162 new of 207 responses total.
(Accordingly, I've emailed him.)
Metamorphosis is indeed one of the best short stories I read (I dsont mean that I read a lot, but I do sporadically). Chamelion by Chekov, Gift of Magi , the double dyed deceiver, tmakes the whole world kin etc. by Ohenryetc. are some other great stories according to me. I hope, Steve comes up soon with a quote. I bet, I wont abe able to solve it, but will enjoy reading the responses.
It's been a few days, and STeve has neither entered a quote here nor responded to my reminder mail (unless I missed it - I get a lot of mail). So I think we should move on and someone enter another quote. My feeling is that sekari has first dibs if he wants, since he knew the previous author but wasn't fast enough.
ok, give me a few hours and i'll dig something up
It's been a few hours, and sekari hasn't dug up anything.
i have dug up many things, all of them i think are much too obscure. I will get something up...
(sorry for the delay. I had to search for this book and eventually found
it hiding in a box in my garage)
This morning I was up early-indeed I slept poorly all night,
doubtless from the weight of the guilt I feel about my errand yesterday,
though it does seem it isn't my own, but rather Master's, as doing his
bidding is only my duty. Still it was my half-day and I'd a perfect right
to refuse, though such a course never come to me for a moment until after
the whole thing was concluded. I dressed now and went down to the kitchen,
hoping to be at my work before Cook come in, but of course she was there
and would ask at once how my day had gone and if I'd found the cloth for
my cloak, so I had to sit over my tea and lie about going to this store
and that, but nothing would do. Lying does not come easy to me, nor do I
do it well. I thought Cook looked at me close, and felt myself blushing
with confusion. Then Mr. Poole come in and said that Master had been in his
laboritory the entire night and had just come in and wanted his breakfast
and fire and then to be left alone, as he intended to sleep until noon,
he was that done in. Cook turned to her pans and I put one my bonnet and
apron feeling grateful to have the opportunity to deliver my message so
early in the day. Mr. Bradshaw came in and he and Mr. Poole sat down at
the table to wait on their own breakfast. "I'll do the fire now," I said
and went off feeling disapproval in the air, though this was likely my
own imagining as there was nothing uncommon in my actions.
the unvanquished? (faulkner)
nope
Could it be from Dracula by Bram Stoker? It would be fitting for Halloween and all.
Reminds me of Stevenson, but I doubt it. I might as well supply it as a guess, though.
Intriguing quote. Female narrator, obviously a servant. The "Master" is someone who spends time in a laboratory. Seems British, 19th century. I'd rule out Dracula because I don't think it had a female narrator. I'd probably have guessed R.L. Stevenson if senna hadn't beaten me to it. As a backup, I'll guess William Wilkie Collins, although I think that's less likely than Stevenson.
Mary Shelley, perhaps?
Hm, could be Shelley, but she was early 19th century, and the passage has a later feel to it. Actually, now that I think about it, this may be from Stevenson's _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_. There *was* a film a couple of years ago based on that, told from a servant woman's point of view (she was played by Julia Roberts). Haven't read the book though.
The film was called "Mary Reilly".
is it frankenstein by any chance ? I guess, as always, I am wrong!!!
I think the book _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ is narrated by a friend of Jekyll's, but it's been awhile since I've read it.
A segment of Dracula was narrated by mina. Frankenstein was Narrated by the Sea Captain, Frankenstien, and the Monster. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was written from the point of view of Mr. Utterson, the lawyer. With two post mortum narrations by Dr. Lanyon and Dr. Jekyll. The piece that my quote comes from has been mentioned, but not in it's literary form, and I don't think it was mentioned as an actual guess. I thought if I waited a day or two someone would guess it officially or something. The quote is from 'Mary Reilly', written by Valerie Martin in 1990. I am not sure who won this one. remmers made the first reference to it, and mcnally named it. I'll let someone else sort it out.
Ok! this is my first stint, and i haven't read the rules quite thoroughly ..
so please do NOT accuse me of cheating .. here's a sitter ...the opening lines
of which book are
'Last night I dreamt of Manderley again.'
That's from "Rebecca" by Daphne du Maurier..
re #64: but the rules of the game are that you have to correctly
enter the last person's question before you get a turn to
post your own quote.
re #63: hmmm.. since you haven't seen fit to decide I'll cede
to remmers if he wants it. if he doesn't, I've got an
amusing book handy which should be quote-worthy..
oh, terrific; i finally find out where everyone is (isn't blundering around enjoyable?) and you're politely holding the door open for each other - i think mcnally should go ahead, and consider the du maurier quote as an accidental tie-breaker...
That viewpoint is quite okay with me. I cede to McNally and look forward to his quite.
(However, I should point out that the goal is always to identify the *author*, and neither McNally nor I did that. Identifying the work is neither necessary nor sufficient.)
sorry if i'm just blundering around and getting in the way here (while everybody waits patiently for a quote) but i don't suppose any of you know if there was ever an answer to maeve's quote at the end of the summer? i've only just stumbled across it, and i've chewed my fingernails down to about mid-forearm by now being frustrated by it...
Sorry, dunno. (And I should have typed "quote" not "quite" in resp:68)
well, i did wonder about asking if you'd meant to say 'that viewpoint is quote okay with me' but it seemed dangerously close to being facetious, especially since i've only just stuck my head above the water around here... oh well, with a little luck maeve'll be in here at some point, and might be kind enough to put me out of my misery...
I was aware that the author had not been named, and I am awre that I jumped the gun a bit. My reasoning was that if I mentioned or alluded that it was Mary Reilly, then it would have just been a race to look it up. If I didn't mention it, then people would have kept on guessing and it would have moved away from Mary Reilly. I did wait a few days. If I made a mistake, I apologise.
