271 new of 278 responses total.
here's another quotation taken from the same work as the one in resp:1: then suddenly, in the absolute stillness that prevailed, y-----'s small sweet voice began to sing 'un bel di vedremo'. the effect was stunning. in that place, in that atmosphere, in the dark night beside the lake outside p------'s window, i was moved beyond words. i saw the composer freeze. the pen was in his hand against the paper and the hand froze and his whole body became motionless as he sat listening to the voice outside the window. he didn't look round. i don't think he dared to look round for fear of breaking the spell. outside his window a young maiden was singing one of his favorite arias in a small clear voice in absolutely perfect pitch. his face didn't change expression. his mouth didn't move. nothing about him moved while the aria was in progress. it was a magic moment. then y----- stopped singing. for a few seconds longer p------ remained sitting at the piano. he seemed to be waiting for more, for a sign of some sort from outside. but y----- didn't move or speak either. she simply stood there with her face upturned to the window, waiting for the man to come to her. and come to her he did. i saw him put down his pen and rise slowly from the piano stool. he walked to the window. then he saw y-----. i have spoken many times of her scintillating beauty, and the sight of her standing out there so still and serene must have come as a glorious shock to p------. he stared. he gaped. was this a dream? then y----- smiled at him and that broke the spell. i saw him come suddenly out of his trance and i heard him say, "dio mio come bello!" then he jumped clear out of the window and clasped y----- in a powerful embrace.
here are some more hints: this author was married to an american actress, and was also more well-known for his children's books than for the books geared more toward adults.
My guess is C S Lewis. If this is right, i'll come up with something better than Heinlein as a quote :)
The clue describes Roald Dahl.
Damn, just missed it. I think you're right MD. It seemed very familiar.
If that's who it is, then you can enter the next quote, cyklone. I didn't guess the quote, just the clue.
Well, I'm fresh out of quotes today (and we haven't gotten confirmation that we're right), so I think I'll wait a bit . . . . .
roald dahl is right. the quotations were from _my uncle oswald_. i'll let cyklone and md decide between themselves who is next.
quit quit at the start of a line ?
"Fiery the angels fell. Deep thunder rolled along lee shores." "Burning with the fires of Ork."
d00d...is that a zepplin t00n?
Heh, yeah.
None the less, we're waiting for either cycyklone or md ...
I'll defer to anyone who wants to enter a quote (or to md).
Oops, sorry. Here's one: "She says this park would make a tidy summer resort, if there was any custom for it. Summer resort -- another invention of hers -- just words, without any meaning. What is a summer resort? But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for explaining."
Here's another one, same author of course:
"The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything
I can do. I had a very good name for the estate, and
it was musical and pretty -- Garden-of-Eden. Privately,
I continue to call it that, but not any longer publicly.
The new creature says it is all woods and rocks and
scenery, and therefor has no resemblance to a garden.
She says it *looks* like a park, and does not look like
anything *but* a park. Consequently, without consulting
me, it has been new-named -- Niagara Falls Park. This
is sufficiently highhanded, it seems to me. And already
there is a sign up:
KEEP OFF
THE GRASS
My life is not as happy as it was."
Twain.
Got 'im! Johnnie's up.
Damn. I love that story. "The Diary of Adam and Eve". I especially like the last line. "Wherever she was, there was Eden."
Okay, here we go... The young dandy was so much absorbed in his anxious quest that he did not observe his own success; he did not hear, he did not see the ironical exclamations of admiration, the genuine appreciation, the biting gibes, the soft invitations of some of the masks. Though he was so handsome as to rank among those exceptional persons who come to an opera ball in search of an adventure, and who expect it as confidently as men looked for a lucky coup at roulette in Frascati's day, he seemed quite philosophically sure of his evening; he must be the hero of one of those mysteries with three actors which constitute an opera ball, and are known only to those who play a part in them; for, to young wives who come merely to say, "I have seen it," to country people, to inexperienced youths, and to foreigners, the opera house must on those nights be the palace of fatigue and dulness. To these, that black swarm, slow and serried--coming, going, winding, turning, returning, mounting, descending, comparable only to ants on a pile of wood--is no more intelligible than the Bourse to a Breton peasant who has never heard of the Grand livre. With a few rare exceptions, men wear no masks in Paris; a man in a domino is thought ridiculous. In this the spirit of the nation betrays itself. Men who want to hide their good fortune can enjoy the opera ball without going there; and masks who are absolutely compelled to go in come out again at once. One of the most amusing scenes is the crush at the doors produced as soon as the dancing begins, by the rush of persons getting away and struggling with those who are pushing in. So the men who wear masks are either jealous husbands who come to watch their wives, or husbands on the loose who do not wish to be watched by them--two situations equally ridiculous. Now, our young man was followed, though he knew it not, by a man in a mask, dogging his steps, short and stout, with a rolling gait, like a barrel. To every one familiar with the opera this disguise betrayed a stock-broker, a banker, a lawyer, some citizen soul suspicious of infidelity. For in fact, in really high society, no one courts such humiliating proofs. Several masks had laughed as they pointed this preposterous figure out to each other; some had spoken to him, a few young men had made game of him, but his stolid manner showed entire contempt for these aimless shafts; he went on whither the young man led him, as a hunted wild boar goes on and pays no heed to the bullets whistling about his ears, or the dogs barking at his heels.
thomas pynchon?
