Academic literature on the topic 'White, Patrick, 1912-1990. Voss'

Hundreds of thousands of Australian children were born in the shadow of the Great War, fathered by men who had enlisted between 1914 and 1918. Their lives could be and often were hard and unhappy, as Anzac historian Alistair Thomson observed of his father’s childhood in the 1920s and 1930s. David Thomson was son of a returned serviceman Hector Thomson who spent much of his adult life in and out of repatriation hospitals (257-259) and whose memory was subsequently expunged from Thomson family stories (299-267). These children of trauma fit within a pattern suggested by Marianne Hirsch in her influential essay “The Generation of Postmemory”. According to Hirsch, “postmemory describes the relationship of the second generation to powerful, often traumatic, experiences that preceded their births but that were nevertheless transmitted to them so deeply as to seem to constitute memories in their own right” (n.p.). This article attempts to situate George Johnston’s novel My Brother Jack (1964) within the context of postmemory narratives of violence that were complicated in Australia by the Anzac legend which occluded any too open discussion about the extent of war trauma present within community, including the children of war.“God knows what damage” the war “did to me psychologically” (48), ponders Johnston’s protagonist and alter-ego David Meredith in My Brother Jack. Published to acclaim fifty years after the outbreak of the First World War, My Brother Jack became a widely read text that seemingly spoke to the shared cultural memories of a generation which did not know battlefield violence directly but experienced its effects pervasively and vicariously in the aftermath through family life, storytelling, and the memorabilia of war. For these readers, the novel represented more than a work of fiction; it was a touchstone to and indicative of their own negotiations though often unspoken post-war trauma.Meredith, like his creator, is born in 1912. Strictly speaking, therefore, both are not part of the post-war generation. However, they are representative and therefore indicative of the post-war “hinge generation” which was expected to assume “guardianship” of the Anzac Legend, though often found the narrative logic challenging. They had been “too young for the war to have any direct effect”, and yet “every corner” of their family’s small suburban homes appear to be “impregnated with some gigantic and sombre experience that had taken place thousands of miles away” (17).According to Johnston’s biographer, Garry Kinnane, the “most teasing puzzle” of George Johnston’s “fictional version of his childhood in My Brother Jack is the monstrous impression he creates of his returned serviceman father, John George Johnston, known to everyone as ‘Pop.’ The first sixty pages are dominated by the tyrannical figure of Jack Meredith senior” (1).A large man purported to be six foot three inches (1.9 metres) in height and weighing fifteen stone (95 kilograms), the real-life Pop Johnston reputedly stood head and shoulders above the minimum requirement of five foot and six inches (1.68 metres) at the time of his enlistment for war in 1914 (Kinnane 4). In his fortieth year, Jack Johnston senior was also around twice the age of the average Australian soldier and among one in five who were married.According to Kinnane, Pop Johnston had “survived the ordeal of Gallipoli” in 1915 only to “endure three years of trench warfare in the Somme region”. While the biographer and the Johnston family may well have held this to be true, the claim is a distortion. There are a few intimations throughout My Brother Jack and its sequel Clean Straw for Nothing (1969) to suggest that George Johnston may have suspected that his father’s wartime service stories had been embellished, though the depicted wartime service of Pop Meredith remains firmly within the narrative arc of the Anzac legend. This has the effect of layering the postmemory violence experienced by David Meredith and, by implication, his creator, George Johnston. Both are expected to be keepers of a lie masquerading as inviolable truth which further brutalises them.John George (Pop) Johnston’s First World War military record reveals a different story to the accepted historical account and his fictionalisation in My Brother Jack. He enlisted two and a half months after the landing at Gallipoli on 12 July 1915 and left for overseas service on 23 November. Not quite the imposing six foot three figure of Kinnane’s biography, he was fractionally under five foot eleven (1.8 metres) and weighed thirteen stone (82.5 kilograms). Assigned to the Fifth Field Engineers on account of his experience as an electric tram fitter, he did not see frontline service at Gallipoli (NAA).Rather, according to the Company’s history, the Fifth Engineers were involved in a range of infrastructure and support work on the Western Front, including the digging and maintenance of trenches, laying duckboard, pontoons and tramlines, removing landmines, building huts, showers and latrines, repairing roads, laying drains; they built a cinema