THE TREE OF MAN | PATRICK WHITE | 1955

When reading historical fiction, written more than 65 years ago, it can be difficult to draw the line between the story of the time setting or the era it was written. For me this was one of those books. 1955 was an era when women were housewives and mothers; the woman working outside the home was usually either desperately poor or highly educated. Yes there was misogyny but it was just how things were. Identity was defined by gender. So this book is defined by the customs of 1955, and also its early 20^th century setting.

This is an incredibly straight forward story; no crafty plot devices here. It’s just the tale of the lives of a man and a woman, Stan and Amy Parker, their two children and their neighbours, set west of Sydney, until Stan’s death as an old man. Its simplicity lies in the plot and its glory in the writing.

It’s a long time since I’ve read such powerful, descriptive, convoluted, heart-breaking, astute and compellingly dark writing. Patrick White has the ability to lead me into dark corners and then grab me by the throat. Legendary long sentences followed by short ones are pacey and gripping. It is all so graphic and only once was I lead to believe it might have a touch of magic realism similar to one of his other great books The Twyborn Affair, but it was not to be, just a paragraph of Amy reminiscing over what might have been.

This was another book I loved and loathed at the same time. I loved the writing. I loathed the story. So sad; such hard times, no humour, no laughter, no joy of life. It’s bleak at times, harrowing is a word used often now. Yet these characters are so very much like people I’ve known in the past who lived lives of quiet desperation. People, who lived simply, worked so very hard and endured much sorrow.

I often contemplate what drives an author to write a story such as The Tree of Man. I cannot help but compare it to My Brother Jack by George Johnstone, and although mainly autobiographical, it has light and shade, and humour. Would I have enjoyed this book more if White had been able to let the characters see the funny side of life?  I’m not sure. I think it would have been a more rounded book, and perhaps not cause quite as much controversy; some reviewers hate this book with a vengeance.

The final words, So that, in the end, there was no end — are such a fitting ending to this book. Yes, it seems there is no end to the story of human beings living simple lives, made complex by our own thoughts and deeds.

I’m so glad I read it.