“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”

DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)





15 July 2017


from the snaps box: Warren Randall doing his cardboard cutout of Warren Randall impersonisation at the Colin Preece house, Seppelts'  Great Western, 1986 ... it was remarkably easy to get him to strike such a pose ... I have never once got in a car with him again ... my visit was still the only one I have made to an Australian winery by train


Irish Eyez said...

what about Clare Phillip?

Philip White said...

True. That was fun. You could put your bike on the train at Adelaide, get off in one of the Clare villages, and take a ride to a winery or two. Now you put your bike on the car, drive up there, and ride your bike along the railway line. Same in McLaren Vale. I caught the train from Adelaide to Ararat and then got in a car with Warren in the above account. Brian Miller reminds me the reason we drove up into the Grampians in the middle of the night was to chase Halley's Comet.