“This is poetry bare and unadorned, but clearly devised and positioned. McBryde knows how fragile words are, but he insists they carry their full weight of responsibility for one of the worst eras of human history.”

– Peter Porter

“McBryde’s drive is not so much Gothic and surreal as a purposeful realism … he’s a first cousin of Anna Kavan and all conductors and inhabitants of the spectral.”

– Kris Hemensley

“A fine book by one of Melbourne’s best kept poetic secrets.”

– Geoff Page