Nah, what you did was reasonable. I just wanted to remind folks that this is an author-guessing game primarily.
er which quote of mine was that? I think I had two or possably three, they were, 'The Worm Orouboros', 'Rebecca' and 'Gaudy Night' does that help any?
brilliant! you've no idea how pleased i am to see you! it was: When
I opened my eyes we were by a bend in the road, and a peasant girl in a
black shawl waved to us; I can see her now, her dusty skirt, her
gleaming, friendly smile, and in a second we had passed the bend and
could see her no more. Already she belonged to the past, she was only a
memory.
or at least that was the end of it - and ye gods, i don't know either of
those (rebecca being the exception)! hey ho; here was me thinking it
sounded familiar...<hollow laugh>...
so which, please please, and authors?...)
...thank-you!
E M Forrester?
OK, new quote as promised:
"Orwell -- and let us never forget that he was an Eton boy
from a fairly privileged background -- regarded the labouring
classes the way we might regard Yap Islanders, as a strange
but interesting anthropological phenomenon. In 'Wigan Pier' he
records how one of the great panic moments of his boyhood years
was when he found himself in the company of a group of working
men and thought he would have to dring from a bottle they were
passing round. Ever since I read this I've had my doubts about
old George frankly. Certainly he makes the working class of
the 1930s seem disgustingly filthy, but in fact every piece of
evidence I've ever seen shows that most of them were almost
obsessively dedicated to cleanliness. My own father-in-law
grew up in an environment of starkest poverty and used to tell
the most appalling stories of deprivation -- you know the kind
of thing: father killed in a factory accident, thirty-seven
brothers and sisters, nothing for tea but lichen broth and a
piece of roofing slate except on Sundays when they might trade
in a child for a penny's worth of rotten parsnips, and all that
sort of thing. And *his* father-in-law, a Yorkshireman, used to
tell even more appalling stories of hopping 47 miles to school
because he only had one boot and subsisting on a diet of stale
buns and snot butties. 'But,' they would both invariably add,
'we were always clean and the house was always spotless.'"
Beware of jumping to incorrect conclusions..
Interesting quote. The spelling of "labouring" suggests that the author is not American. (But maybe that's an "incorrect conclusion" that I should beware of jumping to.)
it does sound very english - but too light-hearted to be serious biography... love that hopping 47 miles bit. the father-in-law reference leads me to wonder if it might be bill bryson, and something like notes from a small island?
Indeed. Good guess.. I thought that one might be a bit easy (especially since I mentioned the book in the "what have you read lately?" item in the books conference) so I tried to choose a misleading passage. sjones has correctly identified both the author and the book. I'd recommend "Notes From a Small Island" -- it's a humorous account of a writer's last trip through Britain before moving back to the USA, after having spent (seven?) years there..
cool! i'm all excited...) and please call me simon... is the 'w.h.y.r.l.' item lively? must try it... in the meantime, have a go at this - don't know whether it'll be easy or not... 'There in the dusty light from the one small window on shelves of roughsawed pine stood a collection of fruitjars and bottles with ground glass stoppers and old apothecary jars all bearing antique octagon labels edged in red upon which in Echols' neat script were listed contents and dates. In the jars dark liquids. Dried viscera. Liver, gall, kidneys. The inward parts of the beast who dreams of man and has so dreamt in running dreams a hundred thousand years and more. Dreams of that malignant lesser god come pale and naked and alien to slaughter all his clan and kin and rout them from their house. A god insatiable whom no ceding could appease nor any measure of blood. The jars stood webbed in dust and the light among them made of the little room with its chemic glass a strange basilica dedicated to a practice as soon to be extinct among the trades of men as the beast to whom it owed its being.'
H.P. Lovecraft?
i can see why you say that, but the mystical'swords&sorcery'-sounding elements are something of a sidetrack here; this is a writer who is very firmly grounded in reality, it's just that his description is, er, idiosyncratic...)
Well, I was going to guess Poe, but I don't really think he was "firmly grounded in reality".
Likewise, I was going to guess Roald Dahl but I wouldn't think that that description applied to him, either, except perhaps in direct comparison with Lovecraft..
you thought it was the BFG too?
no to poe and a snarl at dahl - you'll enjoy looking back at the bfg when you've got what this is...) um... not sure how to give clues that don't just give it away. you *could* connect this novel to a major genre, definitively linked to america, but it's not exactly a typical example of the genre... is that too vague? if you work out 'the beast who dreams of man' you'll be getting a lot closer... and just say when you think it's time for another quote from the same text...)
Hmmm. Some of that clue makes me think of "The Mists of Avalon" by Marion Zimmer Bradley, but the American thing kinda blows it. I'll guess her anyway.
I'd rule out Bradley on the "firmly grounded in reality" bit though.
The only major genre strongly linked to America that I can think of
is the western. At least one Jack London piece had a western setting
and was told from the viewpoint of a beast ("The Call of the Wild").
Also, London's writing was "naturalistic". So I'll guess him.
sorry, you're right that marion zimmer bradley's wrong... on both counts...) but remmers is heading straight in the right direction with the genre, although jack london is too long ago... and never really quite that pyrotechnic... oh, and it's the right beast, too...)
Well, in that case I'll guess Louis L'Amour, completely coming in from nowhere but the last 2 responses.
