Treasure Island

Vance Palmer

(1885 - 1959 / Australia)

Quotations

  • ''Beyond the horizon, or even the knowledge, of the cities along the coast, a great, creative impulse is at work—the only thing, after all, that gives this continent meaning and a guarantee of the future. Every Australian ought to climb up here, once in a way, and glimpse the various, manifold life of which he is a part.''
    Vance Palmer (1885-1959), Australian author, poet. repr. In Intimate Portraits, ed. H.P. Heseltine (1969). "The Divide," (1925).
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  • ''It is the business of thought to define things, to find the boundaries; thought, indeed, is a ceaseless process of definition. It is the business of Art to give things shape. Anyone who takes no delight in the firm outline of an object, or in its essential character, has no artistic sense.... He cannot even be nourished by Art. Like Ephraim, he feeds upon the East wind, which has no boundaries.''
    Vance Palmer (1885-1959), Australian author, poet. repr. In Intimate Portraits, ed. H.P. Heseltine (1969). "On Boundaries," (1921).
  • ''The voice of America has no undertones or overtones in it. It repeats its optimistic catchwords in a tireless monologue that has the slightly metallic sound of a gramophone.''
    Vance Palmer (1885-1959), Australian author and poet. repr. In Intimate Portraits, ed. H. P. Heseltine (1969). "Literary America," (1923).
  • ''The truth is that literature, particularly fiction, is not the pure medium we sometimes assume it to be. Response to it is affected by things other than its own intrinsic quality; by a curiosity or lack of it about the people it deals with, their outlook, their way of life.''
    Vance Palmer (1885-1959), Australian author, poet. repr. In Intimate Portraits, ed. H.P. Heseltine (1969). "Fragment of Autobiography," (1958).

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The Road to Roma Jail

It's a long road, a cruel road, the road to Roma Jail,
birds in all the branches mocking as you pass,
the spiteful little soldier-bird, the stupid old jackass,
crying 'One, two three of them; riding head to tail'.
On the long road, the cruel road, the road to Roma Jail.

Crookedly the track runs beneath the grassy skies
silver shines the mulga, golden glows the plain,
Bullocks in the barley-grass start and stare again,

[Hata Bildir]