at Beaulencourt Piers for “Brigade Swimming Carnival” and baths at Malhove consisting of a large “galvanised iron building” with a “concrete floor” and “setting tanks capable of bathing 2,000 men per day” (AWM). It is likely that members of the company were also involved in burial details.Sapper Johnston was hospitalised twice during his service with influenza and saw out most of his war from October 1917 attached to the Army Cookery School (NAA). He returned to Australia on board the HMAT Kildonian Castle in May 1919 which, according to the Sydney Morning Herald, also carried the official war correspondent and creator of the Anzac legend C.E.W. Bean, national poet Banjo Paterson and “Warrant Officer C G Macartney, the famous Australian cricketer”. The Herald also listed the names of “Returned Officers” and “Decorated Men”, but not Pop Johnston who had occupied the lower decks with other returning men (“Soldiers Return”).Like many of the more than 270,000 returned soldiers, Pop Johnston apparently exhibited observable changes upon his repatriation to Australia: “he was partially deaf” which was attributed to the “constant barrage of explosions”, while “gas” was suspected to have “left him with a legacy of lung disorders”. Yet, if “anyone offered commiserations” on account of this war legacy, he was quick to “dismiss the subject with the comment that ‘there were plenty worse off’” (Kinnane 6). The assumption is that Pop’s silence is stoic; the product of unspeakable horror and perhaps a symptom of survivor guilt.An alternative interpretation, suggested by Alistair Thomson in Anzac Memories, is that the experiences of the vast majority of returned soldiers were expected to fit within the master narrative of the Anzac legend in order to be accepted and believed, and that there was no space available to speak truthfully about alternative war service. Under pressure of Anzac expectations a great many composed stories or remained selectively silent (14).Data gleaned from the official medical history suggest that as many as four out of every five returned servicemen experienced emotional or psychological disturbance related to their war service. However, the two branches of medicine represented by surgeons and physicians in the Repatriation Department—charged with attending to the welfare of returned servicemen—focused on the body rather than the mind and the emotions (Murphy and Nile).The repatriation records of returned Australian soldiers reveal that there were, indeed, plenty physically worse off than Pop Johnston on account of bodily disfigurement or because they had been somatically compromised. An estimated 30,000 returned servicemen died in the decade after the cessation of hostilities to 1928, bringing the actual number of war dead to around 100,000, while a 1927 official report tabled the medical conditions of a further 72,388 veterans: 28,305 were debilitated by gun and shrapnel wounds; 22,261 were rheumatic or had respiratory diseases; 4534 were afflicted with eye, ear, nose, or throat complaints; 9,186 had tuberculosis or heart disease; 3,204 were amputees while only; 2,970 were listed as suffering “war neurosis” (“Enlistment”).Long after the guns had fallen silent and the wounded survivors returned home, the physical effects of war continued to be apparent in homes and hospital wards around the country, while psychological and emotional trauma remained largely undiagnosed and consequently untreated. David Meredith’s attitude towards his able-bodied father is frequently dismissive and openly scathing: “dad, who had been gassed, but not seriously, near Vimy Ridge, went back to his old job at the tramway depot” (9). The narrator-son later considers:what I realise now, although I never did at the time, is that my father, too, was oppressed by intimidating factors of fear and change. By disillusion and ill-health too. As is so often the case with big, strong, athletic men, he was an extreme hypochondriac, and he had convinced himself that the severe bronchitis which plagued him could only be attributed to German gas he had swallowed at Vimy Ridge. He was too afraid to go to a doctor about it, so he lived with a constant fear that his lungs were decaying, and that he might die at any time, without warning. (42-3)During the writing of My Brother Jack, the author-son was in chronically poor health and had been recently diagnosed with the romantic malady and poet’s disease of tuberculosis (Lawler) which plagued him throughout his work on the novel. George Johnston believed (correctly as it turned out) that he was dying on account of the disease, though, he was also an alcoholic and smoker, and had been reluctant to consult a doctor. It is possible and indeed likely that he resentfully viewed his condition as being an extension of his father—vicariously expressed through the depiction of Pop Meredith who exhibits hysterical symptoms which his son finds insufferable. David Meredith remains embittered and unforgiving to the very end. Pop Meredith “lived to seventy-three having died, not of German gas, but of a heart attack” (46).Pop Meredith’s return from the war in 1919 terrifies his