Well, Farley Mowatt wrote about wolves, so I'll guess him.
wow - i've never heard of either louis l'amour or farley mowatt (so no to both...) here, try another bit from the same book: 'They rode after dinner the three of them the nine miles to the SK Bar ranch and sat their horses and halloed the house. Mr Sanders' granddaughter looked out and went to get the old man and they all sat on the porch while their father told Mr Sanders about the wolf. Mr Sanders sat with his elbows on his knees and looked hard at the porch floorboards between his boots and nodded and from time to time with his little finger tipped the ash from the end of his cigarette. When their father was done he looked up. His eyes were very blue and very beautiful half hid away in the leathery seams of his face. As if there were something there that the hardness of the country had not been able to touch.' it's his concept of sentence structure which <i think> makes him stand out...
He seems to be a master of the run-on sentence. :) I don't read westerns and so am not familiar with the various authors' styles, just a few names. So I'll pick a name out of a hat: Zane Grey.
This sounds badly written enough to be by the guy who wrote _Bridges of Madison County_.
Carl Sagan?
zane grey is still not recent enough - you're after someone still writing today - and it's not the bridges of madison county author or good old carl... looking back at the second passage, i can see why you might think it's written badly - but it's all very deliberate, and i reckon he's the most powerful writer of descriptive prose alive, in his enormously idiosyncratic way... for example: 'He watched the night sky through the front room window. The earliest stars coined out of the dark coping to the south hanging in the dead wickerwork of the trees along the river. The light of the unrisen moon lying in a sulphur haze over the valley to the east. He watched while the light ran out along the edges of the desert prairie and the dome of the moon rose out of the ground white and fat and membranous. Then he climbed down from the chair where he'd been kneeling and went to get his brother.' and the run-on sentence? you bet! i've not quoted any of the *long* ones yet...:) he breaks rules, to be sure; but then again, so did hemingway... er... being new to all this, i'm not entirely sure what sort of clues to offer - so feel free to ask for hints in areas where you think it might help... how about: he lives in el paso, texas, and the new york times book review called him a 'great and inventive storyteller...<who> writes brilliantly and knowledgeably about animals and landscapes.'
A contemporary Texas author. Don't know of many. I believe Larry McMurtry is a Texan, but I don't think this is him.
James Herriot is not an American, but I'll throw that in as a guess anyway.
McMurtry lives in Washington DC.
James Lee Burke?
Kinky Friedman? I've never made it through one of his books, but I kind of like his albums.
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.'
In a dream, a voice spoke to me: It said "Cormac McCarthy, Cormac McCarthy" over and over. So, um, could it be Cormac McCarthy?
(Er, not quite. I was whispering "Close the door and let's party".)
(That does sound a bit like "Cormac McCarthy", doesn't it. Oh well...)
<giggle!!!> I need to get Bob on grex some time when he's feeling goofy!
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...)
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.
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?
i have no idea what this is, but i like it.
Is this one of those really fancy riddles like the sphinx asks?
hey, thanks for the cormac mccarthy site - that's really kind.
Aha! Yeats.
Ack! Got it in one. Yeats it is. Your turn. Re resp:113 - No, because the Sphinx knew the answers to its riddles.
I figured the Riddle of the Sphinx out in about 10 minutes. I don't see what all the hubbub was about. ;)
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.
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...
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.)
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?
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..
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.
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...)
andi'djustliketoapologiseforhavingjustnoticedthati'vejustusedjusttooofte n...
The part most recently quoted is America, specifically Washington (state),
sometime around 1915 or a bit after. The earlier quote (at the dance) would
be a bit before 1925. The book was published in 1977. The author's other
books I'm aware of (by title only) are (if I recall) all on words, word games,
word puzzles, etc., and published within a few years of 1980. As for the
author's birth date, I'm taking for granted that he's being truthful in
his account of his early life ... from which I'll quote:
I entered this sad world at 6.05 A.M. on the eleventh day of
December in the year of our Lord 1910. My birthplace was my parents'
bedroom in a small frame cottage (since destroyed) in downtown
Olympia, capital of the state of Washington. The family had arrived
there while I was still humuncular; my father, a native of the
sparsely settled southwestern corner of the state, was the choice of
the citizens of Pacific and Wahkiakum counties to represent them as
state senator, at a stipend, I believe, of five dollars a day.
The --- family never amounted to much, but always to something;
at least we knew who we were. Mr. --- had our sort in mind when he
wrote
I belong to that highly respectable tribe
Which is known as the Shabby Genteel
Too proud to beg, too honest to steal.
The exact instant of my birth is on record because my brother
Edwin, then not quite two, the previous evening had stuffed into
himself his first wedge of angel-food cake. He then had begged his
way into my parents' bed on a plea of bellyache. At 5.03 A.M. he was
removed, objecting loudly, to make room for me. One hour and two
minutes later, objecting just as loudly, I arrived to replace him.
I was an ethereal-appearing infant, with violet-colored eyes of
the giant economy size, set off by long dark lashes; I looked through
rather than at my surroundings. "That one," said the hired girl, "is
not long for this world." Mama marked the words, and on the erroneous
assumption that I had been delivered in a crate marked "fragile--right
side up with care," gave me special handling.
In 1913, legislative service being a luxury my father could no
longer afford, we returned home to the isolated settlement of
Oysterville, where Papa owned a thousand acres of empty oysterbeds and
another thousand or so of tide meadows and marshland. On these latter
he ran stock and raised hay and vegetables. Oysterville was and is
located on Shoalwater Bay (now called Willapa Harbor), near the point
of a narrow, tree-covered sandspit thirty miles long, springing from
the mouth of the Columbia River. The village, founded in 1854,
prospered for half a century on the tasty oysters that crowded the
banks of the bay channel. But the oysters died out, and by the time
my memory begins there could not have been more than a dozen families
still in the neighborhood, cultivating truck gardens and milking
cows.
