Patrick White

Patrick White
Patrick Victor Martindale Whitewas an Australian writer who is widely regarded as one of the most important English-language novelists of the 20th century. From 1935 to his death, he published 12 novels, three short-story collections and eight plays...
NationalityAustralian
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth28 May 1912
CountryAustralia
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Conversation is imperative if gaps are to be filled, and old age, it is the last gap but one.
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We had probably three charges filed in the year and a half the law was in effect ... That roughly indicates the frequency of these offenses.
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My father and mother were second cousins, though they did not meet till shortly before their marriage.
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In fact I enjoyed every minute of my life at King's, especially the discovery of French and German literature.
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Probably induced by the asthma, I started reading and writing early on, my literary efforts from the age of about nine running chiefly to poetry and plays.
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Then about 1951 I began writing again, painfully, a novel I called in the beginning A Life Sentence on Earth, but which developed into The Tree of Man.
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I left for New York expecting to repeat my success, only to be turned down by almost every publisher in that city, till the Viking Press, my American publishers of a lifetime, thought of taking me on.
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Even if a university should turn out to be another version of a school, I had decided I could lose myself afterwards as an anonymous particle of the London I already loved.
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As a result of the asthma I was sent to school in the country, and only visited Sydney for brief, violently asthmatic sojourns on my way to a house we owned in the Blue Mountains.
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I developed the habit of writing novels behind a closed door, or at my uncle's, on the dining table.
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I continued writing the bad plays which fortunately nobody would produce, just as no one did me the unkindness of publishing my early novels.
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When I was rising eighteen I persuaded my parents to let me return to Australia and at least see whether I could adapt myself to life on the land before going up to Cambridge.
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I think it is impossible to explain faith. It is like trying to explain air, which one cannot do by dividing it into its component parts and labeling them scientifically. It must be breathed to be understood.
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In spite of holidays when I was free to visit London theatres and explore the countryside, I spent four very miserable years as a colonial at an English school.