seven-year-old son “Davy”, who accompanies the family to the wharf to welcome home a hero. The young boy is unable to recall anything about the father he is about to meet ostensibly for the first time. Davy becomes overwhelmed by the crowds and frightened by the “interminable blaring of horns” of the troopships and the “ceaseless roar of shouting”. Dwarfed by the bodies of much larger men he becomestoo frightened to look up at the hours-long progression of dark, hard faces under wide, turned-up hats seen against bayonets and barrels that are more blue than black ... the really strong image that is preserved now is of the stiff fold and buckle of coarse khaki trousers moving to the rhythm of knees and thighs and the tight spiral curves of puttees and the thick boots hammering, hollowly off the pier planking and thunderous on the asphalt roadway.Depicted as being small for his age, Davy is overwrought “with a huge and numbing terror” (10).In the years that follow, the younger Meredith desires emotional stability but remains denied because of the war’s legacy which manifests in the form of a violent patriarch who is convinced that his son has been rendered effeminate on account of the manly absence during vital stages of development. With the return of the father to the household, Davy grows to fear and ultimately despise a man who remains as alien to him as the formerly absent soldier had been during the war:exactly when, or why, Dad introduced his system of monthly punishments I no longer remember. We always had summary punishment, of course, for offences immediately detected—a cuffing around the ears or a sash with a stick of a strap—but Dad’s new system was to punish for the offences which had escaped his attention. So on the last day of every month Jack and I would be summoned in turn to the bathroom and the door would be locked and each of us would be questioned about the sins which we had committed and which he had not found out about. This interrogation was the merest formality; whether we admitted to crimes or desperately swore our innocence it was just the same; we were punished for the offences which, he said, he knew we must have committed and had to lie about. We then had to take our shirts and singlets off and bend over the enamelled bath-tub while he thrashed us with the razor-strop. In the blind rages of these days he seemed not to care about the strength he possessed nor the injuries he inflicted; more often than not it was the metal end of the strop that was used against our backs. (48)Ironically, the ritualised brutality appears to be a desperate effort by the old man to compensate for his own emasculation in war and unresolved trauma now that the war is ended. This plays out in complicated fashion in the development of David Meredith in Clean Straw for Nothing, Johnston’s sequel to My Brother Jack.The imputation is that Pop Meredith practices violence in an attempt to reassert his failed masculinity and reinstate his status as the head of the household. Older son Jack’s beatings cease when, as a more physically able young man, he is able to threaten the aggressor with violent retaliation. This action does not spare the younger weaker Davy who remains dominated. “My beating continued, more ferociously than ever, … . They ceased only because one day my father went too far; he lambasted me so savagely that I fell unconscious into the bath-tub, and the welts across my back made by the steel end of the razor-strop had to be treated by a doctor” (53).Pop Meredith is persistently reminded that he has no corporeal signifiers of war trauma (only a cough); he is surrounded by physically disabled former soldiers who are presumed to be worse off than he on account of somatic wounding. He becomes “morose, intolerant, bitter and violently bad-tempered”, expressing particular “displeasure and resentment” toward his wife, a trained nurse, who has assumed carer responsibilities for homing the injured men: “he had altogether lost patience with her role of Florence Nightingale to the halt and the lame” (40). Their marriage is loveless: “one can only suppose that he must have been darkly and profoundly disturbed by the years-long procession through our house of Mother’s ‘waifs and strays’—those shattered former comrades-in-arms who would have been a constant and sinister reminder of the price of glory” (43); a price he had failed to adequately pay with his uncompromised body intact.Looking back, a more mature David Meredith attempts to establish order, perspective and understanding to the “mess of memory and impressions” of his war-affected childhood in an effort to wrest control back over his postmemory violation: “Jack and I must have spent a good part of our boyhood in the fixed belief that grown-up men who were complete were pretty rare beings—complete, that is, in that they had their sight or hearing or all of their limbs” (8). While the father is physically complete, his brooding presence sets the tone for the oppressively “dark experience” within the family home where all rooms are “inhabited by the jetsam that the Somme and the Marne and the salient at Ypres and the Gallipoli beaches had