(Again, in this case it should not be necessary to recognize the author,
much less the work. Try identifying the author of the *included* quotes,
Uncle Allie under his _nom_de_plume_ of Mr. ---. (Another sample is
present in this extract.) That plus a search engine should quickly lead you
to the title of the present work. (About a third of the book is devoted
to a selection from the works of this most prolific author, BTW, as
an appendix.))
Hmm. Off for a week, and no one has guesses, ponderings, etc. Let's try
another quote from early in the book.
When my fourth birthday approached, I deliberately selected a
poem by Mr. --- to remind my family of the impending anniversary. I
recited the verse as we were chatting around the dinner table after
dessert--and this time no one laughed:
My birthday is coming tomorrow,
And then I'm going to be four;
And I'm getting so big that already
I can open the kitchen door;
I'm very much taller than Baby,
Though today I am still only three;
And I'm bigger than Bob-tail the puppy,
Who used to be bigger than me.
Scarcely a high point in literary annals, one would think; but
the recitation aroused as much fluttering and squawking at that table
as if a fox had slipped into a chicken coop.
"Who taught you that, Willard?" asked Mama. "I know _I_ didn't."
"And _I_ didn't," added Medora.
"Nobody taught me," I said. "I read it in a book."
Everyone at the table began to babble (except for Dale, who was
still working on her custard dessert, and my father, who looked at me
with a little smile lurking between his moustache and his goatee).
"Are you pretending you can really read?" . . . "I don't believe" . . .
"But when" . . . "Prove it!"
"I will," I said grandly. Pushing back my chair, I marched off
for the evidence, and returned with a book. "Here is another one of
Mr. ---'s verses. And you, Medora"--here I stuck out my tongue--"and
you, Suzita"--here I stuck out my tongue again--"won't understand it
at all."
"Be polite to your sisters, Willard," said Papa. When Papa
spoke, I obeyed. "I'm sorry," I said; "I was only teasing." I read
aloud:
I might not, if I could:
I should not, if I might;
Yet if I should I would,
And, shoulding, I should quite!
I must not, yet I may;
I can, and still I must;
But ah! I cannot--nay,
To must I may not, just!
I shall, although I will,
But be it understood,
If I may, can, shall--still,
I might, could, would, or should!
If my earlier recitation brought on a babble, this one produced a
stunned silence. The fact that I could really read had been accepted
and dismissed; the new question was--and several moments passed before
Mama put it--_what_had_I_just_read?_
(This selection took place long before Uncle Allie's appearance on the
scene, not to mention the revelation of his identity as Mr. ---, the
author of the included verses. (Again, recall that Mr. ---'s name is
part of the title of this work. Note that the passage also includes
a clue to the identity of the author of the book being quoted.))
Oh!!! Willard Espy.
You've got it, Larry. The work is _The_Life_and_Works_of_Mr._Anonymous_.
It purports to be (and, I think, *is*) a somewhat fictionalized autobiography.
The fiction is that his uncle Alfred (who (truly) disappeared in the Klondike
in 1879) returns, and proves to be the (current) Anonymous, author of all
works published under that name, and (ultimately) designates Espy as the
next in that line. Mr. Anonymous, accompanied by his dog Author Unknown,
gets together (offstage, unfortunately) on occasion with his cronies Idem,
Ibid., and Trad.
The last third of the book is a selection from the works of this most
prolific author. I'll close with one of them as a parting shot:
Somebody said that it couldn't be done--
But he, with a grin, replied
He'd never be one to sayi it couldn't be done--
Leastways, not till he tried.
So he buckled right in, with a trace of a grin;
By golly, he went right to it.
He tackled The Thing That Couldn't Be Done!
And he couldn't do it.
Espy's other works are things like _An_Almanac_of_Words_at_Play_, books
on word games, etc. I haven't managed to track any of them down yet,
but hope to eventually.
polygon is up whenever he gets ready.
Here's something a little different. Proper names have been changed to
initials.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I have intended for some time to write and explain to you the arrangement
I have made for my future residence, and respecting my private affairs
with a view to my comfort, so far as I may expect it, but it has been
painful to me to execute it.
My ill state of health continuing, consisting of a cough, which annoys me
by night and day with considerable expectoration, considering my advanced
years, although my lungs are not affected, renders the restoration of my
health very uncertain, or indeed any favorable change in it. In such a
state I could not reside on my farm. The solitude would be very
distressing, and its cares very burdensome. It is the wish of both of my
daughters, and of the whole connection, that I should remain here and
receive their good offices, which I have decided to do. I do not wish to
burden them. It is my intention to rent a house near Mr. G., and to live
within my own resources so far as I may be able. I could make no
establishment of any kind without the sale of my property in L., which I
have advertised for the 8th of June, and given the necessary power to Mr.
G. and my nephew J. If my health will permit, I will visit it in the
interim and arrange affairs there for that event and my removal here. The
accounting officers have made no decision on my claims, and have given me
much trouble. I have written them that I would make out no account
adapted to the act, which fell far short of making me a just reparation,
and that I would rather lose the whole sum than give to it my sanction, be
the consequences what they may. I never recovered from the losses of the
first mission, to which those of the second added considerably.