'fraid not...
seems to be a dearth of guessing. let's try another quote from the same work... At this moment journalists, dandies, and idlers were all examining the charming subject of their bet as horse-dealers examine a horse for sale. These connoisseurs, grown old in familiarity with every form of Parisian depravity, all men of superior talent each his own way, equally corrupt, equally corrupting, all given over to unbridled ambition, accustomed to assume and to guess everything, had their eyes centered on a masked woman, a woman whom no one else could identify. They, and certain habitual frequenters of the opera balls, could alone recognize under the long shroud of the black domino, the hood and falling ruff which make the wearer unrecognizable, the rounded form, the individuality of figure and gait, the sway of the waist, the carriage of the head--the most intangible trifles to ordinary eyes, but to them the easiest to discern. In spite of this shapeless wrapper they could watch the most appealing of dramas, that of a woman inspired by a genuine passion. Were she La Torpille, the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, or Madame de Serizy, on the lowest or highest rung of the social ladder, this woman was an exquisite creature, a flash from happy dreams. These old young men, like these young old men, felt so keen an emotion, that they envied Lucien the splendid privilege of working such a metamorphosis of a woman into a goddess. The mask was there as though she had been alone with Lucien; for that woman the thousand other persons did not exist, nor the evil and dust-laden atmosphere; no, she moved under the celestial vault of love, as Raphael's Madonnas under their slender oval glory. She did not feel herself elbowed; the fire of her glance shot from the holes in her mask and sank into Lucien's eyes; the thrill of her frame seemed to answer to every movement of her companion. Whence comes this flame that radiates from a woman in love and distinguishes her above all others? Whence that sylph-like lightness which seems to negative the laws of gravitation? Is the soul become ambient? Has happiness a physical effluence? The ingenuousness of a girl, the graces of a child were discernible under the domino. Though they walked apart, these two beings suggested the figures of Flora and Zephyr as we see them grouped by the cleverest sculptors; but they were beyond sculpture, the greatest of the arts; Lucien and his pretty domino were more like the angels busied with flowers or birds, which Gian Bellini has placed beneath the effigies of the Virgin Mother. Lucien and this girl belonged to the realm of fancy, which is as far above art as cause is above effect.
Could we have a hint or two about the author?
Balzac.
(Balzac would have been my guess too. Perhaps it's even right...)
Balzac is, indeed, correct. From "Scenes From a Courtesan's Life".
I defer to remmers, who had guessed Balzac but got here too late, and who enters far more interesting mystery quotes than I.
Balzac's a real author? Wow. I just remember the line from "Music Man."
Yep, Balzac is for real. Generally regarded as one of the great 19th century novelists. Hm, I should find a quote. I'll try to do that by tomorrow.
This quote is from a living American writer:
The study -- sold as a prefabricated toolshed -- is
eight feet by ten feet. Like a plane's cockpit, it is
crammed with high-tech equipment. There is no quill pen
in sight. There is a computer, a printer, and a photo-
copying machine. My backless chair, a prie-dieu on which
I kneel, slides under the desk; I give it a little kick
when I leave. There is an air conditioner, a heater, and
an electric kettle. There is a low-tech bookshelf, a
shelf of gull and whale bones, and a bed. Under the bed
I stow paints -- a one-pint can of yellow to touch up
the window's trim, and five or six tubes of artists'
oils. The study affords ample room for one. One who is
supposed to be writing books. You can read in the space
of a coffin, and you can write in the space of a tool-
shed meant for mowers and spades.
The Unabomber?
Richard Bach?
piers anthony?
I'm looking forward to finding out this one. Nice.
Farley Mowat?
Got me. About all I'm reading nowadays are texts.
Not the Unabomber, Richard Bach, Piers Anthony, or Farley Mowat. Unabomber was an interesting guess, except that although he might have worked out of a shed, he would never have had a computer or other high-tech equipment in it. He'd likely have favored quill pens.
Sounds like a room description from an Infocom text adventure (except for the first-person statements).
Hm, it does at that. But the quote is not from Infocom. :) I'll try to continue the quote later today, assuming nobody's gotten the author by then.
Okay, here's more of the author's workplace description begun in
resp:38 - perhaps there are some clues here.
