The end is not far away for Ray Jarvis, emeritus professor from Monash University. Sitting in a dressing gown, one stockinged leg propped up in front of him, he asks, ''What do you want to know? How I feel about things?'' Yes, I say. I do.
He was born in Burma, his family settling in Western Australia when he was six. As a 19-year-old engineering student on vacation, he spent 14 weeks as a casual labourer at the asbestos mine at Wittenoom. He later wrote, ''I came back strong, sunburnt and very rich by student standards. Now I could afford a girlfriend.'' He met a fellow student, Irene Eichinski; they married and had four children.
Fifty-one years after Wittenoom, he was having a swim when his breath failed him after five strokes. A routine round of tests followed.
''Seven litres of fluid had collected between my pleural sheaths outside the right lung,'' he wrote. ''Draining, with biopsy, confirmed the stark, death-row sentence of malignant pleural mesothelioma.''
Now, he says, it feels like he has two bricks in his chest. Opiates help with the pain. He recently had the odd thought that maybe the function of pain is to make us eventually choose death.
His candour is compelling. He points out the difference between accepting the fact of death and being at ease with the process by which it will occur. He admits he's ''a bit scared''. ''I'm terrified on occasions, but mostly I keep my mind pretty steady.''
His area of academic research was artificial intelligence. He built, and instructed others in building, what he calls ''big boys' toys. Things with arms and legs. Crazy things.''
His daughter Julia describes him as ''a bit of an eccentric''. She remembers him being sent out to buy a washing machine and coming home with an old dentist's chair, which ended up in the front yard for the kids to play in. It became the juvenile hit of the street.
Julia was also involved when he took up writing two years ago. ''He was brave enough to take it up,'' she says, ''and he was brave enough to take criticism.'' The result is a bold, sensuous style that tells stories simply and well. Julia has gathered 60 of his stories and is rushing to find a printer so he can have the experience of holding a book he has written - his book. He says his wife and family have been ''a huge support''.
This is a man with a penetrating mind who has considered all manner of possibilities during his life. He took the decision to forgo chemotherapy treatment after examining the medical evidence and concluding there was ''no particular advantage'' in his case, coupled with side effects that would reduce such quality time as he has left with his family.
He would have liked to have lived longer than his 72 years, but says he had a ''pretty rich'' career - some good students, some fun projects.
He was brought up Catholic. Religion hasn't been prominent in his life, but now he finds his mind turning to the subject of God. He recently asked a Catholic priest what faith is. The priest said, ''An act of will.'' The professor said, ''I thought it was a gift.''
''I actually think that God exists, but we can't guess his nature. When I die, it will probably be oblivion. If not, it's a bonus unless it's something awful.''
But what he essentially believes, he now finds, is the old maxim, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. ''That's a good general principle of everyday life. And it appears to be universal.''
Martin Flanagan is a senior writer at The Age.
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