Australian Left Review

Abstract

The difficulty with Clyde Cameron's diaries is deciding how much of them to believe. This is not because Cameron indulges in fantasies or memory lapses, as might have been the case had Sir William McMahon ever found a publisher for his memoirs; it is because a large part of Cameron's reminiscence consists of gloating accounts of how he was able to deceive and mislead his colleagues. It is the old logical paradox of the man who comes up to you and says: "I am a liar." In this instance, is he just for once telling the truth?

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