There's a big, black hole in the heart of my understanding of Australian literature, and its name is Patrick White. I've only ever tried to read one of his novels and that was back in late high school when The Tree of Man appeared on the English wider reading list. I gave it as good a shot as I could but didn't finish it: the print-face of the Penguin edition was small and cramped, the story was dour, and the pace glacial. It was not a good combination all round for a sixteen-year-old whose main reading fare tended to the science fictional.
Now, to commemorate White's birthday, Peter Craven takes another look at Australia's only Nobel Laureate. I do have intentions of getting back to White at some time. I'm just not sure when.