thrown up” (18). It is not until Davy explores the contents of the “big deep drawer at the bottom of the cedar wardrobe” in his parents’ bedroom that he begins to “sense a form in the shadow” of the “faraway experience” that had been the war. The drawer contains his father’s service revolver and ammunition, battlefield souvenirs and French postcards but, “most important of all, the full set of the Illustrated War News” (19), with photographs of battlefield carnage. These are the equivalent of Hirsch’s photographs of the Holocaust that establish in Meredith an ontology that links him more realistically to the brutalising past and source of his ongoing traumatistion (Hirsch). From these, Davy begins to discern something of his father’s torment but also good fortune at having survived, and he makes curatorial interventions not by becoming a custodian of abjection like second generation Holocaust survivors but by disposing of the printed material, leaving behind artefacts of heroism: gun, the bullets, the medals and ribbons. The implication is that he has now become complicit in the very narrative that had oppressed him since his father’s return from war.No one apparently notices or at least comments on the removal of the journals, the images of which become linked in the young boys mind to an incident outside a “dilapidated narrow-fronted photographer’s studio which had been deserted and padlocked for as long as I could remember”. A number of sun-damaged photographs are still displayed in the window. Faded to a “ghostly, deathly pallor”, and speckled with fly droppings, years earlier, they had captured young men in uniforms before embarkation for the war. An “agate-eyed” boy from Davy’s school joins in the gazing, saying nothing for a long time until the silence is broken: “all them blokes there is dead, you know” (20).After the unnamed boy departs with a nonchalant “hoo-roo”, young Davy runs “all the way home, trying not to cry”. He cannot adequately explain the reason for his sudden reaction: “I never after that looked in the window of the photographer’s studio or the second hand shop”. From that day on Davy makes a “long detour” to ensure he never passes the shops again (20-1). Having witnessed images of pre-war undamaged young men in the prime of their youth, he has come face-to-face with the consequences of war which he is unable to reconcile in terms of the survival and return of his much older father.The photographs of the young men establishes a causal connection to the physically wrecked remnants that have shaped Davy’s childhood. These are the living remains that might otherwise have been the “corpses sprawled in mud or drowned in flooded shell craters” depicted in the Illustrated News. The photograph of the young men establishes Davy’s connection to the things “propped up our hallway”, of “Bert ‘sobbing’ in the backyard and Gabby Dixon’s face at the dark end of the room”, and only reluctantly the “bronchial cough of my father going off in the dawn light to the tramways depot” (18).That is to say, Davy has begun to piece together sense from senselessness, his father’s complicity and survival—and, by association, his own implicated life and psychological wounding. He has approached the source of his father’s abjection and also his own though he continues to be unable to accept and forgive. Like his father—though at the remove—he has been damaged by the legacies of the war and is also its victim.Ravaged by tuberculosis and alcoholism, George Johnston died in 1970. According to the artist Sidney Nolan he had for years resembled the ghastly photographs of survivors of the Holocaust (Marr 278). George’s forty five year old alcoholic wife Charmian Clift predeceased him by twelve months, having committed suicide in 1969. Four years later, in 1973, George and Charmian’s twenty four year old daughter Shane also took her own life. Their son Martin drank himself to death and died of organ failure at the age of forty three in 1990. They are all “dead, you know”.ReferencesAWM. Fifth Field Company, Australian Engineers. Diaries, AWM4 Sub-class 14/24.“Enlistment Report”. Reveille, 29 Sep. 1928.Hirsch, Marianne. “The Generation of Postmemory.” Poetics Today 29.1 (Spring 2008): 103-128. <https://read.dukeupress.edu/poetics-today/article/29/1/103/20954/The-Generation-of-Postmemory>.Johnston, George. Clean Straw for Nothing. London: Collins, 1969.———. My Brother Jack. London: Collins, 1964.Kinnane, Garry. George Johnston: A Biography. Melbourne: Nelson, 1986.Lawler, Clark. Consumption and Literature: the Making of the Romantic Disease. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006.Marr, David, ed. Patrick White Letters. Sydney: Random House, 1994.Murphy, Ffion, and Richard Nile. “Gallipoli’s Troubled Hearts: Fear, Nerves and Repatriation.” Studies in Western Australian History 32 (2018): 25-38.NAA. John George Johnston War Service Records. <https://recordsearch.naa.gov.au/SearchNRetrieve/Interface/ViewImage.aspx?B=1830166>.“Soldiers Return by the Kildonan Castle.” Sydney Morning Herald, 10 May 1919: 18.Thomson, Alistair. Anzac Memories: Living with the Legend. Clayton: Monash UP, 2013.

