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Sto caricando le informazioni... Instant Lives (1974)di Howard Moss
   Nessuno Sto caricando le informazioni...
 Iscriviti per consentire a LibraryThing di scoprire se ti piacerà questo libro. Attualmente non vi sono conversazioni su questo libro.  weird_O | Mar 27, 2022 |    ) Krumbs | Mar 31, 2013 |  ) Esta1923 | Feb 10, 2009 | nessuna recensione | aggiungi una recensione
A humor classic--fractured biographical moments from the lives of great writers and composers. Loosely based on historical anecdotes, this is a collection of mostly imagined encounters between literary figures and their real or imagined family members, friends, and bitter enemies. In Howard Moss's satirical voice and Edward Gorey's twenty-five deadpan illustrations, we see Jane Austen wielding artful passive aggression and Sense and Sensibility galleys, the Alcott girls sculpting fudge, the rise of Emily Dickinson's ruthless witch hazel business, among other delights. Perfect for those who love literature too much to hold it closely to actual facts. Non sono state trovate descrizioni di biblioteche |
Discussioni correntiNessunoCopertine popolari
 Google Books — Sto caricando le informazioni...GeneriSistema Decimale Melvil (DDC)813.5Literature English (North America) American fiction 20th CenturyClassificazione LCVotoMedia: (3.5)
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1
He took a dim view, if, indeed, a view, in all consciousness, could be considered one, when the very act of its perception was, by definition, barely discernible, of biography, that addiction to "truth-seeking" that so often cloaked, when it did not, more accurately, mask, a predilection for poking into corners best left un-poked, for lifting up stones heavy enough, one would have thought, to crush existence itself out of the low and wriggling forms of life that secreted themselves, ever so hopefully, ever so persistently, in pursuit of a safety indubitably not to be vouchsafed, beneath the mossy sides of their seemingly permanent shelters…That he, the author of What Maisie Knew, should be asked to offer sacrifices at the altar of a God he did not worship, neither as communicant nor convert, to act, doubly the slave, as the servitor of Mammon, a "deal"—as the American traders, ever hot in the pursuit of profit, might say—seemed to him not only to rub salt into an old wound but to be a special form of affront, as insulting as if, laid hands on by the misinformed, a first edition were to be used merely for the swatting of flies. He would not, no…
Or James Joyce:
Being a broth of a poi, cod-lei but Chile, to whom Doubloom seized to half charm, eggs isle seemed puf-ferable. He Christ the Iris zei, he crossed the Ingres flannel and maid his weigh a broad. Zoo rich! Elps! EEEEEEEEEEk! Them Swiss miss misses me. Watch out, Montaignes, and them Edel (Weiss) Leon? Ted? Price? Ah, my Tyne is come, said the looney.
Here is Mary Shelley:
…There was a pounding at the door. My God! Could it be Percy Bysshe? If he found out she'd been "experimenting" again, it would kill him.
"Just one moment, please," she said, trying to shove the monster back into the darkness of the attic.
"Get back into a recess . . . back! . . . back!" Mary whispered hoarsely.
The monster looked at her. "That's easier Sade than Donne . . ."
Even in this intolerable moment of panic, Mary could not resist a tiny rush of pride. Whatever she had created, it was far more literate than she had guessed . . .