My father’s favourite aphorism was an Oscar Wilde gem that might have been written by a Sydneysider. “He knows the price of everything,” Dad would scoff, “and the value of nothing.”
That tension between price and value has stayed with me ever since. As an adolescent in 1973, I watched the fireworks and regal pomp of the Sydney Opera House’s opening ceremony, vaguely aware of the raging debate over what cynics of the time described as Australia’s great white elephant.