“If the pages are brown, then out it goes,” said the old hippie—I can talk!—op shop volunteer, as he tossed a yellowing, slightly stained hardcover copy of Bryce Courtenay’s Whitethorn into the rubbish bin. I met Bryce Courtenay many years ago and liked him, so I’ve gathered pretty much his entire oeuvre, though I have to admit I’ve yet to read any of it, probably anticipating disappointment. The near-fanatical bibliophile in me still found it hard to walk away from that copy, if only to pass it on to a friend who might appreciate it. Too late now, sadly. I…