Hal Porter Quotes

Australia, Novelist
February 16, 1911 – September, 29, 1984.

Harold Edward (Hal) Porter (16 February 1911 – 29 September 1984) was an Australian novelist, playwright, poet and short-story writer. Porter was born in Albert Park, Victoria, grew up in Bairnsdale, Victoria and worked as a journalist, teacher and librarian. A car accident just before the outbreak of war prevented him from serving in World War II. His first stories were published in 1942 and by the 1960s he was writing full-time. His 1963 memoir, The Watcher on the Cast Iron Balcony, is regarded as an Australian masterpiece.

Also known as Playwright, Poet, Short Story Writer

The unwritten rules of behaviour are infinite in number, finely shaded, and subtle to the last fraction of a degree. They are not to be broken. If broken, the rules of forgiveness leading to re-establishment are equally of air and iron. I learn these rules with rather less ease than my contemporaries because, in the back streets of my being, a duel is developing and increasing in fervour between my instinct which knows why something is so, and my hen-pecking intelligence which wishes to analyse why something is so.

Hal Porter
The Australian form of self-respect, however rough-and-ready, heart-of-gold, come-and-take-pot-luck-with-us, and matily extrovert it is, essentially, genteel, ingrowing, self-pitying, vanilla-ice-cream hearted, its central fear a fear of intellect.

Hal Porter

I cannot consider fighting in competitive Manly Fun any more than I can consider pitting my running, swimming or climbing body against other bodies. Nothing, then, or now, arouses me or will ever arouse me from a perfect disinterest in ball games.

Hal Porter
Now, I can smile at the stock quality of these friends, these uniforms, these looking-glasses, these sharers. Each is a character lifted straight from literature and yet, life successfully aping art, they are alive, and fulfil their destinies - or act their parts - flawlessly.

Hal Porter
Indeed, so deep is my pleasure in the work of the garden that, if there be a dimension after death in which grieving for the loss of the world of senses is possible, I shall grieve for no person however once agonisingly desired and passionately beloved, for no emotional adventure however uplifting, for no success however warming, no infamy however exhilarating, for nothing half so much as I shall grieve to the loss of the earth itself, the soil, the seeds, the plants, the very weeds... It is a love almost overriding my love the words that could express that love.

Hal Porter
- Work
- Death
- Dimension