The Dead Writers Round-Up: 23rd-25th September

  • Mary Church Terrell was born on 9/23/1863. “And so, lifting as we climb, onward and upward we go, struggling and striving, and hoping that the buds and blossoms of our desires will burst into glorious fruition ere long.” (A Colored Woman in a White World; various articles)
  • Walter Lippmann was born on 9/23/1889. “Where all think alike, no one thinks very much.” (Public Opinion; The Phantom Public)
  • Elinor Glyn died on 9/23/1943. “Romance is the glamour which turns the dust of everyday life into a golden haze.” (Three Weeks; Beyond the Rocks; “It” and Other Stories)

  • Nigel Nicolson died on 9/23/2004. “We are all inclined to judge ourselves by our ideals; others by their acts.” (Portrait of a Marriage; Fanny Burney: The Mother of English Fiction)
  • Horace Walpole was born on 9/24/1717. “The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think.” (Some Anecdotes of Painting in England; The Castle of Otranto)
  • Sir Alan P. Herbert was born on 9/24/1890. “The conception of two people living together for twenty-five years without having a cross word suggests a lack of spirit only to be admired in sheep.” (Holy Deadlock; Uncommon Law)
  • F. Scott Fitzgerald was born on 9/24/1896. “The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” (This Side of Paradise; The Great Gatsby; Tender is the Night)
  • Dr. Seuss died on 9/24/1991. “A person’s a person, no matter how small.” (Horton Hears a Who!; Green Eggs and Ham)
  • Françoise Sagan died on 9/24/2004. “Money may not buy happiness, but I’d rather cry in a Jaguar than on a bus.” (Bonjour tristesse; La chamade)
  • William Faulkner was born on 9/25/1897. “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” (The Sound and the Fury; As I Lay Dying; Intruder in the Dust)
  • Ring Lardner died on 9/25/1933. “How can you write if you can’t cry?” (You Know Me Al; Haircut)
  • Erich Maria Remarque died on 9/25/1970. “It’s only terrible to have nothing to wait for.” (All Quiet on the Western Front; Three Comrades; Arch of Triumph)

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Happy Birthday, H.G. Wells!

“The only true measure of success is the ratio between what we might have done and what we might have been on the one hand, and the thing we have made and the things we have made of ourselves on the other.”

H.G. (Herbert George) Wells was born on 21 September 1866:

H.G. Wells by F. Hollyer, 1890

H.G. Wells by F. Hollyer, 1890.

Daily Diversion #276: King Gambrinus

The statue of King Gambrinus (“The Drunken King”) in Columbus’ Brewery District:

King Gambrinus

No, that’s not Burger King…it’s King Gambrinus (“The Drunken King”).

For years, beginning in the early twentieth century, he stood watch over the August Wagner Brewery (originally Gambrinus Brewery). Now, he conducts his eternal revels around the corner from my apartment.

[Alternative Muses] Artistic Style: Georgia O’Keeffe

Georgia O’Keeffe is so intrinsically and eternally elegant that mere fashion doesn’t matter; it’s a blip on an inconsequential radar. Unlike aesthetic conformity, personal style effortlessly squashes large spans of time into nothingness.

Don’t believe me?

This image of the legendary artist is 97 years old.

Georgia O'Keeffe by Alfred Stieglitz, 1918

Georgia O’Keeffe by Alfred Stieglitz, 1918.

There’s so much to love about this look, this vibe, this scene.

Where to start?

  • Her focused and intelligent gaze?
  • The uplift of her eyebrow?
  • The sublime beauty that attends every artist as they are working on their craft, which is powerfully evident here?
  • That luxuriously thick and practical sweater, with its large buttons, worn over a thin throw-it-on-and-forget-about-it dress?
  • Those boots? Those boots.

Fierce. Every last bit. Fierce.

Daily Diversion #275: Urban Toad

Urban Toad

Urban Toad

“I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer–and what trees and seasons smelled like–how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.”-John Steinbeck, East of Eden