It is very distressing to me to sell my property in L., for, besides
parting with all I have in the State, I indulged a hope, if I could retain
it, that I might be able occasionally to visit it, and meet my friends, or
many of them, there. But ill health and advanced years prescribe a course
which we must pursue. I deeply regret that there is no prospect of our
ever meeting again, since so long have we been connected, and in the most
friendly intercourse, in public and private life, that a final separation
is among the most distressing incidents which could occur. I shall resign
my seat as a visitor at the Board in due time to enable the Executive to
fill the vacancy, that my successor may attend the next meeting. I beg
you to assure Mrs. M. that I never can forget the friendly relation which
has existed between her and my family. It often reminds me of incidents
of the most interesting character. My daughter, Mrs. H., will live with
me, who with the whole family here, unite in affectionate regards to both
of you.
Very sincerely, your friend,
something nineteenth century?
Yes, #130 was written in the nineteenth century.
Trollope?
Sounds like Jefferson or Franklin or one of those guys, but I wonder where this "L" place could be.
Not Trollope, not Jefferson, not Franklin, but like all of those, a dead white male.
"London"? That was my guess for the L-word, anyway. I have no idea whom it might be, though.
Larry slipped in. I was responding to #134.
The L. place is not London.
I'll make a truly wild guess, almost guaranteed to be wrong. Wilkie Collins.
It's not clear whether the quote is from a work of fiction or non-fiction (e.g. a collection of somebody's letters). But I'm not asking Larry to tell us. <remmers continues to ponder>
Re 139. It is not Wilkie Collins. Re 140. I realize that there is some ambiguity there. You didn't ask, but I'll tell: this letter was not written for publication. The writer died twelve weeks later. Later today, I will post an additional quote from the same writer which *was* written for publication.
Louisiana?
The L. place is not Louisiana.
Lesotho? :-)
Lumbago? (Or whatever Albert Schweitzer's place was called?)
[But that would make it 20th century. Never mind.]
The L. place is neither Lesotho nor Lumbago. I'm sorry to say that it is more obscure than that, and that the letter references it in a somewhat eccentric way (a second word which would normally accompany it is omitted).
Here's another excerpt: - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The advantage of a first meridian is known even to those who know least of the science on which it depends. To doubt it would be to doubt the advantage of Longitude which regulates every movement on the ocean, and the divisions and subdivisions; in short the correct measurement of every part of our globe. All nations have agreed in the propriety of establishing a first meridian. Every Mariner at Sea, from the time he leaves port, begins to calculate his distance by reference to some fixed meridian, and every astronomical observer on land, in making his calculations obeys the same rule. Scientific men agree that it would be of advantage to science, if all nations would adopt the same first meridian and before the discovery of the new world, this was the case. It appears that the antient Geographers had adapted for their first meridian a line passing through the most distant of the Fortunate or Canary Islands, because it was the most western land then known. It appears also, that the changes which the antients made in their first meridians, of which there were several, were made in consequence of the discovery of the neighboring Islands, which were still more to the westward, and on the principle of passing it through the most western point with which they were acquainted. But after the discovery of America which banished the idea of the most western limit, that of a general meridian gradually lost ground; and latterly it has been completely abandoned. The great maritime and commercial nations of Europe have respectively established first meridians of their own: England, hers at Greenwich; France, hers at the observatory Paris; and several other nations at some fixed point within their respective limits since the period alluded to, the establishment of a first meridian, -- for themselves, has become by the usage of nations, an appendage, if not an attribute of sovereignty. The United States have considered the regulation of their coin, and of their weights and measures, attributes of sovereignty. The first has been regulated by law, and the second has occasionally engaged their attention. The establishment of a first meridian appears, in a like view, to be not less deserving of it, at least until by common consent, some particular meridian should be made a standard. In admitting the propriety of establishing a first meridian within the United States, it follows that it ought to be done with the *greatest* mathematical precision. It is known that the best mode yet discovered for establishing the meridian of a place is by observations made on the heavenly bodies; and that to produce the greatest accuracy in the result, such observations should be often repeated at suitable opportunities, through a series of years by means of the best instruments. For this purpose an observatory would be of essential utility. It is only in such an institution, to be founded by the public, that all the necessary implements are likely to be collected together; that systematic observations can be made for any great length of time and that the public cn be made secure of the result of the labors of scientific men. In favor of such an institution, it is sufficient to remark, that every nation which has established a first meridian within its own limits, has established also an observatory. We know there is one at Greenwich, at Paris, Cadiz, and elsewhere.
The story so far: I have posted quotes at 130 (a private letter written in the 19th century, 12 weeks prior to the writer's death) and 148. The writer is acknowledged to be a dead white male. Incorrect guesses: Trollope, Jefferson, Franklin, and Wilkie Collins.
Martin Van Buren?
Re 150. Not Martin Van Buren.
Melville?
Re 152. Not Melville.
I've a hunch that the author was American and the quotes are from the early 19th century, based on factual and stylistic clues. The interest in geography and measurement suggests Mason or Dixon, but they did their famous surveying project (Mason-Dixon Line) in the mid-18th century. I suppose one of them might have lived into the 19th century though, so I'll guess Mason or Dixon (I've no idea which).
Re 154. Yes, the author was American. Yes, both quotes are from the first half of the 19th century. No, he was not either Mason or Dixon; I would be very surprised if either one lived into the 19th century. The writer is better known than those guys. Incidentally, "Mason and Dixon line" as a socio-political term originated in the overheated oratory of some Southern member of Congress in the 1850s -- I'm sorry I don't have Safire's political dictionary handy to give the specifics. Before that, Mason and Dixon had been forgotten for years.
