I was a student at Bolton Institute of Higher education in the late 1980's. Peter was my philosophy tutor and supervised my dissertation. He was friendly, kind and funny, a fountain of much knowledge. He introduced me to The Dancing Wu Li Masters by Gary Zukav a book about New Physics - Wu Li Masters teach from 'we ithin', they 'dance'with their students. It is a philsophy on which I have built my own teaching career, and that is thanks to one of the best Wu Li Masters, Peter Caldwell. RIP Peter

In the early 1960's, Peter bought a little Austin A30. At some stage he decided to paint it. He chose a light brown colour and painted it from top to rubber including inside all the door frames. He had decided to use house paint and upon completion, he also closed the four doors. Unfortunately, the paint had not been dry and he found afterwards that all the doors were firmly stuck closed. My dad, uncle Ron, Peter's uncle by marriage, was the Mr Fixit of the family so he was called in to provide a remedy. I cannot recall how the door were eventually prised open but it was done that day and I was also present and that is why I can relate this story. Peter was, of course, absolutely brilliant but not always practical. In a previous "memory" I have already indicated my great admiration for him and this little story does not change that because he was able then to laugh at his own silly mistake and he certainly wouldn't have had many opportunities to do that because he didn't make very many.

As one of Peter's maternal family cousins, I can remember Peter, especially in his early years. I had a very great admiration for Peter, for very many reasons, including his (at times wonderfully wicked) sense of humour, his ability as a raconteur, his great intellect and what appeared to be an almost photographic memory, his second to none academic record, his ability to be "a presence" in any company and of course his "joi de vivre". In his later years I have particularly admired him for his devotion to his older brother, that I was told about. The longest time I spent with Peter was a trip to Brisbane by train in 1965 with a number of other uni students for a conference at Brisbane University. There was a great deal of card playing, passing "the bottle around" and story telling on that trip but very little sleeping even though it was overnight travel. I saw him off on the day he left for England for his PhD studies at Cambridge in 1966. (The Bee Gees were travelling back to England on that same ship.) Sadly, I only rarely saw him after that. But he has been in my thoughts and prayers many many times over the years. Of course, my visual picture of Peter still is as a young man in the home at 41 Coles Road Harbord standing in the lounge room telling a wildly funny story and laughing the whole time with us all as he entertained us. May his memory live on in us all who knew him in the different stages of his life. I am sad for all those who have been close to him in these more recent years who will miss his actual presence. It was only just today, 14th August that I found out that my cousin, Peter had died. RIP Peter.

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I first met Peter in the summer of 1963 at a matinee of the ballet. This was at the Empire Theatre near Central Station, which I presume no longer exists, although I've never actually verified its disappearance. We were introduced by friend, Terry, with whom I'd been at shcool and university, and who by then had finished his first year at the seminar, training to be a priest. Peter, conversely, had emerged from the novitiate of the Franciscan friars and was about to start at Sydney University. They were both doing holiday jobs at a Catholic firm called Pellegrini's. Terry decided to introduce Peter to university life in advance, which meant meeting a sample academic, namely me, who was then a teaching fellow in the English Department of Sydney University. So one Satuday afternoon we all coincided in the foyer of the Empire Theatre in genial circumstaces, and during the intervals of the ballet (as ballet performances always have many intervals) Peter conversed vigorously, throwing out dozens of literary allusons (I think in polite, sociable deference to my line of work), especially to James Joyce. I was kind of overwhelmed and ended up thinking: who is this vociferous show-off? This story is just to show that he made a terribly strong impression on me, and the quality of this impression changed rather rapidly, and became - I need hardly say - warm and engaging and happy. Somebody like Cicero or Montaigne said that a friend is like another self. I never felt that Peter was like another self, if only because that would have meant ascribing to me many good qualities which I admired and loved but didn't share or equal. Perhaps we were alike in some ways: one of my academic colleagues after meeting Peter at a conference told me how struck he was that we had the same mannerisms. 'Oh really?', I replied, grinding my teeth behind a fixed smile. I confess that I did always want Peter to be more like me, and on occasions when he didn't think or react in the same way as I did I used to feel really pissed off that he could be so, well, difficult and intractably independent. The rest of the time I used to think him excessively lovable. No-one's perfect. I haven't seen Peter since January 2010, although we've talked to one another at intervals. It was while I was around in January that the cancer diagnosis was made. In all that extreme distress Peter and Rubens were incredibly hospitable to me, and so I have memories of Peter as suffering but animated, and of Rubens as deeply preoccupied but smiling from time to time in his killingly captivating way. This makes it easier for me to feel Peter as still living presence; but then I guess that is what he remains for all of us.

Peter's infectious smile and humor, his vast knowledge & dedication, his love and talent with his camera. I will always remember fondly a ferry ride with him over to Manly one day to visit Aunty Rita (Buckley) with her sister, my Nanna (Verna Wyatt). Our sincere condolences to his family.