She was friends with Karen Blixen, lovers with Antoine de Saint-Exupery, and was the first woman to fly solo from east to west across the Atlantic. Beryl was fierce! Let's all be more like her.
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Happy Birthday, Beryl
It's the birthday of Beryl Markham today. She was a horse trainer, pilot, and author (probably) of the memoir West With the Night, which I should read again and you should read too, if you haven't. (It impressed the hell out of Hemingway.)
She was friends with Karen Blixen, lovers with Antoine de Saint-Exupery, and was the first woman to fly solo from east to west across the Atlantic. Beryl was fierce! Let's all be more like her.
She was friends with Karen Blixen, lovers with Antoine de Saint-Exupery, and was the first woman to fly solo from east to west across the Atlantic. Beryl was fierce! Let's all be more like her.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Another Birthday
I know this makes thing pretty author-heavy this week, but I couldn't miss mentioning Hemingway's birthday today!
(That is the manliest turtleneck I have ever seen. Well done, Papa.)
Today's birthday quote comes from an archived LIFE interview from 1952 when he was awarded the Pulitzer for The Old Man and the Sea:
"The right way to do it--style--is not just an idle concept," he says. "It is simply the way to get done what is supposed to be done. The fact that the right way also looks beautiful when it's done is just incidental."
(That is the manliest turtleneck I have ever seen. Well done, Papa.)Today's birthday quote comes from an archived LIFE interview from 1952 when he was awarded the Pulitzer for The Old Man and the Sea:
"The right way to do it--style--is not just an idle concept," he says. "It is simply the way to get done what is supposed to be done. The fact that the right way also looks beautiful when it's done is just incidental."
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Happy Birthday, Cormac McCarthy
Happy birthday to one of the two novelists who make me despair of ever writing anything as good: Cormac! I haven't been reading him lately because I've been trying to keep an even emotional keel, but here's something from All the Pretty Horses I posted back in 2007:
They rode out along the fenceline and across the open pastureland. The leather creaked in the morning cold. They pushed the horses into a lope. The lights fell away behind them. They rode out on the high prairie where they slowed the horses to a walk and the stars swarmed around them out of the blackness. They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing.
*The first writer who makes me want to give up is Virginia Woolf, of course.
They rode out along the fenceline and across the open pastureland. The leather creaked in the morning cold. They pushed the horses into a lope. The lights fell away behind them. They rode out on the high prairie where they slowed the horses to a walk and the stars swarmed around them out of the blackness. They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing.
*The first writer who makes me want to give up is Virginia Woolf, of course.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
And We Have Mrs. Steinbeck To Thank For The Title
This morning's Writer's Almanac had a lot of good background about The Grapes of Wrath, which was published today in 1939. Originally Steinbeck was asked to do a piece for Life magazine, but when it wasn't published he ended up writing a novel, finishing the first draft in 100 days.
A quote taken from the article:
I break myself every time I go out [in the fields] because the argument that one person's effort can't really do anything doesn't seem to apply when you come on a bunch of starving children and you have a little money. I can't rationalize it for myself anyway. So don't get me a job for a slick. I want to put a tag of shame on the greedy bastards who are responsible for this.
I think you succeeded in doing that and more, John. Good job.
A quote taken from the article:
I break myself every time I go out [in the fields] because the argument that one person's effort can't really do anything doesn't seem to apply when you come on a bunch of starving children and you have a little money. I can't rationalize it for myself anyway. So don't get me a job for a slick. I want to put a tag of shame on the greedy bastards who are responsible for this.
I think you succeeded in doing that and more, John. Good job.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Virginia
The Writer's Almanac tells me that 70 years ago today, Virginia Woolf drowned herself in the River Ouse.
In Mrs. Dalloway, shell-shocked Septimus hears birds sing at him in Greek, which I've read was her own experience during a depressive episode. I'm glad she was able to write what she did--and that we can treat mental illness a little bit better now.