This study represents an exploration of White's concept of transcendence in The Tree of Man and Voss by means of a detailed account of some of the key patterns of imagery deployed in these novels. White's imagery is a key mode of expression in his work, not simply manifesting in overarching religious symbols and framing structures but figuring in constantly modulated tropes continuous with the narrative, as well as in minor, but no less significant images occasionally susceptible to etymological or onomastic reading. While no attempt is made to provide an exhaustive exploration of the tropes at work in these novels, a sufficient range of material is covered, and its metaphoric density adequately penetrated, to highlight and explore a fundamental concern in White's work with a paradoxical unity underlying the dualities inherent in temporal existence. A useful way of approaching his fiction is to view the perpetual modulations of his imagery as the dramatisation of an enantiodromia or play of opposites, in which the conflicts of duality are elaborated and paradoxically - though typically only momentarily - resolved. This resolution or coincidence of opposites is a significant feature of his notion of transcendence as well as his depictions of illuminatory experience, and in this respect White's metaphysics share an essential characteristic, not only of Christianity, but a range of religious and mythological systems concerned with expressing a transcendent reality. Despite these analogies, however, the novels at hand are not so tightly bound to Christian, or any other, meaning-making systems so as to constitute sustained allegories, and hence this study does not aim to chart a series of correspondences between White's images and biblical or mythological symbols. Indeed, a criticism often levelled at White - with The Tree of Man and Voss typically figuring in support of this claim - is that he too rigidly imposes religious frameworks on his work. An extension of this view is formulated in the Jungian critique of White's corpus offered by David Tacey, who argues that White's conception of transcendence is consistently challenged by the archetypal significance of the images he employs, which point to a contrary process of psycho-spiritual regression in his protagonists. In a fundamentally text-based approach, this study explores White's use of imagery while taking biblical resonances and archetypal interpretations into account, and suggests that, though White's images are highly allusive, they are not merely agents of imported Christian, or other traditional symbolic values. Nor do they undermine the authenticity of his depiction of the spirituality of his protagonists, or obtrude on the fabric of the narrative. Instead, the range of his images are - though often ambivalent - integral to a network of mercurial tropes which articulate and constantly evaluate a notion of transcendence through inflections and oscillations rather than equations of meaning.

La thèse évalue la réussite de l'ambition affichée par l'écrivain australien Patrick White (1912-1990) de réaliser un roman épique australien digne de fonder la littérature d'une nation nouvelle. Le travail étudie plus particulièrement The Tree of Man (1955), Voss (1957) et Riders in the Chariot (1961), romans qui lui ont valu le Prix Nobel en 1973. La thèse étudie les caractéristiques du personnage épique dans le roman whitien, en rapport avec la tradition de l'épopée classique mais aussi avec le roman nationaliste australien. Puis elle s'intéresse aux caractéristiques de l'action et de sa conduite dans le cadre du roman, mais aussi dans une logique mystique qui définit un rapport spécifique à la nature et à la psychologie nationale. Enfin, elle étudie des procédés stylistiques liés à la tradition rhétorique épique, ainsi que des effets de sublime, mais aussi l'ironie critique qui est à la fois l'héritage d'une tradition romanesque moderne et la base d'un discours épique novateur
The Australian writer and Nobel Prize winner Patrick White (191. 2-1990) had the avowed ambition, in the 1950s, to write the Crreat Australian Novel which would found the literature of a new nation. This thesis sets out to assess the success of this undertaking by looking at The Tree of Man (1955), Voss (1957) and Ridera in the Chariot (1961) in particular. The first part studies the characteristics of the epic hero in White's novels, with regard to the classic epic tradition, as well as the Australian nationalist novel. The second part deals with plot, showing how events are ordered according to a quest pattern on both a realistic and a mystical level, establishing a specific relation to Nature and defining a specifically Australian world-view. The third part attempts to show how White's use of stylistic devices belonging to the epic rhetorical tradition, of the sublime, but also of an irony specific to the novel form, ail contribute to the ground-breaking status of his epic writing

Marqué par sa participation à la dernière guerre au Moyen-Orient et en Grèce, marqué par la résistance culturelle et géographique de l'Australie à la colonisation européenne, Patrick White (1912-1990, Prix Nobel de littérature en 1973) saisit le prétexte d'une exploration avortée de la plus grande île du monde et l'érige en symbole d'introspection identitaire impliquant l'homme, le pays (ville, Bush, désert : Outback) et le rapport à la femme. Voss (1957) est l'histoire de l'impossible vécu homme-femme confiné dans le fantasme, l'ère du Rêve aborigène, l'osmose spirituelle, mais capable de transcender les clivages sociaux. Dans cette œuvre épique, White montre que l'identité doit passer par la terre, que l'avenir des Australiens doit résider dans la fusion du Dreamtime et de l'histoire judéo-chrétienne. Il faut parcourir des étendues désertes de sable sur une terre inconnue (Leichhardt l'explorateur) ou sillonner des mers dangereuses (Voss le navigateur) pour découvrir son moi intérieur et se réconcilier avec ses origines. Il faut hausser le ciel toujours plus haut pour mieux étreindre la terre, le tenir à distance, ne pas sombrer dans les entrailles chthoniennes, en un mot : devenir homme arborescent
Inspired by his experience of the battlefields of Greece and the Middle East during World War II and the cultural and geographical resistance of Australia to European civilization, Patrick White (1912-1990, Nobel Prize for Literature in 1973), enlarges on an abortive exploration of the biggest island in the world to build it up into a symbol of introspection, thus broaching upon the themes of human identity, country (town, bush and outback) and love. Voss (1957) unfolds the story of a man and a woman which can only fulfil itself in fantasy, blending at times with the Aboriginal Dreamtime and transcending social classes. In this epic masterpiece, White delivers the message that identity depends on land and that Judeo-Christian traditions must come to terms with Aboriginal mores. Man has to acknowledge his wilderness - Leichhardt as a land explorer, Voss as a circumnavigator - to find out where he belongs, prop up the sky in order to embrace the land, keep both of them at bay, and, tree-like, grow!

