My Brilliant Career Miles Franklin (best mobile ebook reader txt) š
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- Author: Miles Franklin
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By Miles Franklin.
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PrefaceA few months before I left Australia I got a letter from the bush signed āMiles Franklin,ā saying that the writer had written a novel, but knew nothing of editors and publishers, and asking me to read and advise. Something about the letter, which was written in a strong original hand, attracted me, so I sent for the MS., and one dull afternoon I started to read it. I hadnāt read three pages when I saw what you will no doubt see at onceā āthat the story had been written by a girl. And as I went on I saw that the work was Australianā āborn of the bush. I donāt know about the girlishly emotional parts of the bookā āI leave that to girl readers to judge; but the descriptions of bush life and scenery came startlingly, painfully real to me, and I know that, as far as they are concerned, the book is true to Australiaā āthe truest I ever read. I wrote to Miles Franklin, and she confessed that she was a girl. I saw her before leaving Sydney. She is just a little bush girl, barely twenty-one yet, and has scarcely ever been out of the bush in her life. She has lived her book, and I feel proud of it for the sake of the country I came from, where people toil and bake and suffer and are kind; where every second sunburnt bushman is a sympathetic humorist, with the sadness of the bush deep in his eyes and a brave grin for the worst of times, and where every third bushman is a poet, with a big heart that keeps his pockets empty.
Henry Lawson
England, April 1901
IntroductionāPossum Gully, near Goulburn, NSW, Australia, 1st March, 1899
My Dear Fellow Australians,
Just a few lines to tell you that this story is all about myselfā āfor no other purpose do I write it.
I make no apologies for being egotistical. In this particular I attempt an improvement on other autobiographies. Other autobiographies weary one with excuses for their egotism. What matters it to you if I am egotistical? What matters it to you though it should matter that I am egotistical?
This is not a romanceā āI have too often faced the music of life to the tune of hardship to waste time in snivelling and gushing over fancies and dreams; neither is it a novel, but simply a yarnā āa real yarn. Oh! as real, as really realā āprovided life itself is anything beyond a heartless little chimeraā āit is as real in its weariness and bitter heartache as the tall gum-trees, among which I first saw the light, are real in their stateliness and substantiality.
My sphere in life is not congenial to me. Oh, how I hate this living death which has swallowed all my teens, which is greedily devouring my youth, which will sap my prime, and in which my old age, if I am cursed with any, will be worn away! As my life creeps on for ever through the long toil-laden days with its agonizing monotony, narrowness, and absolute uncongeniality, how my spirit frets and champs its unbreakable fettersā āall in vain!
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