In Mrs. Dalloway, shell-shocked Septimus hears birds sing at him in Greek, which I've read was her own experience during a depressive episode. I'm glad she was able to write what she did--and that we can treat mental illness a little bit better now.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Does This Apply To Writing Websites, Too?
What is demanding and fulfilling is writing a single word, trying to write le mot juste, as Flaubert said; writing several of them, which become a sentence. When a writer does that, day after day, working alone with little encouragement, often with discouragement flowing in the writer’s own blood, and with an occasional rush of excitement … the treasure is on the desk.
[...]The writer who endures and keeps working will finally know that writing the book was something hard and glorious, for at the desk a writer must try to be free of prejudice, meanness of spirit, pettiness, and hatred; strive to be a better human being than the writer normally is, and to do this through concentration on a single word, and then another, and another. This is splendid work, as worthy and demanding as any, and the will and resilience to do it are good for the writer’s soul.
I don't think Andre Dubus wrote for the web a lot, but it's still something to consider.
[...]The writer who endures and keeps working will finally know that writing the book was something hard and glorious, for at the desk a writer must try to be free of prejudice, meanness of spirit, pettiness, and hatred; strive to be a better human being than the writer normally is, and to do this through concentration on a single word, and then another, and another. This is splendid work, as worthy and demanding as any, and the will and resilience to do it are good for the writer’s soul.
I don't think Andre Dubus wrote for the web a lot, but it's still something to consider.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Quite A Weekend For Authors
Friday, November 20, 2009
Friday Unrelated Information
1. The documentary Grey Gardens showcases some of my deep-seated fears (being old and poor, becoming dependent on someone else, turning into a crazy cat lady), so I had some reservations about watching the HBO film about the same characters, but it was very good. I recommend it, if only to better understand how crazy cat ladies get that way.
2. An interview with Cormac McCarthy in the Wall Street Journal reveals that he drinks what I drink, when I want gin (which is often): Bombay Gibson, up. And that he writes the way I do, when I don't have a deadline:
"I get up and have a cup of coffee and wander around and read a little bit, sit down and type a few words and look out the window."
3. And finally, here's a map of Holme's London, with notes about what adventure happened in each mapped point. It's very thorough.
2. An interview with Cormac McCarthy in the Wall Street Journal reveals that he drinks what I drink, when I want gin (which is often): Bombay Gibson, up. And that he writes the way I do, when I don't have a deadline:
"I get up and have a cup of coffee and wander around and read a little bit, sit down and type a few words and look out the window."
3. And finally, here's a map of Holme's London, with notes about what adventure happened in each mapped point. It's very thorough.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Author Trivia
Did you know that Jean-Paul Sartre was a Nobel Prize winner, and he refused it? And that the Swedish Academy said, essentially, "Well, you're still a Nobel Prize winner, even if you don't accept the award." Fun times in 1964. (Today's post courtesy of The Writer's Almanac. You can read more about why Sartre refused the award here.)
[Whenever I think of Sartre, I always think of "The Jean Paul Sartre Cookbook," a satire that someone posted in the early days of the internet and my friends and I found in high school. Oh, we thought that was the cleverest thing. Satire! Sartre! Beginning French class! Good times.]
[Whenever I think of Sartre, I always think of "The Jean Paul Sartre Cookbook," a satire that someone posted in the early days of the internet and my friends and I found in high school. Oh, we thought that was the cleverest thing. Satire! Sartre! Beginning French class! Good times.]
Monday, January 12, 2009
Happy Birthday Jack London
The Writer's Almanac tells me that today is Jack London's birthday, so I got some more details from Wikipedia: Born in 1876, he worked in a cannery, sailed as a pirate and as part of the California Fish Patrol, went to the Klondike with goldrush fever, got scurvy, bought a ranch and a yacht, amassed a library of 15,000 volumes, and died in 1914 of a morphine overdose.
I didn't realize that he died so young--I guess children's copies of The Call of the Wild don't get into a lot of detail about death from alcoholism and accidental overdoses.
I didn't realize that he died so young--I guess children's copies of The Call of the Wild don't get into a lot of detail about death from alcoholism and accidental overdoses.
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