I walk up here from the house every morning. The study
and its pines, and the old summer cottages nearby, and the
new farm just north of me, rise from an old sand dune high
over a creeky salt marsh. From the bright lip of the dune
I can see oyster farmers working their beds on the tidal
flats and sailboats underway in the saltwater bay. After
I have warmed myself standing at the crest of the dune, I
return under the pines, enter the study, slam the door so
the latch catches -- and then I cannot see. The green spot
ini front of my eyes outshines everything in the shade. I
lie on the bed and play with a bird bone until I can see
it.
Appealing workplaces are to be avoided. One wants a
room with no view, so imagination can dance with memory in
the dark. When I furnished this study seven years ago, I
pushed the long desk against a blank wall, so I could not
see from either window. Once, fifteen years ago, I wrote
in a cinderblock cell over a parking lot. It overlooked a
tar-and-gravel roof. This pine shed under the trees is not
quite so good as the cinder-block study was, but it will
do.
"The beginning of wisdom," according to a West African
proverb, "is to get you a roof."
Skinner? :)
Heh. Cute guess, but nope.
Annie Dillard.
Yup - Annie Dillard it is. Her best known work is "Pilgrim at Tinker's Creek". I've been quoting from an essay published in the late 1980's. Nice job. Dan's up.
Oooh. I'd never have guessed that one.
Whoa....This is the first one I've ever gotten. :) I do like Annie Dillard, though.
(Who's Annie Dillard? (The _Pilgrim_at_Tinker's_Creek_ I've met is unlikely to be the one you're referring to, John.))
I'd be very surprised to learn that there's a book with that name by another writer, but you never know. Annie Dillard had one magical book in her, _Pilgrim at Tinker Creek._ (Not "Tinker's.") A kind of hippie or proto-New-Age _Walden_. Her subsequent work (like Thoreau's after _Walden_) fell so far short of her one masterpiece that you begin to wonder where _Tinker Creek_ came from.
Here's the next quote: "How beautiful and how terrible are the words with which Gods speaks to the soul of those He has called to Himself, and to the Promised Land which is participation in His own life--that lovely and fertile country which is the life of grace and glory, the interior life, the mystical life. They are lovely to those who hear and obey them: but what are they to those who hear them without understanding or response?"
Herman Hesse?
Not Herman Hesse.
I could swear I've read this one, but have no idea who it's by. Re #56: the book I'm thinking of was given to me when I was a kid, back in the early 1960s or so. I think the title must be a quotation, though I don't know the source.
Umberto Eco?
re #57: is the "s" on the end of "Gods" in the first line of the quote
correct or is it meant to be singular -- "God"?
oops. sorry. It should indeed be 'God' and not 'Gods'. The God being spoken of here is the Christian God. It's not Umberto Eco.
i have the same feeling as davel.
Here's another quote: "The monastery is a school--a school in which we learn from God how to be happy. Our happiness consists in sharing the happiness of God, the perfection of his unlimited freedom and the perfection of His love. What has to be healed in us is our true nature, made in the likeness of God. What we have to learn is love. The healing and the learning are the same thing, for at the very core of our essece we are constituted in God's likeness by our freedom, and the exercise of that freedom is nothing else but the exercise of disinterested love--the love of God for his own sake, because He is God. The beginning of love is truth, and before He will give us His love, God must cleanse our souls of the lies that are in them. And the most effective way of detaching us from ourselves is to make us detest ourselves as we have made ourselves by sin, in order that we may love Him reflected in our souls as he has remade them by His love. That is the meaning of the contemplative life, and the senes of all the apparently meaningless little rules and the observances and fasts and obediences and penances and humiliations and labors that go to make up the routine of existence in a contemplative monastery: they all serve to remind us of what we are and Who God is--that we may get sick of the sight of oursleves and turn to Him: and in the end, we will find Him in ourselves, in our own pruified natures which have become the mirror of his tremendous Goodness and of His endless love..."
Hmmmm. That indenting is kinda strange, but that's the way Backtalk formatted the text. Each new indent level is a new paragraph.
Brother Lawrence?
Grace (looking over my shoulder) says "maybe Thomas a' Kempis?". (This should count as a guess on her part, not a second guess on mine; I'm only playing secretary here. If it's right, she'll have to come up with quotes & type them in herself.)
I'm not familiar with either Brother Lawrence or Thomas a' Kempis. The author does, however, have both a given name and a name which he took upon entering the monastery.
This sounds familiar to me as well. Is it Thomas Equinas?
St. Augustine?
Seems too touchy-feely to be Aquinas and too full of love to be Augustine. Is this text translated from another language?
Not Aquinas, not Augustine. In fact, the two passages were written in the 20th century--in English.
Thomas Merton?
C. S. Lewis?
Reynolds Price?
Pee Wee Herman?
Thomas Merton is right! it's top's turn.
Oh my. I'll enter something soon.