L'objet de cette thèse est d'interroger l'affirmation selon laquelle le roman à partir du XXe siècle est résolument " spatial ", en s'appuyant sur trois romans qui encadrent et traversent la période moderniste : Heart of Darkness de Joseph Conrad, Under the Volcano de Malcolm Lowry et Voss de Patrick White. Après un premier chapitre consacré à un tour d'horizon de la notion d'écriture spatiale dans la critique depuis les thèses de Joseph Frank et en passant par les analyses de Bakhtine, Todorov, Barthes et Ricoeur, deux positions critiques se dégagent : soit définir les œuvres " spatiales " comme des romans qui s'éloignent d'un modèle logico-temporel tel qu'on peut l'observer dans nombre de romans au XIXe, inspiré d'une esthétique à visée référentielle et mimétique, soit les définir par leurs caractéristiques propres qui sont celles d'œuvres dont la cohérence et la structure reflètent une logique interne et non externe. La première position est étudiée au deuxième chapitre qui porte par conséquent sur tous les avatars de la ligne logico-temporelle et leur remise en cause dans ces trois romans : la ligne logique et narrative, la ligne des origines ou téléologique, la ligne herméneutique et enfin la ligne organique. Dans le troisième chapitre, il s'agit de voir dans quelle mesure on peut parler d'une structuration à dominante spatiale dans Heart of Darkness, Under the Volcano et Voss et cette fois-ci de manière " positive " et non plus à contrario. Le paradigme de la ligne se voit remplacé par celui de l'étoilement des points de vue, des voix et des mots. Brouillage de la perspective, polyphonie et étoilement du signifiant redonnent du volume à la structuration linéaire héritée du XIXe. En dernier lieu se pose alors la question de la position du sujet (Personnage, narrateur, auteur, lecteur) dans ses rapports avec les autres, le monde, les mots et selon trois figures spatiales principales : la faille, l'entre-deux et une prédilection pour la surface.

This thesis argues that Patrick White’s Voss, Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient and David Malouf’s An Imaginary Life depict landscape in a manner that reveals the inadequacies of imperial epistemological discourses and the rationalist model of subjectivity which enables them. The study demonstrates that these novels all emphasise the instabilities inherent in imperial epistemology. White, Ondaatje and Malouf chart their protagonists’ inability to comprehend and document the landscapes they encounter, and the ways in which this failure calls into question their subjectivity and the epistemologies that underpin it. One of the principal contentions of the study, then, is that the novels under consideration deploy a postmodern aesthetic of the sublime to undermine colonial discourses. The first chapter of the thesis outlines the postcolonial and poststructural theory that informs the readings in the later chapters. Chapter Two analyses White’s representation of subjectivity, imperial discourse and the Outback in Voss. The third chapter examines Ondaatje’s depiction of the Sahara Desert in The English Patient, and focuses on his concern with the ways in which language and cartographic discourse influence the subject’s perception of the natural world. Chapter Four investigates the representation of landscape, language and subjectivity in Malouf’s An Imaginary Life. Finally, then, this study argues that literature’s unique ability to acknowledge alterity enables it to serve as an effective tool for critiquing colonial discourses.

