inebriates Home’. Just think of the historical and cultural work that phrase offers.

For years, I was working on the history of journalism and then on the history of press photographers in Australia. I remember reading the papers of one journalist, from the late 19th century. There were four boxes of papers of his life and work, covering the years 1888–1908.* I knew when Queen Victoria had died in 1901 because suddenly letters were edged in black — a reminder of how tactile and physical is the work of research. The materiality of it, the press of a pen into paper from a century before. But this one stays with me because in the midst of tracking a career and trying to understand ‘press workers’, I was caught up in letters from his sisters, in stories of an affair, abortion, the legitimacy (or not) of his daughter, a divorce scandal and the oddity of the fact his wife was hardly ever referred to by name, but instead was called ‘Baby’ by the family.

What’s the point of that anecdote? It has stayed with me: it haunts me in the same way that, looking at historical photographs, I came to always notice the characters at the side, the figures in the crowd who’d seen the camera, the kid with no shoes climbing a pole, the men in street scenes with toddlers on their hip. The woman with the defiant jawline. All that detail that helps animate the past. But also, all that material, all those stories that are inside these libraries that have made me.  

It’s that mix of order — catalogued, listed, indexed, put into reading and research guides — and the wildly eclectic, surprising, personal, contradictory, wilful, astounding stories that can be found there, that shows me some small part of what libraries can do. What they have done for me. 

Thank you for listening to the Library That Made Me. This podcast was produced on Gadigal land by the State Library of NSW.