Aha. FWIW, A' Kempis wrote _The_Imitation_of_Christ_, and Brother Lawrence wrote _The_Practice_of_the_Presence_of_God_. Both have been around a lot longer than Merton.
> #79 Twila Oxley Price (anderyn) (Tue, Apr 13, 1999 (20:45)): > Oh my. > I'll enter something soon. Ahem. This does *not* qualify as "soon".
definitely not. Twila, can I go next if you are having problems coming up with something?
Dang. Sorry. Will enter something tomorrow. Have it in mind.
Okay. Got a quote for you all. I met him first in a hurricane; and though we had gone through the hurricane on the same schooner, it was not until the schooner had gone to pieces under us that I first laid eyes on him. Without doubt I had seen him with the rest of the kanaka crew on board, but I had not consciously been aware of his existence, for the _Petite Jeanne_ was rather crowded. More later.
Could it be Robert Louis Stevenson?
No, it's not. But you're in the right time period, mostly.
Stevenson seemed like a good guess because of the Hawaiian connection..
Swift?
Swift was more than a bit earlier than Stevenson. Hm, no clue at this point. I could try guessing a few authors who wrote about the sea but will wait until I have more to go on.
Not Swift, no.
Jack London?
Now there's a likely contender..
Kipling?
Melville?
Jack London is it. The story is called "The Heathen" and it's not one of his typical ones, but I have always liked it. MD, your turn!
Okay, here's my mystery quote: In the inside there is sleeping, in the outside there is reddening, in the morning there is meaning, in the evening there is feeling. In the evening there is feeling. In feeling anything is resting, in feeling anything is mounting, in feeling there is resignation, in feeling there is recognition, in feeling there is recurrence and entirely mistaken there is pinching. All the standards have steamers and all the curtains have bed linen and all the yellow has discrimination and all the circle has circling. This makes sand.
George Orwell
Not Orwell.
Dr Seuss. Oops, almost forgot: :)
Not Dr Seuss.
(Cool quote.)
Tom Waits?
Not Tom Waits. Here's another quote, same author, same work: There is coagulation in cold and there is none in prudence. Something is preserved and the evening is long and the colder spring has sudden shadows in a sun. All the stain is tender and lilacs really lilacs are disturbed. Why is the perfect reestablishment practiced and prized, why is it composed. The result the pure result is juice and size and baking and exhibition and nonchalance and sacrifice and volume and a section in division and the surrounding recognition and horticulture and no murmur. This is a result. There is no superposition and circumstance, there is hardness and a reason and the rest and remainder. There is no delight and no mathematics.
William Carlos Williams?
RED SOVINE!!!
Neither William Carlos Williams nor Red Sovine.
One more excerpt: A light in the moon the only light is on Sunday. What was the sensible decision. The sensible decision was that notwithstanding many declarations and more music, not even notwithstanding the choice and a torch and a collection, notwithstanding the celebrating hat and a vacation and even more noise than cutting, notwithstanding Europe and Asia and being overbearing, not even notwithstanding an elephant and a strict occasion, not even withstanding more cultivation and some seasoning, not even with drowning and with the ocean being encircling, not even with more likeness and any cloud, not even with terrific sacrifice of pedestrianism and a special resolution, not even more likely to be pleasing. The care with which the rain is wrong and the green is wrong and the white is wrong, the care with which there is a chair and plenty of breathing. The care with which there is incredible justice and likeness, all this makes a magnificent asparagus, and also a fountain.
Wow! Whoever he is, this guy is prolific.
Hint: dead white Cliffie.
Re resp:108 - Yep, real prolific. Wrote at least three paragraphs. :)
What's a Cliffie?
Radcliffe student or alum.
Hint: The work quoted was published in 1914.
It's beginning to look like the obscure quote item.
How about Helen Keller? Didn't she go to Radcliffe?
Not Helen Keller. This author had her portrait painted by Picasso a few years before she wrote the book I'm quoting from. She was anything but obscure, although I admit most people haven't read this particular book, which is said to be influenced by cubism.
gertrude stein
Gertrude Stein is right. The quotes are from "Tender Buttons." The Reverend is up.
the picasso info was a gimmee:) a fragment: When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on Life we're tempest-driv'n- A conscience but a canker- A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n Is sure a noble anchor!
Donne?
Sounds kinda Robert Burns-ish.
remmers is RIGHT-O-ROONY!
What clued me was "gie" for "give", a bit of Scottish dialect I've seen
in other Burns poems. ("Oh would some power the giftie gie us...")
Oh dear, this means I come up with another quote. I'll try to do that
later today.
