In 1973, Patrick White was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for “introducing a new continent into the literary map with a narrative art that combines epic style and psychological description”, becoming Australia’s first Nobel Laureate in Literature. This year marks the 110th anniversary of White’s birth. On this occasion, Zhejiang Literature and Art has launched White’s long literary autobiography, “The Flaws in the Mirror”.
White was born in London, England in 1912 and studied in Australia and England. He suffered from asthma since childhood and was withdrawn. He was obsessed with literature and art, and spent his life in Australia and Europe. After the outbreak of World War II, White was drafted into the army and traveled to the North African battlefield. White Bowen has strong knowledge and extensive friendship, and his life spanned the entire 20th century, which can be described as a witness of an era.
[澳]”Flaws in the Mirror” by Patrick White, translated by Li Yao, published by Zhejiang Literature and Art Publishing House in September 2022
Flaws in the Mirror was published in 1981. In the book, White recalled his youth from birth to wandering and seeking identity, and recorded his continuous thinking and exploration of writing and art; after the war, he and his partner Manure returned to Greece to travel, trying to find a place in history. Looking for a home for the soul; after years of isolation, White began to actively participate in Australia’s political and cultural activities in his later years, and gave a spicy critique to all aspects of contemporary civilization.
In this autobiography, White unreservedly dissects himself, and the words are sometimes poetic and lyrical, sometimes restrained and introspective, sometimes witty and mean. In his own way, he described and dismantled Australia and the world, and re-embedded it in the map of his own mind.
When I was nearing old age, I met the poet RD Fitzgerald, who brought up an incident from my childhood. His brother was married to my distant cousin, and the couple happened to meet the poet when the couple visited my parents at our Rascut Bay home. When we met again later, he asked them about the last visit to my house. “Oh, it’s okay…” my cousin sighed, “but that nasty little boy is at home.”
The guests were always happy until my sister, a pretty little girl with a pair of dimples, made my “review” about them public. I’m that annoying little boy. There seems to be too much to see and know. I was coy and timid, because it was not the last resort, otherwise I would be able to speak eloquently and answer fluently.
My parents are very worried about my delicate son. They kept me out of the draft and always wrapped me tightly in wool. They have a sizable ranch, and I hope I can inherit my legacy and develop their business in the future. The rancher’s heir should be strong, but unfortunately no one can make some kind of promise and guarantee for the life that he has obtained. Even though I was vaguely aware that my frail, coughing more than just had some serious consequences, I didn’t care. Because what I saw and what was happening around me was so vivid. I don’t believe that the kind of things that happen when the old people die and the little ones die unfortunately.
We wept for dead cats, dead dogs buried under crosses made of palm leaf petioles, and stuffed the graves with withered marigolds. The deaths of the elderly are rarely mentioned because they have little to do with us.
Wind, rain, thunder and lightning are more terrifying than death, as well as the crazy woman, and the overheard of other people’s mothers’ conversations: “…I always feel that he is a baby left behind after being secretly replaced…” The next laugh The sound couldn’t explain what the hell I was, or what I did to my apparently unlucky parents.
It was just a flickering spark of fear, like lightning in a stormy purple sky. There are also many steamy mornings, after we hiked home from the beach, we feasted on watermelon.
When I was about seven, walking home from the baths, I had the first erection I can remember. As I looked down, I told Dad that something extraordinary had happened. He became serious and a little embarrassed, took the warm bath towel off one shoulder, put it on the other, told me to hurry up, and had a smile on his face.
