Sydney Harbour Quotes

Materia had been just six when they docked in Sydney Harbour and her father said, 'Look. This is the New World. Anything is possible here.' She's been too young to realize that he was talking to her brother.

The boat entered the Harbour. The wide, bright city crowded up against the water, but drew back from its very edge; Ruth saw green parklands full of trees with white flocks of parrots burning out of them. The parrots surprised Ruth, she imagined Sydney to be more like England than Fiji.

As she stood on the deck of the ferry at Circular Quay, Evie was conscious of storing up things for future recollection. Here was the lustily gleaming harbour, the absurdly golden midday, and the bridge, swinging away like a door on brass hinges as the ferry executed a slow turn. Above was an infinity of blue-becoming-black reaching far into space, almost shocking after the grey security of Melbourne. The scale of things was all wrong, too lavish, too sunny, too geared to applause. Nevertheless.

I was born and raised on steel river I see it all like it was yesterday The ships and bridges they were all delivered From Sydney harbour to the Cisco bay And I met my love down on steel river We served our dreams and spent our childhood days In rainy streets we'd kiss away the shivers And hide from fear inside the latest craze Dancing to Motown Making love with Carole King record playing And oh how I loved you Say goodbye steel river

Fireworks made of glass. An explosion of dew. Crescendo. Diminuendo. Silence. There are drugs that work the same, and while I am not suggesting that our founder purchased the glassworks to get more drops, it is clear that she had the seed planted, not once, but twice, and knew already the lovely contradictory nature of glass and she did not have to be told, on the day she saw the works at Darling Harbour, that glass is a thing in disguise, an actor, is not solid at all, but a liquid, that an old sheet of glass will not only take on a royal and purplish tinge but will reveal its true liquid nature by having grown fatter at the bottom and thinner at the top, and that even while it is as frail as the ice on a Parramatta puddle, it is stronger under compression than Sydney sandstone, that it is invisible, solid, in short, a joyous and paradoxical thing, as good a material as any to build a life from.

The boat entered the Harbour. The wide, bright city crowded up against the water, but drew back from its very edge; Ruth saw green parklands full of trees with white flocks of parrots bursting out of them. The parrots surprised Ruth, she imagined Sydney to be more like England than Fiji.

The only way to understand Cook’s mistake, if you could call it that, was to view both Botany Bay and Sydney Harbour from sea. I had my first chance to do this on Australia Day, which commemorates the First Fleet’s arrival at Port Jackson on January 26, 1788. The ships’ landing launched white settlement on the continent, and therefore marked the birth of modern Australia. But few present-day Australians regard the holiday with patriotic fervor. It’s hard, first of all, to celebrate the founding of a penitentiary—except, perhaps, to appreciate the long-term irony; thanks to the First Fleet, today’s Sydneysiders occupy a semitropical paradise instead of wet, chill England.

Life cannot offer many places finer to stand at eight-thirty on a summery weekday morning than Circular Quay in Sydney. To begin with, it presents one of the world’s great views. To the right, almost painfully brilliant in the sunshine, stands the famous Opera House with its jaunty, severely angular roof. To the left, the stupendous and noble Harbour Bridge. Across the water, shiny and beckoning, is Luna Park, a Coney Island–style amusement park with a maniacally grinning head for an entrance. (It’s been closed for many years, but some heroic soul keeps it spruce and gleaming.) Before you the spangly water is crowded with the harbor’s stout and old-fashioned ferries, looking for all the world as if they have been plucked from the pages of a 1940s children’s book with a title like Thomas the Tugboat, disgorging streams of tanned and lightly dressed office workers to fill the glass and concrete towers that loom behind.

agree – harbour the size of bloody Sydney

I’m texting your picture, your name, and your address to one of my flatmates. In case I’m letting your beautiful building blind me to the fact you’re actually a serial killer.” To his credit, he didn’t look at her like she was crazy, just smiled. “I’m a reasonably famous rugby player. I’m on the TV. You can see my half naked ass on a billboard as you drive off the Sydney Harbour Bridge.” “What, you can’t be a serial killer as well?

WAR CHILD is the true story of Magdalena (Leni) Janic whose name appears on The Welcome Wall at Sydney's Darling Harbour. The story spans 100 years starting in pre WWII Nazi Germany and ends in the suburbs of Adelaide. It's a window into what life was like for a young illegitimate German girl growing up in poverty, coping with ostracism, bullying, abuse and dispossession as society was falling down around her and she becomes a refugee. But it's also a story of a woman's unconditional love for her family, the sacrifices she made and secrets she kept to protect them. Her ultimate secret was only revealed in a bizarre twist after her death and much to her daughter's (and author) surprise involved her. A memorable tear-jerker! A sad cruel story told with so much love.

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The Convict's Arrival" "In transit storms as I set sailing, Like a bold mariner my coast did steer, Sydney Harbour was my destination, That cursed harbour at length drew near; I then joined banquet in congratulation On my safe arrival from the briny sea; But alas! alas! I was mistaken Twelve years transported to Moreton Bay. Early one morning as I carelessly wandered, By the Brisbane waters I chanced to stray, I saw a prisoner sadly bewailing, While on the sunbeaming banks he lay. He said, I have been a prisoner at Port MacQuarie, At Norfolk Island and Emu Plain, At Castle Hill and cursed Towngabbie And at all those places I've worked in chains. But of all the places of condemnation, In each penal station of New South Wales, Moreton Bay I found no equal, For excessive tyranny each day prevails. Early in the morning as the day is dawning, To trace from heaven the morning dew, Up we are started at a moment's warning, Our daily labour for to renew. Our overseers and superintendents All these cursed tyrants language we must obey, Or else at the triangles our flesh is mangled, That is our wages at Moreton Bay. For three long years I've been beastly treated; Heavy irons each day I wore, My poor back from flogging has been lacerated, And oftimes painted with crimson gore. Like the Egyptians or ancient Hebrews, We were sorely oppressed by Logan's yoke, Till kind providence came to our assistance And gave this tyrant his fatal stroke. Yes, he was hurried from that place of bondage Where he thought he would gain renown, But a native black, who lay in ambush Gave this monster his fatal wound. Now that I've got once more to cross the ocean, And leave this place called Moreton Bay, Where many a man from downright starvation Lies mouldering today beneath the clay. Fellow prisoners be exhilarated, And your former sufferings don't bear in mind, For it's when from bondage you are extricated We will leave those tyrants far, far behind.

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