I like Burns, but the only poem of his I'm familiar with is the "Red, Red Rose" poem.
re 103: There is *so* mathematics. :)
Okay, here's my quote du jour:
Having put his religious house in order, Mohammed now began to
enjoy his power as the undisputed ruler of a large number of Arab
tribes. But success has been the undoing of a large number of men who
were great in the days of adversity. He tried to gain the good will of
the rich people by a number of regulations which could appeal to those
of wealth. He allowed the Faithful to have four wives. As one wife was a
costly investment in those olden days when brides were bought directly
from the parents, four wives became a positive luxury except to those
who possessed camels and dromedaries and date orchards beyond the dreams
of avarice. A religion which at first had been meant for the hardy
hunters of the high-skied desert was gradually transformed to suit the
needs of the smug merchants who lived in the bazaars of the cities. It
was a regrettable change from the original program and it did very
little good to the cause of Hohammedanism. As for the prophet himself,
he went on preaching the truth of Allah and proclaiming new rules of
conduct until he died, quite suddenly, of a fever on June the seventh of
the year 632.
(Spelling correction: should be "Mohammedanism" in 3rd from last line.)
hmmm.. the sentiment sounds modern, but "Mohammedanism" suggests that this passage was written a while back (the term is not much in fashion these days and is probably pretty offensive to Moslems..)
Right - it's 20th century, but not recent.
Bertrand Russell?
Not Bertrand Russell. But like Russell, the author is deceased.
There goes my Salman Rushdie guess... C. S. Lewis?
T.E. Lawrence?
Neither Lewis nor Lawrence. I'll post another quote soon.
Kind of out of topic, but could anyone send me some URLS about Charles Dickens' works? I need to do a project for High School and I am doing it on how Pip and other children are treated during his time. I'd appreciate if you send it to me via email. I am sogypant@grex.cyberspace or something (I I need
Go to any search engine and type in "Charles Dickens". You will get more information than all of us here could provide you if we each dedicated ourselves to nothing else for a week.
H. G. Wells?
Not H. G. Wells. Good guess though. Here's another quote:
Outwardly, the Roman state during the first century of our era was
a magnificent political structure, so large that Alexander's empire
became one of its minor provinces. Underneath this glory there lived
millions upon millions of poor and tired human beings, toiling like ants
who have built a nest underneath a heavy stone. They worked for the
benefit of someone else. They shared their food with the animals of the
fields. They lived in stables. They died without hope.
It was the seven hundred and fifty-third year since the founding of
Rome. Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus was living in the palace
of the Palatine Hill, busily engaged upon the task of ruling his empire.
In a little village of distant Syria, Mary, the wife of Joseph the
Carpenter, was tending her little boy, born in a stable of Bethlehem.
This is a strange world.
Before long, the palace and the stable were to meet in open combat.
And the stable was to emerge victorious.
What a fascinating quote.
I agree.
Gibbon?
Not Gibbon. Our author is 20th century, remember.
Here's another quote, from the same work as the previous two:
The majority of the Indian people, therefore, lived in misery.
Since this planet offered them very little joy, salvation from
suffering must be found elsewhere. They tried to derive a little
consolation from meditataion upon the bliss of their future
existence.
Brahma, the all-creator who was regarded by the Indian people
as the supreme ruler of life and death, was worshipped as the
highest level of perfection. To become like Brahma, to lose all
desires for riches and power, was recognised as the most exalted
purpose of existence. Holy thoughts were regarded as more important
than holy deeds, and many people went into the desert and lived
upon the leaves of trees and starved their bodies that they might
feed their souls with the glorious contemplation of the splendours
of Brahma, the Wise, the Good and the Merciful.
Siddhartha, who had often observed these solitary wanderers
who were seeking the truth far away from the turmoil of the cities
and the villages, decided to follow their example. He cut his hair.
He took his pearls and his rubies and sent them back to his family
with a message of farewell, which the ever faithful Channa carried.
Without a single follower, the young prince then moved into the
wilderness.
huxley? and i nearly made the gibbon slip, too...:)
Not any Huxley. Hint: Pay close attention to the style.
Well, the style is not particularly familiar to me, so that's no help. But I'll guess: Toynbee? I never actually read him, I admit.
Not Toynbee.
The style doesn't bring any particular writer to mind, at least not the way Robert Burns jumped out of the previous quote. The tone, however, is reformist or socialist.
Mitchner?
Russell?
Not Michener or Russell.
Although he wrote other things, the author is primarily known for a
single work, the one from which I've been quoting. (The previous quotes
are in resp:126, resp:138, and resp:142.)
Regarding style and tone, ask yourself: To what sort of audience might
the quotes be addressed?
Here's another quote, from the same work:
Napoleon was what is called a fast worker. His career does not
cover more than twenty years. In that short span of time he fought more
wars and gained more victories and marched more miles and conquered more
square kilometers and killed more people and brought about more reforms
and generally upset Europe to a greater extent than anybody (including
Alexander the Great and Jenghis Khan) had ever managed to do.
