Patrick was my great, grandfathers nephew; my grandfathers first cousin or my fathers first cousin, once removed; above all he is Australia's only Nobel Prize winner for literature.
PW was an activist who loathed traditional views yet was raised in very conservative surrounds. To most Australians, he was an enigma.
In 1976 when I was convalescing from a debilitating car accident my mother gave me a book of poetry to read by Patrick White, from the Belltrees library. The title was
The Ploughman and I was informed that this particular copy was 1 of only two copies left in existance as Patrick had destroyed the rest. Perhaps he never saw himself as a poet.
Its title is
Futility and its verse goes something like this
;
The air , the earth and the sea make mock of futile things like me.
Crumbs related to the crust, life to death , iron to rust.
As naught can alter then i must be me until I change to dust.
I decided to etch illustrations to the poem and hand it in as my major work for the HSC. Perhaps I should bring them out from storage and hang them on the wall in my office to remind us all of what an amazing man he really was.