It was about this age that I met a poet for the first time after the bathing incident. Even though I didn’t know and didn’t care what was so great about poets at the time. Susan and I are eating watermelon intently under our favorite tomato branches and guava outside the trellis gazebo in the garden. There was greenery all around, only the sun was shining like shards of metal overhead. At this time, my father led a few friends I had not seen before and walked down a series of stone steps. He was dressed like any other gentleman: a tobacco-colored suit, a gold watch chain dangling from his vest pocket, a soft felt hat, a stiff collar that stained even the cleanest skin. This is the most old-fashioned, boring kind of gentleman’s dress. His face was like a wrinkled, smoke-blackened lemon. The father introduced the children to Mr. “Banjo player” Paterson. Whether this stranger said anything to a child who was digging into watermelon, I don’t remember. Dad seemed very proud of knowing Mr. Paterson. I’ve always wondered, what can they talk about together? They may just get together because they talk about horses, about sheep, and about cattle. Of course, any typical “White” need not be ashamed to talk about poetry.
My first erections, my first poets, on those steamy Sydney mornings, were all the first waves of a tidal wave of passion…
Life in Felpham’s “Tower” is a dazzling revolving light: excitement, discovery, magic, and sobriety after a frenzy. Magic is not a shortcut to success. After the new semester started, I found that my cursed object was getting more and more boring, he seemed to be more vengeful when I took the Latin impromptu translation class, and I was still a fool myself. Not only did he have his argument confirmed, but he also laughed happily. I continue to trudge on a long road, or sit in front of a blank sheet of paper, ready to pour out the secrets of my heart. But it’s only when I’m taking a shower that the “secret” bursts out, and then I’ll suffer from guilt again. What if everything was not flushed down the drain and I faced the contempt of an omniscient maid?
When we lived in the “tower”, in addition to our mother’s faithful servant, Mabel, who was with us, there was also a temporary cook, a chubby, cheerful and tantrum young woman, and A butler. We had never hired a butler before. And Mr. Donald is very different from the butler described in the book. He was a thin, fair-skinned young man in an alpaca coat. He rarely shaved. He said he had bad skin and had to rest his cheeks. One night, Donald pursued the cook while serving dinner. How this pursuit developed, and how it turned out, has been a mystery. The children were pushed out and waited in the dining room, and Mabel, blushing, brought food.
This house Haley built in “Sweet Felperm” is interesting. The ceiling of the dining room is framed out of paper, with a crumpled sky painted on it. Cupids are drawn on the “clouds” in the four corners of the “sky”. On one occasion, the cork that was soaring almost hit a little angel.
In my childhood, Haley, who wrote easy-to-forget verses, designed fake Gothic restaurants, and raised a mentally ill wife, was more impressed than another friend. The friend lived in a thatched hut and the bus to Littlehampton and Bognor drove past his house. Back then, Blake was just a name I had heard people say, even though a frustrated poet was fighting and struggling in the depths of my soul to come into the world.
I say I want to be a poet because at first I always hoped to express the disorganized emotions that were surging in my heart through poetry. As a child, I read poetry the most. Poetry is probably less false than prose for an adult like my mother. She didn’t read poetry, or Girls’ Generation did, but she just didn’t understand the meaning. I don’t mean to be pretentious when I say that I browsed most of Shakespeare’s works when I was nine. Compared with the average adult, I naturally can’t fully understand the language of poetry dramas, but I appreciate the blood and rain, lightning and thunder; I like the comings and goings of the characters in the play, and I also like the stage prompts. (That cryptic word: exit). Later, I secretly fell in love with prose. I read News of the World, Truth, Wuthering Heights, Ethel M. Del and Eleanor Green. My family found out that I was reading “Mrs. Wen’s Fan”, so this banned book, which I don’t know what the law was, was quickly locked in a glass bookcase. There are many books in there that we are not allowed to read. As compensation, they stuffed me with a copy of The Crown of Wild Olive and a copy of Sesame and Lily.
Over time, I learned the mysteries hidden between the lines. Thus, books have become a good medicine to relieve worries. In Felpham, especially, the turmoil of adolescence was unbearable. I often make short trips to Bognor all by myself. The smell of the sea at low tide came to me, and the view from the pier was also pleasant. Adaptations of Katya the Dancer, Betty in Mayfair and Saint Joan tour here. It’s all boring and fascinating.Return to Sohu, see more