The texts in this study interrogate the dominant myths which have affected the constructs of identity and history in the white Australian socio-historical context. These myths are exposed by White as ideologically determined and as operating by processes of exclusion, repression and marginalisation. White challenges the autonomy of both European and Australian cultures, reveals the ideological complicity between them and adopts a critical approach to all Western cultural assumptions. As a post-colonial writer, White shares the need of both post-colonising and post-colonised groups for an identity established not in terms of the colonial power but in terms of themselves. As a dissident white male, he is a privileged member of the post- colonising group but one who rejects the dominant discourses as illegitimate and unlegitimating. He offers a re-writing of the myths underpinning colonial and post-colonising discourses which privileges their suppressed and repressed elements. His re-writings affect aboriginal men and women, white women and the 'privileged' white male whose subjection to social control is masked as unproblematic freedom. White's re-writing of myth enbraces the post-modern as well as the post- colonial. He not only deconstructs and demystifies the phallogocentric/ethnocentric order of things; he also attempts to avoid totalization by privileging indeterminacy, fragmentation, hybridization and those liminary states which defy articulation: the ecstatic, the abject, the unspeakable. He himself is denied authority in that his re-writings are presented as mere acts in the always provisional process of making interpretations. White acknowledges the problematics of both presentation and re-presentation - an unresolved tension between the post-colonial desire for self-definition and the post-modern decentring of all meaning and interpretation permeates his discourse. The close readings of the texts attempt, accordingly, to reflect varying oppositional strategies: those which seek to overturn hierarchies and expose power-relations and those which seek an idiom in which contemporary Australia may find its least distorted reflexion. Within this ideological context, the Lacanian thematics of the subject, and their re-writing by Kristeva, are linked with dialectical criticism in an attempt to reflect a strictly provisional process of (re) construction

White met en exergue de son avant-dernier roman un passage de David Malouf, extrait de An imaginary life, qui pourrait ouvrir un recueil de ses oeuvres, tant il éclaire avec justesse la vision existentielle au coeur de sa création romanesque : « what else should our lives be but a series of beginnings, of painful settings out into the unknown, pushing off from the edges of consciousness into the mystery of what we have not yet become ». Les termes « unknown » et « mystery of what we have not yet become » prennent une importance toute particulière quand ils sont appliqués à l'univers de White. Si le romancier incite avec force son lecteur à s'engager, à la suite des personnages, dans une exploration de son monde intérieur, il ne lui donne aucune réponse définitive et s'emploie au contraire, avec des moyens de plus en plus variés, complexes et maitrisés, à déjouer tous les modes conventionnels d'interprétation, à démonter les systèmes idéologiques et philosophiques, comme le prouvent les points de vue contradictoires adoptés par les critiques de ses oeuvres
Patrick White's preoccupation is with the process of self-discovery, of setting out into the unknown territory of the mind. His novels are exploratory. What matters is the quest for meaning, more than definite answers. For him, truth is a matter of interrogation, it is unattainable and inexpressible. Only through intuition is it possible to apprehend it, beyond words and systems. The various assertions of silence in the novels offer a supplementary space, inviting a dynamic and inventive reading of a text that is unfinished but calling for completion

Patrick white, prix nobel australien, auteur d'une oeuvre romanesque considerable et proteiforme, s'est aussi employe a souligner l'incapacite du langage verbal a dire l'essentiel. C'est peut-etre ce constat qui justifie l'interet perceptible de bout en bout dans sa fiction pour d'autres formes d'expression artistique, pour l'intertextualite heterosemiotique, pour le dialogisme trans-artistique ou l'utilisation de differents "langages" croises (litterature, musique, danse, chant, peinture). Apres avoir execute plusieurs portraits d'artistes inaboutis dans the aunt's story, the tree of man, voss et the solid mandala, l'ecrivian se focalise sur la peinture, mode artistique qu'il privilegie, peut-etre parce qu'elle est plus universelle et plus immediate dans sa perception que l'ecriture. White ecrit avec l'oeil du peintre, convoque tableaux ou peintres sous forme de citations, represente des personnages peintres dont la creation est mise en parallele avec celle du roman qui les cree. Il se livre a l'exploration systematisee de la peinture dans the vivisector, roman qui met en scene une figure d'artiste visionnaire, qui est aussi artiste-vivisecteur, dont la production est tant le produit de l'imagination et de l'esprit que du corps, et dont la quete picturale est aussi quete du sacre (l'identification est totale dans riders in the chariot). Mais dans toute l'oeuvre romanesque, en meme temps que l7ecriture cherche a produire des visions epiphaniques qui s'accompagnent de la creatons de figures de la totalite (mandala, lustre-chandelier. . . ), la voix auctoriale fait la part belle a l'ironie qui tourne souvent a tragique, patrick white