He was a little fellow and during the first years of his life his
health was not very good. He never impressed anybody by his good looks
and he remained to the end of his days very clumsy whenever he was
obliged to appear at a social function. He did not enjoy a single
advantage of breeding or birth or riches. For the greater part of his
youth he was desperately poor and often he had to go without a meal or
was obliged to make a few extra pennies in curious ways.
He gave little promise as a literary genius. When he competed for a
prize offered by the Academy of Lyons, his essay was found to be next to
the last and he was number 15 out of 16 candidates. But he overcame all
these difficulties through his absolute and unshakable belief in his own
destiny, and in his own glorious future. Ambition was the main-spring of
his life. The thought of self, the worship of that capital letter "N"
with which he signed all his letters, and which recorred forever in the
ornaments of his hastily constructed palaces, the absolute will to make
the name Napoleon the most important thing in the world next to the name
of God, these desires carried Napoleon to a pinnacle of fame which no
other man has ever reached.
(Hm, word in 5th from last line should be "recurred", not "recorred".)
The audience it might've been addressed to depends on when it was written. American grade school kids fifty years ago; nowadays, the brighter college graduates. The tone is of someone who has a lot of depth talking down to a relatively uneducated audience. (Whether the writer really did have a lot of depth is not evident.) It's too breezy for a textbook. More like pop history of some kind. I give up.
That's from Hendrik Willem van Loon's _The Story of Mankind_, one of the most entertaining history books ever written - and illustrated. Since he wrote some 30 books, 3 of which made the "best-seller" list (_Story_, and _The Arts_ and _Van Loon's Geography_)., John's saying he is known "primarily known for a single work" is just a reflection of the usual historical erosion of human accomplishments. I liked his _Geography_ best when I was a kid - probably because of the illustrations. _Story_ was published in 1921 and went through 30 editions. [I collected van Loon's books at one time.]
I have never read a word of van Loon's writings, to my knowledge, prior to this item. Don't know if that makes me part of the erosive process or just a victim.
His name, by the way, is pronounced like "fun loan". The oo in Dutch is, very logically, pronounced as a long O. That's why we have the word boat in English, which in Dutch is spelled boot. Lan Loon was a Dutchman who emigrated to USA, got degreres at Cornell and Harvard, and worked as a war journalist, among other things. Now, if I am right...I have a book lined up...
Hmm. I read that book when I was in grade school, I think. I remember nothing of it.
Yep, the quotes are from _The Story of Mankind_, written and illustrated by Hendrik Willem van Loon. I think it's fair to call it "pop history", as Michael does. It was written for children and was one of my favorite books when I was a kid. I still find it to be fun reading. I do remember reading van Loon's _The Arts_ as well, and liking it. _The Story of Mankind_ was, incidentally, the basis of what is a purportedly awful 1957 movie of the same name, featuring Ronald Colman, Vincent Price, Virginia Mayo, the Marx Brothers, and Dennis Hopper (!). Rane's up.
"It is a long time since I last wrote anything in this book of mine. That is because things have happened which strongly affected my life and made it impossible for me to continue with my notes. I could not even get hold of them, and only now have I had them brought to me here. "I am sitting chained to the wall in one of the castle dungeons. Until recently, my hands were also manacled, though that was quite superfluous. I could not possibly escape. But it was ment to aggravate my punishment. Now at last I have been freed from them. I do not know why. I have not asked for it, I have asked for nothing. Thus it is a little more bearable now, though my condition has not changed. I have persuaded Anselmo my jailer to fetch my writing materials and notes from the dwarfs' apartment so that I may have some slight recreation by occupying myself with them. He may have risked something by getting them for me, for though my hands have been freed it is not at all certain that they do not begruge me this little pastime. As he sasid, he has not right to grant me anything, howeever much he may wish it. But he is an obliging and very simpl;e fellow, so at last I managed to persuade him to do it. "I have read through my notes from the beginning, a little every date. It has been a certain satisfaction thus to relive my own and several others' lives and once again meditate over everything in the silent hours. I shall now try to continue from where I left off and thus provide myself with a little variety in my somewhat monotonous existence."
Dumas?
The younger or elder? Well, I'll give you two for one: a good guess, but no banana. However, like both Dumases (?), the author is a dead white male that did not write in English.
Hmmm, that eliminates Poe, who would have been my guess.
It has to be Lagerkvist.
You are correct - not Poe. However, the author was undoubtedly influenced by Poe.
A new record - it is from _The Dwarf_, by Par Lagerkvist (1951 Nobel Prize winner in literature). I guess I gave too much away too soon... Back to Michael..
Here's my quote. "About nine an appearance very unusual began to demand our attention, a shower of cobwebs falling from very elevated regions, and continuing, without any interruption, till the close of the day. These webs were not single filmy threads, floating in the air in all directions, but perfect flakes or rags; some near an inch broad, and five or six long, which fell with a degree of velocity which showed they were considerably heavier than the atmosphere. "On every side as the observer turned his eyes might he behold a continual succession of fresh flakes falling into his sight, and twinkling like stars as they turned their sides towards the sun."