The first meridian (Greenwich) was chosen by international accord in 1884. What this author is saying about it is practically identical to what John Ward had to say about the issue in 1714 - but then its not him. I'll guess James Monroe, with L. being Loudoun (County), where he went, deeply in debt and expecting reimbursement from Congress, to live with his daughter prior to his death. His interest in the first meridian must have devolved from his friendship with Jefferson and his interest in the development and division of the west.
That sounds plausible. I'd be willing to bet that the writer is at least a known political figure..
Drat, I don't get to post the third quote -- a detailed eyewitness account
of a particularly turbulent stage of the French Revolution. I figured
that one would give it away, since Monroe was in Paris at the time as a
diplomatic representative of the United States.
Rane is correct that the writer is James Monroe (1758-1831), who was
President of the U.S. from 1817 to 1825, and correct that "L." stands for
Loudoun (County, in Virginia), but wrong about where Monroe went to live
with his daughter: it was in New York City, in the neighborhood now known
as the Lower East Side.
On a guided tour there a few years ago, the house where Monroe died, on
July 4, 1831, was pointed out. The letter posted in #130 was addressed by
Monroe, who was in New York, to James Madison, his predecessor as
President, and dated April 11, 1831. The "Mrs. M." in the letter refers
to Dolly Madison.
Obligatory Political Graveyard reference: Monroe was buried (or
really, entombed in an undergound vault) in Marble Cemetery, off 2nd
Avenue in New York City, but then reburied in 1858 in Hollywood
Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia. Michigan's first governor, Stevens
T. Mason, was also laid to rest in Marble Cemetery, and also removed
for reburial, in downtown Detroit in 1905. Marble Cemetery still
exists, but it's hard to see -- it has no street frontage (it's
literally in the middle of a block, surrounded by buildings) and is
not open to the public. To add to the confusion, there is another
unrelated Marble Cemetery a block away which does have some street
frontage.
The quote about the prime meridian dates from 1812, when Monroe was
Secretary of State and was asked to give a report on this subject by
Congress. I left out the parts where he emphatically declares "the
incompetency of his knowledge" on scientific subjects.
Rane is next.
While I am digging for a suitable quote (I'm currently reading _A Focus on Peatlands and Peat Mosses_ by H. Crum, which is probably too obscure from which to quote), I'd like to ask polygon what he has been reading by or about Monroe, or is this a bit of research that came up with his Political Graveyards studies?
I suppose most of it came about through Political Graveyard research. Recent email correspondence with a historian who also happens to be a member of the Board of Trustees of Marble Cemetery has enhanced my understanding of that cemetery's history. She originally contacted me to correct the references to Marble Cemetery in my web site. The tour of the Lower East Side of NYC, under the auspices of the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, was conducted by Prof. James Shenton of Columbia University. Further, a biography of Monroe I picked up at a used book sale provided the letter seen in #130. Because of my limited understanding of U.S. political history in the first half of the 19th century, I have been going out of my way to read up on it. The quotes about the prime meridian and about the French Revolution were unearthed specifically for this item from the 7-volume set of "The Writings of James Monroe", published in 1898, which I located at the U-M library's storage facility on Greene Street. Since Monroe's inaugural and State of the Union speeches are all on the Web, I couldn't use those; any random phrase put to Alta Vista would quickly turn them up.
"By about four in the afternoon we had crossed the summit of the mountain line, said farewell to the western sunshine, and began to go down upon the other side, skirting the edge of many ravines and moving through the shadow of dusky woods. There arose upon all sides the voice of falling water, not condensed and formidable as in the gorge of the river, but scattered and sounding gaily and musically from glen to glen. Here, too, the spirts of my driver mended, andhe began to sing aloud in a falsetto voice, and with a singular bluntness of musical perception, never true either to melody or key, but wandering at will, like that of the song of birds. As the dusk increased, I fell more and more under the spell of this artless warbling, listening and waiting for some articulate air, and still disappointed; and when at last I asked him what it was he sang - 'Oh,' cried he, 'I am just singing!' Above all, I was taken with a trick he had of unweariedly repeating the same note at little intervals; it was not so monotonous as you would think, or, at least, not disagreeable; and it seemed to breathe a wonderful contentment with what is, such as we love to fancy in the attitude of trees, or the quiescence of a pool."
Jack London?
Not London, but like London, a male.
Richard Haliburton?
Patrick McManus?
J.R.R. Tolkein?
Do I presume you mean Richard Halliburton, the adverturer? Unlike Halliburton, our author wrote both fiction and non-fiction, although they were both well travelled, in fact to even some of the same ports. However they could not have met, and only one would have known of the other's writings. Not McManus, but unfortunately I am not familiar with his work, so I cannot offer contrasts. Also not Tolkein - they indulged in rather different styles of fantasy. I meant to comment on remmer's previous guess of London. It would be interesting if a critic had compared London to the author. They could have met and, in fact, briefly lived within a half-days journey of each other. I am pretty sure that one was familiar with the writings of the other and was probably influenced by them. Now, to advance our story a little. I use only the initial for the name of characters: "F. served my meals in my own apartment; and his resemblance to the portrait haunted me. At times it was not; at times, upon some change of attitude or flash of expression, it would leap out upon me like a ghost. It was above all in his ill-tempers that the likeness triumphed. He certainly liked me; he was proud of my notice, which he sought to engage by many simple and childlike devices; he loved to sit close before my fire, talking his broken talk or singing his odd, endless, wordless songs, and sometimes drawing his hand over my clothes with an affectionate manner of caressing that never failed to cause in me an embarrassment of which I was ashamed. But for all that, he was capable of flashes of causeless anger and fits of sturdy sulleness. At a word of reproof, I have seen him upset the dish of which I was about to eat, and this not surreptitiously, but with defiance; and similarly at a hint of inquisition. I was not unnaturally curious, being in a strange place and surrounded by strange people; but at the shadow of a question, he shrank back, lowering and dangerous. Then it was that, for a fraction of a second, this rough lad might have been the brother of the lady in the frame. But these humours were swift to pass; and the resemblance died along with them."
