Gardner McKay





Gardner McKay


Born
in New York, New York, The United States
June 10, 1932

Died
November 21, 2001


Born George Cadogan Gardner McKay. McKay graduated from Cornell University, where he majored in art. He became a Hollywood heartthrob in the 1950s and 1960s. He landed the lead role in Adventures in Paradise, based loosely on the writings of James Michener. His character, Adam Troy, was a Korean War veteran who purchased the twin-masted 82-foot (25 m) schooner Tiki, and sailed the South Pacific.

McKay was under contract to MGM when he was spotted by Dominick Dunne, a television producer for Twentieth Century Fox who was searching for an actor to star in his planned Adventures in Paradise. Dunne put his business card on the table and said, "If you're interested in discussing a television series, call me." McKay competed in screen tests with n
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Average rating: 3.38 · 277 ratings · 47 reviews · 12 distinct works · Similar authors
Toyer

3.24 avg rating — 233 ratings — published 1998 — 11 editions
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Journey Without a Map

4.42 avg rating — 19 ratings — published 2009 — 3 editions
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The Kinsman

4.50 avg rating — 6 ratings — published 2011
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Sea Marks

3.38 avg rating — 8 ratings — published 2011 — 2 editions
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The Kinsman

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2011
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In Order of Appearance: A P...

liked it 3.00 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2003
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Trompe L'Oeil

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 2015
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Ten, Bloomsbury Square

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Toyer

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Journey Without A Map

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More books by Gardner McKay…
“There’s never a death to good writing, it is never extinct. It may be out of fashion for awhile, but soon enough that fashion goes out of fashion and there it is again, living between its covers or on some stage. Every writer who is original has doubts from time to time about his writing. There are so many copycat writers, so many servant writers, so many adaptors. Adaptations? A writer will tell you with pride that he’d been hired to adapt this book or that and in the credits it will be so: “Written by.” Hollywood is not, of course, a writer’s place to be. They are graduated animals; of course, we all are, but they have forgotten their instincts. You bring what you know to a book. The writer brings what he knows to you. You meet in the middle. A book is only as good as its reader. A book is not a concert performed in a crowded hall. It is a lone voice performing in a silent theater with only one seat. There is no applause, no critic. You are the entire audience; your opinion from age to page is the opinion of its only opinion maker. Of all the arts, this is the most private. A hung picture is out there performing all day long, even in the half-light a concert is rarely played without a mass. The remarkable thing about good writing is that it’s always inside you; you let a day go by, a week without disturbing, it simply means you haven’t looked for it. It is always there inside you. I find that I erect a small invisible temple nearly everywhere I go. A temple where my mind is at peace, races, dreams, invents, expires, wakes, hopes, trusts. And these imaginary buttresses, I am at home anywhere, alone with my friends; disciples, legends, gods, and in this place I am never lonely and, for the time that I am there, deeply content. My writing is made up of nostalgia; hope; longing; as well as morals; my need to straighten; correct; love of word wreaths, ribbons. It’s easy to see what makes someone write. These elements become visible, look behind you, they’re always standing there. Yeats, of whom Auden wrote after his death or upon it was given over to unfamiliar affections and that he might be punished under a foreign code of conscience in biographies without knowing it. I felt those things, not because I was a playwright and poet and enhanced by renown, I wasn’t, but an accidentally contrived hero-personality, celebrity, still a man. An artist, a conscience, an object containing mind and heart and, oddly enough, many times more famous than Yeats (for the moment) in America. Of course, I was attacked by the love, attack. Too many people resent what they do for a living or are ashamed of it, or are secretly ashamed of it without their knowing it. I am privileged to fear and love what I do my living and my art. My writing is passing all the tests I can think of for the critic in me. Once I’ve satisfied this cadre of fools, the pleasure is mine. The writing is done and ready for anyone out there who wants it. And what more do I want after that, except a few dollars to please my table, my woman, and my family? Nothing, believe me. Rejection is annoying, of course, and hurtful, but by the time I had been accepted, I felt the congratulations was due to them and not to me. Because it is the love of our language that has kept me close and nourished. I may feel a sudden rich reward at the end of a paragraph. A poem to my wife on her birthday. A poem to a hawk I admire, these are the uses of writing, of language. Of shape and depth. It is this love that began with me with Dylan Thomas who sometimes hardly knew exactly what he meant, but was so blinded by our perfect language that he simply could not stop.”
Gardner McKay, Journey Without a Map