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Grex > Books > #77: The Mysterious Quote - Fall 1998 Edition | |
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| 25 new of 207 responses total. |
jep
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response 100 of 207:
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Nov 11 16:32 UTC 1998 |
James Herriot is not an American, but I'll throw that in as a guess
anyway.
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omni
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response 101 of 207:
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Nov 11 20:46 UTC 1998 |
McMurtry lives in Washington DC.
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atticus
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response 102 of 207:
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Nov 11 23:14 UTC 1998 |
James Lee Burke?
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janc
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response 103 of 207:
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Nov 12 05:36 UTC 1998 |
Kinky Friedman? I've never made it through one of his books, but I kind
of like his albums.
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sjones
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response 104 of 207:
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Nov 12 14:12 UTC 1998 |
no to kinky friedman, james lee burke, larry mcmurtry and james herriot.
james lee burke is the closest in terms of style and selling power, and
certainly has some of the same kind of underlying darkness, but this
writer doesn't really tread into the detective genre.
i'm running out of ideas as to what sort of clues to offer, so please
feel free to make suggestions. here, meanwhile, is the opening
paragraph of the book:
'When they came south out of Grant County Boyd was not much more than a
baby and the newly formed county they'd named Hidalgo was itself little
older than a child. In the country they'd quit lay the bones of a
sister and the bones of his maternal grandmother. The new country was
rich and wild. You could ride clear to Mexico and not strike a
crossfence. He carried Boyd before him in the bow of the saddle and
named to him features of the landscape and birds and animals in both
spanish and english. In the new house they slept in the room off the
kitchen and he would lie awake at night and listen to his brother's
breathing in the dark and he would whisper half aloud to him as he slept
his plans for them and the life they would have.'
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remmers
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response 105 of 207:
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Nov 12 15:40 UTC 1998 |
In a dream, a voice spoke to me: It said "Cormac McCarthy, Cormac
McCarthy" over and over.
So, um, could it be Cormac McCarthy?
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mary
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response 106 of 207:
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Nov 12 16:31 UTC 1998 |
(Er, not quite. I was whispering "Close the door and let's party".)
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remmers
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response 107 of 207:
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Nov 12 17:25 UTC 1998 |
(That does sound a bit like "Cormac McCarthy", doesn't it. Oh well...)
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suzie
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response 108 of 207:
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Nov 13 04:23 UTC 1998 |
<giggle!!!>
I need to get Bob on grex some time when he's feeling goofy!
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sjones
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response 109 of 207:
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Nov 13 09:25 UTC 1998 |
dream or dodgy hearing, either way it's inspirational, and you're home
and dry - it's from 'The Crossing', which is the second in his Border
trilogy. if by any chance it wasn't just a dream, what was it that made
the connection for you? and thankyou both for making me laugh out
loud...)
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remmers
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response 110 of 207:
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Nov 13 11:28 UTC 1998 |
Heh. As to how it really happened - I haven't read Cormac McCarthy but
have read something about him and his work. The last quote rang a bell,
I thought of his name, searched on the web, and came up with a short bio
which mentioned that he lives where you said the author does - El Paso,
Texas. That was the clincher, although I would have guessed him next
anyway.
By the way, there's a rather elaborate Cormac McCarthy website at
http://www.cormacmccarthy.com/
It's run by "The Cormac McCarthy Society", which seems to be a bunch of
fans. McCarthy himself doesn't appear to be involved with it.
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remmers
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response 111 of 207:
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Nov 13 16:23 UTC 1998 |
Ok, time for a new quote. Let's try some poetry:
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is no natural in n age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
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sekari
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response 112 of 207:
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Nov 13 19:09 UTC 1998 |
i have no idea what this is, but i like it.
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suzie
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response 113 of 207:
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Nov 14 03:52 UTC 1998 |
Is this one of those really fancy riddles like the sphinx asks?
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sjones
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response 114 of 207:
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Nov 14 06:01 UTC 1998 |
hey, thanks for the cormac mccarthy site - that's really kind.
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davel
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response 115 of 207:
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Nov 14 12:18 UTC 1998 |
Aha! Yeats.
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remmers
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response 116 of 207:
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Nov 14 13:21 UTC 1998 |
Ack! Got it in one. Yeats it is. Your turn.
Re resp:113 - No, because the Sphinx knew the answers to its riddles.
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omni
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response 117 of 207:
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Nov 14 17:48 UTC 1998 |
I figured the Riddle of the Sphinx out in about 10 minutes. I don't
see what all the hubbub was about. ;)
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davel
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response 118 of 207:
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Nov 15 02:12 UTC 1998 |
OK, again I'm choosing something I expect is pretty obscure, on the grounds
that it's a favorite of mine & deserves to be better known. I'll be somewhat
surprised if anyone actually *recognizes* it - unpleasantly so if it's too
fast - but hope to give some clues that will enable the author to be guessed
by one who hasn't read the book. Grexers being what they are, someone may
well recognize it, though.
