Peter Mayle
author profile
born
June 14, 1939
gender
male
place of birth
The United Kingdom
genre
Travel, Nonfiction
about this author
Peter Mayle (born June 14, 1939 in Brighton) is a British author famous for his series of books detailing life in Provençe, France. He spent fifteen years in advertising before leaving the business in 1975 to write educational books, including a series on sex education for children and young people. In 1989, A Year in Provence was published and became an international bestseller. His books have been translated to more than twenty languages, and he is a contributing writer to magazines and newspapers. Indeed, his seventh book A Year in Provence, chronicles a year in the life of a British expatriate who settled in the village of Ménerbes. His book A Good Year was the basis for the eponymous 2006 film directed by Ridley Scott and starring ac...more
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avg rating: 3.71
| 10,955 ratings
| 1,377 reviews
| 103 distinct works
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34 fans
More books by Peter Mayle…
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A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.87 — 4,246 ratings — published 1989 32 editions |
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Toujours Provence by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.74 — 1,240 ratings — published 1991 20 editions |
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Encore Provence: New Adventures in the South of France by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.73 — 773 ratings — published 1999 13 editions |
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A Good Year by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.37 — 845 ratings — published 2004 15 editions |
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Hotel Pastis: A Novel of Provence by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.54 — 690 ratings — published 1994 21 editions |
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French Lessons: Adventures with Knife, Fork, and Corkscrew by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.75 — 652 ratings — published 2001 10 editions |
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Chasing Cezanne: A Novel by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.37 — 520 ratings — published 1997 16 editions |
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A Dog's Life by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.79 — 373 ratings — published 202 6 editions |
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Anything Considered: A Novel by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.51 — 320 ratings — published 1996 13 editions |
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Acquired Tastes by Peter Mayle avg rating 3.56 — 283 ratings — published 1992 3 editions |
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"It was a meal that we shall never forget; more accurately, it was several meals that we shall never forget, because it went beyond the gastronomic frontiers of anything we had ever experienced, both in quantity and length. It started with homemade pizza - not one, but three: anchovy, mushroom, and cheese, and it was obligatory to have a slice of each. Plates were then wiped with pieces torn from the two-foot loaves in the middle of the table, and the next course came out. There were pates of rabbit, boar, and thrush. There was a chunky, pork-based terrine laced with marc. There were saucissons spotted with peppercorns. There were tiny sweet onions marinated in a fresh tomato sauce. Plates were wiped once more and duck was brought in... We had entire breasts, entire legs, covered in a dark, savory gravy and surrounded by wild mushrooms.
We sat back, thankful that we had been able to finish, and watched with something close to panic as plates were wiped yet again and a huge, steaming casserole was placed on the table. This was the specialty of Madame our hostess - a rabbit civet of the richest, deepest brown - and our feeble requests for small portions were smilingly ignored. We ate it. We ate the green salad with knuckles of bread fried in garlic and olive oil, we ate the plump round crottins of goat's cheese, we ate the almond and cream gateau that the daughter of the house had prepared. That night, we ate for England.
"
— Peter Mayle (A Year in Provence)
We sat back, thankful that we had been able to finish, and watched with something close to panic as plates were wiped yet again and a huge, steaming casserole was placed on the table. This was the specialty of Madame our hostess - a rabbit civet of the richest, deepest brown - and our feeble requests for small portions were smilingly ignored. We ate it. We ate the green salad with knuckles of bread fried in garlic and olive oil, we ate the plump round crottins of goat's cheese, we ate the almond and cream gateau that the daughter of the house had prepared. That night, we ate for England.
"
— Peter Mayle (A Year in Provence)
"Next to the defeated politician, the writer is the most vocal and inventive griper on earth. He sees hardship and unfairness wherever he looks. His agent doesn’t love him (enough). The blank sheet of paper is an enemy. The publisher is a cheapskate. The critic is a philistine. The public doesn’t understand him. His wife doesn’t understand him. The bartender doesn’t understand him.
These are only some of the common complaints of working writers, but I have yet to hear any of them bring up the most fundamental gripe of all: the lifelong, horrifying expense involved in getting out the words.
This may come as a surprise to many of you who assume that a writer’s equipment is limited to paper and pencils and a bottle of whiskey, and maybe one tweed sports coat for interviews. It goes far beyond that.
The problem from which all other problems spring is that writing takes up the time that could otherwise be spent earning a living. The most humble toiler on Wall Street makes more in a month than ninety percent of writers make in a year. A beggar on the street, seeing a writer shuffling toward him, will dig deep into his rags to see if he can spare a dime. . . ."
— Peter Mayle (Acquired Tastes)
These are only some of the common complaints of working writers, but I have yet to hear any of them bring up the most fundamental gripe of all: the lifelong, horrifying expense involved in getting out the words.
This may come as a surprise to many of you who assume that a writer’s equipment is limited to paper and pencils and a bottle of whiskey, and maybe one tweed sports coat for interviews. It goes far beyond that.
The problem from which all other problems spring is that writing takes up the time that could otherwise be spent earning a living. The most humble toiler on Wall Street makes more in a month than ninety percent of writers make in a year. A beggar on the street, seeing a writer shuffling toward him, will dig deep into his rags to see if he can spare a dime. . . ."
— Peter Mayle (Acquired Tastes)
"Sunglasses must be kept on until an acquaintance is identified at one of the tables, but one must not appear to be looking for company. Instead, the impression should be that one is heading into the cafe to make a phone call to one's titled Italian admirer, when--quelle surprise!--one sees a friend. The sunglasses can then be removed and the hair tossed while one is persuaded to sit down."
— Peter Mayle (A Year in Provence)
— Peter Mayle (A Year in Provence)
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