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The piece is a square faience dish, 22cm wide, produced by Royal Copenhagen circa 1975-79.  The designer was Norwegian Beth Breyen, a member of the Tenera group of artists headed up by Nils Thorsson.

Faience is fine tin-glazed earthenware on a delicate pale buff body. The invention of a pottery glaze suitable for painted decoration, by the addition of an oxide of tin to the slip of a lead glaze, was a major advance in the history of pottery, apparently.

Aluminia was a Danish faience factory established in Copenhagen in 1863. In 1882, Aluminia bought out the Royal Copenhagen porcelain factory. The factories were operated independently under their respective trade names until 1969, when the use of the Aluminia name was ended. Since then the products have been sold under the mark Royal Copenhagen Denmark Fajance.

I bought the piece at Glory Design on Cleveland Street, Surry Hills.  The pleasing design could be a stylized butterfly or cross-section of exotic fruit or even abstract tribal. The sheen, vibrancy and depth of the glaze put this in a different class to your Woolies special.

Still, if I took the dish on Antiques Roadshow, there would be no gobsmacked expressions - you can pick these things up in the $50 - $150 range depending on the size, factory quality, condition and scarcity of particular designs.

'Zeitgeist' is generally understood in English to be the spirit of the time or age.  But apparently a literal translation from the German would be 'time ghost' (why not time spirit, huh?).

'Time ghost' is a lovely phrase.  For me, a time ghost would be a memory - a moment in time that is dead but exists in a disembodied form that is to varying degrees a counterfeit of the reality of the moment.

I'm not about to suggest that the spirit of the age is a memory, although it will certainly become that.  No, I brought this up because I wonder if we can know what the zeitgeist is while we (or at least some of us) are living it.  It seems to me that the very attentive must be able to identify trends and directions in culture as they unfold, but how long does it take before you can discern an end of a period and call it an age or an era?  And in a world marked by pluralism, instant communication and rapid change, will eras become shorter?  Or will future generations look back on the postmodern era as a sustained and tenacious monument to eclecticism?

Ohhh, I ate too many chocolates. 

At the pub this week - thanks for the CC shots, boys - we got into a discussion about writing and literature and whether all writing was literature.  Two clear schools of thought emerged.  Firstly, there was the apparently populist notion that literature is any piece of writing that moves you (I'm paraphrasing - so forgive me if I'm misreprenting your position, Brett).  And secondly, there was the apparently elitist notion (mine) that literature is writing that distinguishes itself from the mass of writing by exhibiting certain superior qualities.  Now, both these positions require more fleshing out and both are prone to difficulties.

The major difficulty with the populist position is that quality considerations become so relative that a person who reads the Telegraph and only the Telegraph is entitled to say, "The Telegraph is literature.  The Telegraph represents the greatest literary achievement of our time.  The Telegraph should be awarded the Nobel prize for literature.  Why?  Because it moves me."  If you read the Telegraph and only the Telegraph and you say it's literature, I would feel compelled to ask, "Compared to what?"  If comparison is not at issue here, then 'literature' is merely a synonym for 'writing' and the argument ends.  But if, on the other hand, literature is a kind of hall of fame of writing, who decides who's in and who's out, and on what grounds?  And this of course is the major difficulty with the elitist position.  Who is entitled to speak for all of us?

Traditionally we have allowed a group of academics/critics/writers to tell us who's in and who's out and why.  These people came up with elaborate schema for evaluating writing and including/excluding works from the hall or fame (or canon).  In more recent times, the way these evaluations were carried out came under scrutiny from within the universities.  This is no bad thing in that some works of great quality that were previously excluded from the hall of fame could now be included and possibly find a new readership.  However, some academics wanted to throw the canon out completely and start again.  This would involve pursuits such as comparing the Telegraph to Shakespeare and trying to figure out if and why one was better or more valid than the other.  This might be a good thing to do in Year 7, but do we really want our academics to spend years reinventing the wheel?  A more interesting question might be: Can great writing survive in a world that does not promote benchmarks in writing (or promotes mediocre benchmarks), and does this matter?

What is literature?  Visit the online poll at:

http://www.vizu.com/poll-vote.html?n=19243

For me, annual leave often means spending more time than usual in cafes and bookshops.  I spent some time poring over two volumes of Gide's journals in a second-hand bookshop recently, and in the end I just had to take them home with me.

Journals (good ones) tend to make me want to keep a journal myself.  I have tried to in the past; the novelty soon wears off.  Justin O'Brien's introduction to the Gide journals says that Gide, "complaining at age 59 that he had waited too long to write certain things, comments that Montaigne's strength comes from distrusting his memory and writing on the spur of the moment rather than waiting until he had better organised his thought."  This strikes a chord with me.  Even writing now about what happened two hours ago lacks spontaneity.  I'm sure it would be the same if I tried to describe what is happening at this very moment.  I am always editing as I write, wanting to go back and change, remove, start again.

But back to the Gide.  While dipping into the volumes and reading selections, I came across a small handwritten note in the second book.  The note is dated 20.12.48 and reads: "My dear, It was such a pleasant surprise to get your little note this morning on reading [Schurl?].  There is no leisure [...]  If you will forgive a dreadful [...] scribble I will write more [...] in the New Year.  My wishes and my thoughts will be with you all through the vacation: may it be a very [restful?] and pleasant interlude for you in spite of your bitter disappointment [...].  How unpredictable life can be.  And I so often think in these days how tragic: What [...] chance plays in the lives of people.  Before I write again my [...] will have met and replaced me.  I will let you know, my dear, what happens and where I am to go.   I wonder whether you will have bought the second volume of Gide's journal: I hope not because I am sending it to you for Christmas!  All my love and wishes for Christmas and the New Year, Yours, [Morton?]."

The handwriting matches the inscription in the front of both books.  The second volume is inscribed To: Cruz, Christmas 1948.

Tantalising.

Anyone who's studied knows what an imposition it is to have to read certain texts at the expense of others you might have chosen for yourself.  Once the study's over and you've got that testamur in your hot little hand, it's tempting to indulge your own tastes to such a degree (degree - ha!) that you're never challenged.  To avoid this pitiful scenario, you go to the bookshop and stock up on things you should read, things that will give zee leetle grey cells a raison d'etre.  You start one.  It's a little dry.  Bookmark it and try something else.  Not in the mood.  Another one.  Ooh, your favourite show's just come on TV!  Oh, you can't read the book in the ad breaks!  (Why aren't you watching the ABC?!)  Leave it for bedtime.  Well, it's a book that certainly has a place in your life - it put you to sleep in less than five minutes.  It's not long before you've got a stack of books on the bedside table that you'll never finish, and you long for the days when you had no choice and a lot to think about.