Here's another quote: "At the foot of this hill, one stage or step from the uplands, lies the village, which consists of one single straggling street, three-quarters of a mile in length, in a sheltered vale, and running parallel with the Hanger. The houses are divided from the hill by a vein of stiff clay (good wheat-land), yet stand on a rock of white stone, little in appearance removed from chalk; but seems so far from being calcareous, that it endures extreme heat. Yet that the freestone still preserves somewhat that is analogous to chalk, is plain from the beeches which descend as low as those rocks extend, and no farther, and thrive as well on them, where the ground is steep, as on the chalks. "The cart-way of the village divides, in a remarkable manner, two very incongruous soils. To the south-west is a rank-clay, that requires the labour of years to render it mellow; while the gardens to the north-east, and small enclosures behind, consist of a warm, forward, crumbling mould, called black malm, which seems highly saturated with vegetable and animal manure; and these may perhaps have been the original site of the town; while the wood and coverts might extend down to the opposite bank."
Sounds like rural southern England.
Excellent. According to the village's official web site, it's "on the B3006, and surrounded by the most beautiful countryside, yet easily accessible from the A3, M3, A31 and A27. There is free parking in the village car park which also accommodates coaches." (The place has become a bit of a tourist mecca for those wishing to see the village and the above-mentioned Hanger, and tread the very path cut by the author and his brother.)
I'll try, Jane Austen.
Not Jane Austen.
(..and I can't read. It said, "the author and HIS brother" (emphasis added).)
True. Anyway, he's a dead white Brit.
He was of an older generation than Austen, too. I haven't looked up their dates, but I doubt if they overlap. Here's one last quote: "The grasshopper-lark began his sibilous note in my fields last Saturday. Nothing can be more amusing than the whisper of this little bird, which seems to be close by though at an hundred yards distance; and, when close at your ear, is scarce any louder than when a great way off. Had I not been a little acquainted with insects, and known that the grasshopper kind is not yet hatched, I should have hardly believed but that it had been a locust whispering in the bushes. The country people laugh when you tell them that it is the note of a bird. It is a most artful creature, skulking in the thickest part of a bush; and will sing at a yard distance, provided it be concealed. I was obliged to get a person to go on the other side of the hedge where it haunted; and then it would run, creeping like a mouse, before us for a hundred yards together, through the bottom of the thorns; yet it would not come into fair sight: but in a morning early, and when undisturbed, it sings on the top of a twig, gaping and shivering with its wings. Mr. Ray himself had no knowledge of this bird, but received his account from Mr. Johnson, who apparently confounds it with the reguli non cristati, from which it is very distinct. See Ray's Philosophical Letters, p. 108."
Older than Austen, eh? And here I was going to guess Thomas Hardy. Whoever it is appears to be quite the naturalist. I wonder if that's what he's primarily known for.
Wild guess: Boswell?
Not Boswell, not Hardy. Yes, he is primarily known as a nature writer. His book is as readable and charming throughout as these quotes suggest. It used to be more popular than it is now, and is said to have influenced Thoreau.
Gilbert White, _The Natural History of Selborne_. I was looking further south, in Dorset, but Hampshire was more fruitful. I don't think I've read any of White (except here).
Gilbert White it is. I'm a little surprised Rane doesn't have a well-read copy of The Natural History of Selborne gathering dust on a shelf of childhood favorites. Here's what the charmingly named Hantsweb has to say about Selborne: "The attractive village of Selborne and its beautiful countryside is famous for its association with the 18th century naturalist Gilbert White. In his book The Natural History of Selborne, he meticulously records his observations on the plants, birds and animals of this lovely part of Hampshire. "The Reverend Gilbert White (1720-1793) is regarded as England's first ecologist. He lived at "The Wakes" most of his life. The rooms have been furnished in the 18th century style and include items of his furniture, beautifully embroidered bed hangings and portraits of his family. The original manuscript is also on display." Highly recommended if you ever get over there. The book is very highly recommended. Rane's up.
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See http://www.hants.gov.uk/ for more on today's Selborne and Hampshire.)
I have to ransack my library for something I haven't already used...it is getting tougher. It might take a couple of days as I will be tied up later today and tomorrow.
Hmm. I doubt my library is *that* much bigger than yours, Rane, & I'm a long way from running out. Of course, a good many would be unreasonably obscure in this environment, but ...
If you excluded all your sci fi books, and me all my cave books, I think both our libraries would be much smaller.... :)
<remmers hopes rane doesn't post a quote from a cave book>
Night divine, O night of love,
O smile on our caresses;
Moon and stars keep watch above
This radiant night of love!