London was polygon's guess, not remmers' guess. Yes, I meant Richard Halliburton, the adventurer.
It's difficult to deduce the period from the quotes, but if the author could have known London, that pins it down to late 19th or earlier 20th century. The spelling of "humours" suggests that the author is from somewhere in the British Commonwealth. I'll guess Robert Louis Stevenson. The dates and nationality are about right.
Lawrence Durrell.
Stevenson is correct. This is one of the 'lesser known' short stories published by Stevenson, titled _Olalla_, in 1885, when he was in poor health in Bournemouth. During the same period he also wrote _Kidnapped_ and _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. Of course I picked Olalla as being more obscure than those two. I thought I had diverted attention from Stevenson with the (less widely known) information that he had lived (in San Francisco) near London (in Monterey) when London was ca. 3 years old. Your turn, John.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."
Um, no, too easy.
<remmers ponders>
Okay, here goes:
Helena came over on a hot July day. She was of that
particular breed which has always made me feel in-
adequate. Tallish, so slender as to be almost, but
not quite, gaunt. The bones that happen after a few
centuries of careful breeding. Blond-gray hair,
sun-streaked, casual, dry-textured, like the face,
throats, backs of hands, by the sun and wind of the
games they play. Theirs is not the kind of cool
that is an artifice, designed as a challenge. It is
natural, impenetrable, and terribly polite. They
move well in their simple, unassuming little two-
hundred-dollar dresses, because long ago at Miss
Somebody's Country Day School they were so thor-
oughly taught that their grace is automatic and
ineradicable. There are no girl-tricks with eyes
and mouth. They are merely there, looking out at
you, totally composed, in almost exactly the way
they look out of the newspaper pictures of social
events.
One hint for now: Author is dead American male.
Random guess: John Cheever?
a wild guess - JFK
John Updike.....whoops, he's probably still alive.
Updike is indeed alive and still writing. Not John Cheever, not JFK.
Robert Penn Warren.
Not Robert Penn Warren.
Another quote from the same work. I've suppressed the name of the
locale in the last paragraph because... because... well, because
that's just the way I am.
I hung up wondering why they didn't think about the
bottom of the lake. She'd had a try at about everything
else except jumping out a high window. What was the word?
Self-defenestration. Out the window I must go, I must go,
I must go...
Then some fragment of old knowledge began to nudge at the
back of my mind. After I had the eleven o'clock news on
the television, I couldn't pay attention because I was
too busy roaming around the room trying to unearth what
was trying to attract my attention.
Then a name surfaced, along with a man's sallow face,
bitter mouth, knowing eyes. Harry Simmons. A long talk,
long ago, after a friend of a friend had died. He'd added
a large chunk onto an existing insurance policy about
five months before they found him afloat, face-down, in
[name of location deleted].
Sounds like it might be Raymond Chandler (The lady in the lake?)
Not too bad a guess, except that the passage refers to eleven o'clock TV news. There was no such thing in the 1940's when _Lady in the Lake_ was written. In any case, it's not Chandler.
Shucks. Did they have the news at 10, then, because people went to bed earlier?
Nah, the just didn't have TV to any great extent.
So to zero in on dating, we need to know that it was late enough for TV news and early enough that $200 was a lot of money for clothes.
late sixties early seventies? john d macdonald, by any chance? and boy did i have to rack my brain to remember, probably in vain...)
To my knowledge John D Macdonald is still alive. But that may be the other one, I think there are two of them in the literary field. I know that one of them is a rather obscure author of young-adult sci-fi books. Hmm, I'll have to do some checking on that the next time I'm at the library.
Re #186: Bingo! John D. MacDonald it is. You got the time period right
too. Quotes are from _The Girl in the Plain Brown Wrapper_ ("A Travis
McGee Novel"), published in 1968. Excellent literary detective work by
wgm and sjones. Shucks, I was hoping it would be harder.
John D. MacDonald passed away a few years ago - sometime in the 1980's,
I think. Although best known for crime novels, especially the Travis
McGee series, he did write a bit of scifi and fantasy (_The Girl, the
Gold Watch, and Everything_, _Ballroom of the Stars_). Nothing
young-adult as far as I know, so sekari's probably thinking of a
different MacDonald.
The location I concealed in the second quote was Biscayne Bay. I felt
that revealing a Florida setting might be too big a clue.
Okay, sjones is up for the next quote.
No, John D. MacDonald did write some young adult science fiction novels. I have one of them, though I don't remember the name of it. I'd read it as a kid, then later tracked it down in a used bookstore. A lot of well-known authors have written science fiction. Dean R. Koontz was a B-grade science fiction author in the 1950's and 60's. (They were *awful*. They gave me hope; if those novels got published, I figured I too would be able to write salable science fiction. When I discovered he was a best-selling horror writer, I was pretty surprised.) Howard Fast wrote some wonderful science fiction novelettes.
Perhaps some of you are thinking of the science fiction author/editor MacDonald and not Remmers' detective-fiction writing MacDonald.
I happened to be in Dawn Treader a little while ago, and I looked to see if they had the MacDonald book I mentioned earlier. They didn't, but they did have a few books in the science fiction section by John D. MacDonald. I opened one of them, and saw a list of his other works, including the Travis McGee series. This isn't proof of anything -- I wasn't familiar with the book I opened, or any other books I saw there by MacDonald -- but maybe it's some indication.
