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The early twentieth century saw Australian literature begin to assert its own distinct voice, shaped by writers who moved between local experience and broader cultural currents. Christina Stead was born on 17 July 1902 in the City of Rockdale and died on 31 March 1983 in Sydney.

Stead was educated at Sydney Teachers College before pursuing a career that encompassed fiction writing, short story writing, and translation, all conducted in the English language. As an Australian citizen, she worked across these overlapping forms throughout her career. Her roles as novelist, short story writer, and translator placed her engagement with the English language at the center of her professional life.

Among her novels, The Man Who Loved Children, For Love Alone, and Letty Fox: Her Luck each extended her engagement with the novel form. I'm Dying Laughing: The Humourist represented a further addition to her body of fiction. Taken together, these four novels, alongside her work as a short story writer and translator, constituted a substantial output in English prose across the course of her career as an Australian writer.

Critical recognition came in the form of the Patrick White Award, a prize Stead received during her lifetime. Her death in Sydney on 31 March 1983 brought to a close the career of a novelist, short story writer, and translator who had been educated in Sydney and had written in English as an Australian citizen.

Quotes by Christina Stead

Weak, tea-drinking, effeminate, ineffectual – masters of India, robbers of South Africa, bedevillers of all Europe.
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Weak, tea-drinking, effeminate, ineffectual – masters of India, robbers of South Africa, bedevillers of all Europe.
The City is a machine miraculously organised for extracting gold from the seas, airs, clouds, from barren lands, holds of ships, mines, plantations, cottage hearth-stones, trees and rocks; and he, wretchedly waiting in the exterior halls, could not even get his finger on one tiny, tiny lever.
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The City is a machine miraculously organised for extracting gold from the seas, airs, clouds, from barren lands, holds of ships, mines, plantations, cottage hearth-stones, trees and rocks; and he, wretchedly waiting in the exterior halls, could not even get his finger on one tiny, tiny lever.
Everyone likes the obscene; that is real life.
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Everyone likes the obscene; that is real life.
Gentlemen are overestimated, that is my experience.
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Gentlemen are overestimated, that is my experience.
A mother! What are we worth really? They all grow up whether you look after them or not.
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A mother! What are we worth really? They all grow up whether you look after them or not.
She was able to feel active creation going on around her in the rocks and hills, where the mystery of lust took place; and in herself, where all was yet only the night of senses and wild dreams, the work of passion going on.
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She was able to feel active creation going on around her in the rocks and hills, where the mystery of lust took place; and in herself, where all was yet only the night of senses and wild dreams, the work of passion going on.
I hate Bernard Shaw because he says that life is compromise.
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I hate Bernard Shaw because he says that life is compromise.
The Chinese are a knowing people; and I daresay that is why they once made a religious odor about old age; to prevent their sons from seeing their own future.
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The Chinese are a knowing people; and I daresay that is why they once made a religious odor about old age; to prevent their sons from seeing their own future.
Philosophy is by the timid for the timid.
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Philosophy is by the timid for the timid.
Creation of something out of nothing is the most primitive of human passions and the most optimistic.
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Creation of something out of nothing is the most primitive of human passions and the most optimistic.
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