This is the only book I've read by this author. I'm aware of at least a
couple of others, by title, and they're only tangentially related.
Anyway, here goes
I tiptoed back to the dance, away from the murmuring voices.
Twenty minutes later Mrs. Calder entered the room, her hair and
lace-collared green dress a trifle disheveled. The expression on her
face made me glad I was not a cat close enough for her to kick. She
plumped herself down at the other end of my bench, glaring at the
revellers. Once in a while she muttered under her breath. Her hands
clenched and unclenched as if she were milking a cow. Soon, from just
outside the window there came a song so soft that it must have been
intended for only her ears and mine:
We're a' dry wi' the drinkin' o't,
We're a' dry wi' the drinkin' o't,
The minister kissed the fiddler's wife,
And he couldna preach for thinkin' o't.
Mrs. Calder leaped as if she had sat on a pin and spun about, her
hands in two tight fists. "You!" she shouted. "You dreadful--" Then
she realized that her voice was overriding Henry Lehman's
reel-calling, and broke off. A soft chant came again from the yard:
Some men want youth, and others health,
Some want a wife, and some a punk,
Some men want wit, and others wealth,
But they want nothing that are drunk.
The briefest of pauses, and then:
Would you be a man of fashion,
Would you lead a life divine?
Take a little dram of passion
In a lusty dose of wine.
If the nymph has no compassion,
Vain it is to sigh and groan,
Love was but put in for fashion,
Wine will do the work alone.
Mrs. Calder clapped her hands to her ears, her face crimson, and
scurried to the other side of the room.
Uncle Allie was apparently erring aimlessly and drunkenly about
the school yard, singing whatever occurred to him; had he been a dog,
I would have said he was baying the moon. Once the words went:
I have no pain, dear Mother, now,
But oh, I am so dry;
So connect me to a brewery,
And leave me there to die.
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maeve
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response 119 of 207:
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Nov 15 16:17 UTC 1998 |
re 111, ah, that's why I had it going through my head with the elad
singer's voice from The Cranberries..I like it when things like that
fit...
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davel
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response 120 of 207:
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Nov 15 19:24 UTC 1998 |
Hmm. Not a guess or comment so far? Some clues are in order.
This is going to require occasional editing. I'm going to give some clues,
including brief extracts. In form, this work is autobiographical, and in fact
apparently (mostly) actually so, & the author bears his own name. However,
another character dominates the book. Though identified with the author's
long-lost great-uncle, this character is entirely fictitious; but giving his
name would identify the book (character's name is part of title).
From the Author's Note at the beginning:
The statements about my height and appearance on pages 68 and 103
of this book are lies. So are any and all references to Mr. ---
and Author Unknown. The rest of the book is completely factual,
including the disappearance of my great-uncle Alfred Richardson in
the Klondike in 1879.
Author Unknown is Uncle Allie's dog. Here also are the referenced descriptions
of the author:
from p. 68:
In view of his reputation as a phrasemaker, it may seem a
letdown that his first words when he descended from Mr. Lehman's
stage (now a Reo truck) were: "My! How you've grown!" Still,
it was a natural thing to say. I had shot up until at the age of
fifteen I was almost as tall as Uncle Allie himself; my height so
embarrassed me that I walked with a self-conscious stoop.
from p. 103:
The campus newspaper was so hungry for copy that it would
print virtually anything. In my drive for sexual conquest, I
inundated the columns with poetry. I had to, for I lacked such
other sexual bait as athletic prowess, symmetry of feature and form,
or campus leadership. At least my effusions rhymed and scanned;
free verse was the order of the day, but I managed to avoid that
ultimate heresy. That the verses lack intellectual content was
inevitable, since I had nothing to say.
I should add that what I've said, combined with my first quote in certain
respects, provide a significant clue to Uncle Allie's other identity and thus
to the title of the book. (In fact, I just found it inside 1 minute using a
Title Words search at www.amazon.com, using no information beyond what I've
already given - except the information of how to put the clues together.)
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sjones
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response 121 of 207:
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Nov 15 20:46 UTC 1998 |
well, you're giving me a headache here, dave. got a feeling i've never
heard of this author - and i'm definitely confused by what seems to be a
combination of american and scottish settings. and clues and other
identities and suchlike just seems to make me feel stupid...)
what a great name for a dog, though...
hello there again maeve; i don't suppose you ever read resp:76 by any
chance?
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maeve
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response 122 of 207:
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Nov 16 15:35 UTC 1998 |
er yes, and I thought I'd sent you mail about it...if you didn't get
it, tell me and I'll send it again..
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davel
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response 123 of 207:
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Nov 17 02:51 UTC 1998 |
All the actual settings in the book are, I think, American. Certainly in what
I quoted. I'm curious what gave you the idea of a Scottish setting?