Yeah, I think we are. I am rather sure that there are two of them because I read a book by the sci-fi one and then saw a bunch of books by an author of the same name and wondered about it. I will be going to the library tomorrow, I'll check this out and report back.
well i never! what a set of mixed emotions - i was delighted when sekari said he was still alive, and then secretly rather glad he was dead after all since it meant i was right... sorry, john d! definitely more by luck than good judgement, i must admit, although i've enjoyed the travis mcgee ones i've read - really excellent characterisation, i think. very dark, though, aren't they? in terms of the violence, i mean. okay, here's something from a book i was surprised to see on sale at a ridiculously cheap price today, which lead to me buying it and taking it round to the dinner party i was on my way to, and being rather less social than i should have been... 'And now there was an end of path or road. More than ever the camel seemed insensibly driven; it lengthened and quickened its pace, its head pointed straight towards the horizon; through the wide nostrils it drank the wind in great draughts. The litter swayed, and rose and fell like a boat in the waves. Dried leaves in occasional beds rustled underfoot. Sometimes a perfume like absinthe sweetened all the air. Lark and chat and rock-swallow leaped to wing, and white partridges ran whistling and clucking out of the way. More rarely a fox or hyena quickened his gallop, to study the intruders at a safe distance. Off to the right rose the hills of the Jebel, the pearl-grey veil resting upon them changing momentarily into a purple which the sun would make matchless a little later. Over their highest peaks a vulture sailed on broad wings into widening circles. But of all these things the tenant under the green tent saw nothing, or at least, made no sign of recognition. His eyes were fixed and dreamy. The going of the man, like that of the animal, was as one being led.' well, i hope *some* of that will prove to be misleading...)[but of course that statement itself might be a double bluff...)] ps i think i'd rather be simon than sjones - would i have to go back and create a new account altogether to be able to do that, or is there any way i could shortcut it?
I'm afraid you'd have to create a new account and, as luckj would have it, someone already has login 'simon'.
re #193: If you spend enough time encouraging people to call you "Simon" it will eventually stick but a lot of people around here (myself included) tend to refer to people by login id in the absence of any indication to the contrary. If nothing else it's unlikely to cause serious offense and is almost always unambiguous. You could always change your name in this conference to "Call me Simon".. :-)
thanks for the advice, folks - i can see the sensible rationale behind using login id as a default, and i wondered if such a simple account name might have been taken already - glad to have that cleared up...) and now, thanks to you lot, i'm struggling with the desire to change name to 'Call me Ishmael'...) but happy, as ever, to come in and find that the very next posted message *isn't* 'how obvious and easy, the answer is...'!
Re resp:191 - The John D. MacDonald who wrote the Travis McGee series also wrote some scifi and fantasy, but I suspect it's a different MacDonald who wrote the young-adult stuff. A web search turned up a number of fan sites on the "McGee" MacDonald, and some bibliographies, but nothing about any young-adult scifi that I could spot. I wait clarification from sekari. Re Simon's new quote in resp:193 - Great imagery in that passage. I'm not familiar with it, although I've a guess as to who the author might be. Since I just gave a quote, I'll refrain.
and now i feel as though i'm trying to guess what your guess might be! thanks for the name...) [makes me feel as though i'm really here, which doesn't sound very rational, but i'll ignore that...]
it turns out that I was mistaken. The author I was thinking of is James D. Macdonald. He has written three or four young adult horror novels with his wife Debra Doyle.
is this one not really working for people, then? the first big clue i can think of is that the film version is probably far better known - and also that the tone of the extract is a fair guide to figuring out its approximate date... especially (i think) that 'insensibly driven'...! and happy anniversary, remmers! does your guess have a film version?...)
Thanks! As to film version, not that I'm aware of.
hmm. e. m. forster?
i can see why forster, but this predates him, although not by a great
deal. on the back of my copy, the publisher's blurb describes it as
'the only novel that ranks with 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' as a genuine
American folk possession' - although i'd better come clean and admit
that took me somewhat by surprise.
i'm *fairly* sure, remmers, that if the text you have in mind doesn't
have film connections, it's probably off-course - *i* was very much more
aware of the film than the book.
here's a little more, then:
'Let us add now, the world - always cunning enough of itself; always
whispering to the weak, Stay, take thine ease; always presenting the
sunny side of life - the world was in this instance helped by (his)
companion.
"Were you ever at Rome?" he asked.
"No," Esther replied.
"Would you like to go?"
"I think not."
"Why?"
"I am afraid of Rome," she answered with a perceptible tremor of
the voice.
He looked at her then - or rather down upon her, for at his side she
appeared little more than a child. In the dim light he could not see
her face distinctly; even the form was shadowy. But again he was
reminded of Tirzah, and a sudden tenderness fell upon him - just so the
lost sister stood with him on the house-top the calamitous morning of
the accident to Gratus. Poor Tirzah! Where was she now? Esther had
the benefit of the feeling evoked. If not his sister, he could never
look upon her as his servant; and that she was his servant in fact would
make him always the more considerate and gentle towards her.'
hope that hasn't given too much away...
i'm off home to wales for a fortnight tomorrow, but i'll try and check
in as often as i can...
That characterization of the work as a "genuine American folk possession", ranking with "Uncle Tom's Cabin", *should* be a big clue I guess, though it doesn't suggest anything offhand. (Well, it does tell us that the author is American, I suppose.)
Booth Tarkington.
randomly..'Towers of Trebizond'?
sdf
You have several choices: