This is part of my life, this book. I read it years ago when I was a reporter on The Sydney Morning Herald. George Johnston and Charmian Clift were everybody's dream - ran away for love and lived on a Greek island. Their children were allowed to run wild. My Brother jack was the first book in a trilogy that was to define their dream. Only it wasn't a dream, of course but a nightmare. This was the 1960s and Charmian Clift was writing a beautiful column for The Herald. The love affair had come and gone: Charmian, alas, drank too much and George was dying. I worked with Martin, their son, who wore his hair long, was a dreadful police-rounds man and wrote beautiful poetry. Martin died young and so did his sister, I believe. All that was fifty years ago and now even the nightmare has faded. But the trilogy still stands. We read My Brother Jack for our book group. Again I was gripped by its beautiful simplicity of language, its evocative power and its honesty. These were the between war years in Australia- poverty and depression. Johnston was part of it and although it is fiction, much of this is his story. Read it and, be moved.