I believe in the verb, not the noun - I am not a writer, but someone compelled to write.
Among many other reforms, Australians pioneered the secret ballot and universal suffrage.
The number of those identifying as Aborigine in Tasmania rapidly rose in the late 20th century.
Of all the love stories ever published, I have - realistically - read very few.
In Tasmania, an island the size of Ireland whose primeval forests astonished 19th-century Europeans, an incomprehensible ecological tragedy is being played out.
We live in a material world, not a dramatic one. And truth resides not in melodrama, but in the precise measure of material things.
I read incessantly, searching for the things that might move me.
My secret skill is baking bread. My mother was a farmer's daughter and still made bread every day when I was a child. She would have me knead the dough when I got home from school.
I hate the way my life has been inexplicably overwhelmed by questionnaires. Life is so much stranger and so much more beautiful than the lists that reduce it to an anorexic assembly of tics and obsessions.
If you choose to take your compass from power, in the end you find only despair. But if you look around the world you can see and touch - the everyday world that is too easily dismissed as everyday - you see largeness, generosity, hope, change for the better. It's always small, but it's real.
I said in my acceptance speech that I hope that readers remember this not as the year I won the Booker, but the year that there were six extraordinary books on the shortlist.