Patrick white, australian winner of the nobel prize and author of a considerable number of protean novels, has emphasized the inability of verbal language to convey what is essential. This perceived inability explains the interest throughout his work in toher forms of artistic expression, in nonliterary intertextuality, in transartistic dialogue or in the use of different cross- "langues" (literature, music, dancing, singing, painting). After drawing several portraits of frustrated of failed artists in the aunt's story, the tree man, voss and the solid mandala, white focuses on painting, an art form for which he shows a marked preference, perhaps because it is more universally and immedialtely perceivable than writing. White writes with the painter's eye; he quotes paintings and painters, and he portrays painters whose creation is paralleled by the novel which creates them. The systematically explores painting in the vivisector, a novel about a visionary artist, a vivisector-artist, whose painting is as much the product of the imagination and the mind as of the body, and whose pictural quest is also a quest for the sacred (in riders in the chariot, the two quests are one). But, throughout the novels and their attempt to reach epiphanic visions with the accompaying creation of figures of totality such as the mandala or the chandelier, the auctorial voice is more than tinged with ironic - even tragic - overtones, and patrick white thus achieves a

The focus of this thesis has been to engage in a hermeneutic dialogue with Patrick White's novel The solid mandala, to provide an explication of the dual nature of narcissistic wounding. To this end a brief review of Patrick White's novels is given, which traces a thematic development of the hero's strivings to attain wholeness and merger with an idealized image. This struggle is understood to reflect man's strivings to return to a state of omnipotent fusion with the maternal image, be it God, nature, the idealized other, or the self. Literature which reflects the dual nature of narcissistic wounding is reviewed, and the concept of narcissism is traced from the historical roots of Freud, to current understandings of the function and experience of narcissism. Emphasis is given to understanding the experiential nature of narcissistic wounding. As such it is implied that narcissism is a normal developmental component which requires the facilitation of containment and reflection for its transformation into appropriate adult functioning. The importance of the maternal environment is discussed, together with the various theoretical conceptualizations of the consequences of failure of the environment. The hermeneutic dialogue with the novel's description of the experiences of the twins, Waldo and Arthur provides the basis for an amplification of the experience of narcissistic wounding. This amplification is used as clinical material from which a number of psychoanalytic formulations are drawn. These formulations are supported by a number of clinical examples from the researcher's own practice. There appears to be evidence for the value of focusing on the dual nature of the experience of narcissistic wounding. This focus reveals two aspects of experience, a damaged, positive, libidinal aspect and a defensive, pathological destructive aspect. Amplification of these two aspects of experience contribute to further the understanding of the conflictual experience of narcissistic wounding, and suggest the necessity for such an understanding for effective therapeutic intervention

"Still Life" argues that Patrick White's fiction reveals objects in surprising, unexpected attitudes so as to challenge the process by which the mind usually connects with the world around it. In particular, White's novels disrupt readers' tacit assumptions about the lethargic nature of substance; this thesis traces how his fiction reaches beyond familiar linguistic and stylistic forms in order to reinvent humanity's generally passive perception of reality. The first chapter outlines the historical context of ideas about the "object," tracing their development from the Bible through literary movements such as romanticism, symbolism, surrealism and modernism. Further, the chapter considers the nature of language and the relation of object to word in order to distinguish between the usual symbolic use made of objects in literature and White's treatment of things as discrete, palpable entities. The second chapter focuses on White's first three published novels—Happy Valley (1939), The Living and the Dead (1941) and The Aunt's Story (1948)--as steps in his novelistic growth. Chapters Three, Four and Five examine respectively The Tree of Man (1955), The Solid Mandala (1966) and The Eye of the Storm (1973); these novels represent successive stages of White's career and exemplify his different formal and stylistic techniques. White's innovations demand a new manner of reading; therefore, each novel is discussed in terms of objects which reflect the shapes of the works themselves: "tree" defines the structure and style of Tree of Man "house" inspires Solid Mandala and "body" shapes Eye of the Storm. Reading White's novels in terms of structural analogues not only illuminates his methodology, but also clarifies his distinction between objective and subjective ways of understanding the world. Further, these chapters also refute critics' arguments that White's objects are merely victims of his overambitious use of personification and pathetic fallacy, or that they are the result of his dabbling in mysticism. "Still Life" concludes by showing how Patrick White's novels sequentially break down assumptions about reality and appearance until the reality of language itself falters. The author restores mystery to things by relocating the possibility of the extraordinary within the narrow, prescribed confines of the ordinary. White succeeds in changing readers' notions about the nature of reality by disrupting the habitual process by which they apprehend the world of things.
Arts, Faculty of
English, Department of
Graduate