I'll add the hint that all the included quotations (that is, the bits of verse
(& in other places occasionally prose) treated as literary quotations by the
work I'm quoting) are alleged to be creations of Uncle Allie.
I'll try another quote. This is Uncle Allie's (and Author Unknown's) arrival
on the scene. It's a bit long ...
It was hard in those days to distract me from my reading. (A
family joke is that when our house once caught on fire, the men
dashing back and forth with buckets of water had to jump over me,
because I was lying in the midst of the bedlam reading comic
supplements.) Nonetheless, I gradually became aware of a cawing of
crows to the south. The sound grew louder, as if the crows were
coming my way; I first suspected, and then was certain, that their
caws were either accompanying or trying to drown out a human voice
raised in song. Though the tune was familiar, at first I could not
distinguish the words. At last I identified a refrain familiar to
anyone who had ever sung around an Oysterville piano:
As I was a-walking one morning for pleasure,
I spied a cow-puncher all riding along;
His hat was throwed back and his spurs was a-jingling,
And he approached me, a-singing this song:
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
It's your misfortune, and none of my own.
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
For you know Wyoming will be your new home.
An instrumental accompaniment underlay the song, and each stanza
concluded with a mournful howl that could not have emanated from a
human throat. I lifted my gaze from the book and watched a turn in
the road, a thousand feet away, to see what would appear. First, low
over the trees, the crows came flying; then a stranger, accompanied by
an enormous dog, strolled into view. I stood up to see better.
The arrival of a stranger would have been startling in any event,
for to all intents and purposes strangers had vanished from
Oysterville. Perhaps they had been wiped out two generations back as
a by-blow of the measles and smallpox that had exterminated our
Indians. But these two visitors would have staggered anyone merely by
their looks.
Both the man and dog were of extraordinary size. The man must
have stood close to six and a half feet tall, nor could he have
weighed less than two hundred and fifty pounds; yet some parts of his
body were scarcely more filled out, from all appearance, than my own.
As he drew nearer, I could see that his features were sharply etched
and his face even thin; yet the dewlap beneath his chin swung like a
bull's. A woman eight months pregnant could scarcely have boasted so
great a belly; its circumference, I learned later, came to sixty-three
inches. His head was shaped like an oversized gourd standing on its
stem end, but a gourd that had undergone much cross-breeding; before
that moment, I had no idea how apt the expressions "cauliflower ears"
and "rutabaga nose" could be. He wore a derby hat; steel-rimmed,
thick-lensed glasses magnified his eyes.
His thinner parts were as unprecedented. His neck--long, with a
large Adam's apple--appeared too fragile to bear the weight of his
head, which as far as I could see maintained its place through a
balancing act; the head was in constant delicate motion, adjusting to
the movements of his body as tightrope walkers adjust to the swaying
of their ropes.
His neck was set into shoulders too narrow for so enormous a man.
His heavy white sweater, of the knitted, patterned variety we now call
Irish, could not hide the meagerness of his upper torso, or the
spindling of his arms. His legs looked like a pair of asparagus
stalks that had forgotten to stop growing.
As he sang, he plucked at a mandolin slung from a rope around his
neck. Another sling held a box camera at the apogee of his belly.
Strapped to his shoulders was the biggest valise I had ever seen--a
sort of steamer trunk with a handle. Atop the valise was a wooden
contraption of a kind that I could not immediately decipher. He
advanced with an incongruous lightness of foot--a ponderous glide,
reminiscent of the progress of a great cat.
More striking than the man, if possible, was the dog, which stood
as high as a newborn calf. It had short, yellowish hair, exposing
every prominence and hollow of its grotesque body. Out of kindness, I
would like to euphemize the appearance of the creature, as I have done
for its owner, by using metaphorical terms; but unfortunately its
every repulsive detail was unmistakably labelled Dog. The face was in
size as that of a wolf-hound, but squashed in a fashion reminiscent of
a horribly magnified Pekinese. If the least attractive physical
characteristic of every canine species could be enlarged to impossible
proportions, and then fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle, such a
monstrosity as this would be the result.
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sjones
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response 124 of 207:
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Nov 17 17:40 UTC 1998 |
oh dear. well, mostly just me being stupid, no change there. the
reel-calling was part of it, and the mention of cows - and the names...
<embarrassed admission:> i just didn't really think about it
analytically, just took it for granted... oops!
so now i've gone away and thought analytically about it, and i've worked
out <drum roll> that i've never ever ever read this book. i know i
wouldn't have forgotten descriptions like those...
so... we're looking at round about the 1930s/40s in america?... and it's
not someone well known? that's going to be me sunk...) er...<name out
of hat> updike? bloody wish i'd been a bit faster off the mark with
that yeats now!
oh, thankyou maeve - sorry, nope, i haven't got any mail from you - and
now i'm going to go away and see if i can figure out how to send mail to
a grexer...) (hey, i did say not clever...)
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