Moments fly, and ne'er return,
Our joys, alas! are fleeting;
Only memory's touch will burn
For hours that ne'er return.
Zehpyrs passion-stirred,
Waft to us loving greeting,
Zephyrs passion-stirred
Heed our tenderest word.
Night divine, O night of love,
O smile on our caresses;
Moon and stars keep watch above
This radiant night of love.
Aaargh. I think I've read it ... & have no idea.
Hello? Anyone out there? See? I didn't choose from a cave book, so what more could you ask? If you start from guesses, I can start (mis?)leading.
I ahve no idea, so I'll ahve ts start wtih the random guesses: Virgil?
Not Virgil - much more recent too. All of you know something of the work from which it comes.
Shakespear
On a second look, it seems like it may be a verse of a song. Based on that, I throw out this unlikely guess: Adolphe Adam.
Not Shakespear. However, it is indeed a verse of a song, but not by Adam (who I also don't know). I thought, in choosing it, that just the cadance of the words would give away the melody, it is so well known. In fact, I haven't been able now to get the tune out of my head.
Paul McCartney?
Not McCartney, but like McCartney, a white male.
It reminds me of the Christmas Carol "O Holy Night".
Is this quote by chance from an opera?
In what way does it remind you of "O Holy Night"? What makes you think the quote is from an opera? (We usually avoid the "20 questions" approach here, but make observations about form, style, subject, of course author, etc, which may nor may not be supported). Well, just this time....that is a provocative question, the answer to which might just be 'yes'.
Andrew Lloyd Webber?
Not Webber.
Stephen Sondheim? :)
I suspect it's from an earlier composer than either Webber or Sondheim, but have no particular clue as to who it might be.
Me neither. It's the sort of sugary hackneyed verse that makes me ill, so I can't go back a reread it. Is it a translation or something?
Not Sondheim, and it is earlier than either. It is also a translation. Here is another selection from the same work: Sweet avowal, pledge of our love, You are mine, our hearts foever are united. Ah! do you comprehend this eternal joy Of silent hearts? Living, to be one in soul, and with a single flight To soar to heaven: Ah, let my flame Bring warmth into your day Open your soul To the rays of love! (stage direction) You flee from me? What have I done? You do not answer.... Speak! Have I wounded you? Ah! I'll follow your steps! (..its not all sweetness and light..)
Well, at least that one didn't have zephyrs.
(just covering my rock opera options)
Zephyrs sell...it might help to know the work has been made into a movie.
Well, *that* one sounds a bit like Gilbert, but the first one did not. But I guess I'll guess him anyway.
Not Gilbert, but you got them both pegged as comic opera librettists, and they also flourished in the same period.
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Okay, a dead white male who wrote comic opera libretti in the late 19th century in some language other than English. Does anyone have a list of them guys?
This guy wrote or collaborated on the libretti for at least seven operas, if that helps....
It deosn't sound much like Menotti...he's not quite as cliche... And I'd guess Kurt Weill, though that's a shot in the dark...
Not Weill. Maybe if I hum a little of the melody.... mm m mm m | m-m m mm m | m-m m mm m | mmm mm o |
I meant to also say that, while Weill was a composer, this libettist was not, to my knowledge, a composer (though it is hard to find biographical information about librettists, as you have probably found out...).
R. Strauss's librettist was Hofmannsthal. Bizet's librettist for Carmen I don't know, but it was based on a novel by Merimeee'. Is it Offenbach's librettist?
Who was Offenbach's librettist?
who was Lotte Lenya?
Not Lenya.
Possibly Berthold Brecht?
A very good notion - an actually well known librettist (and author and poet...). But a several generations later, so not Brecht.
I think he means Brecht was several generations later. Was this person French?
Yes...this author is several generations *earlier* than Brecht. Sorry. Direct questions have not been the traditional way to play this game, but rather to draw interpretations from quotes, or comparative deductions, and then have those affirmed or denied. I've been struggling with how to answer direct yes-no questions (apart from those about the author's name). Michael asked earlier whether this author was Offenbach's librettist. Offenbach wrote more than 100 operas and had dozens of librettists....was this author one of them? OK, yes. [I have already confirmed that in a Jeopardian manner.] Now, can you deduce from the quotes given, which librettist of those dozens this is? I thought the author's work I've been quoting would have been the best clue to his identify, but here is an original quote from a different work: Rien!.. - En vain j'interroge, en mon ardente veille, La nature et le Createur; Pas une voix ne glisse a mon oreille Un mot consolateur! J'ai langui triste et solitaire, Sans pouvoir briser le lien Qui m'attache encore a la terre!.. Je ne vois rien! - Je ne sais rien!.. (There are few more famous opening lines in opera.)
Another yes/no question: Is this person well known in his own right?
Jules Barbier?
Jules Barbier it is - or Michel Carre'. The "sugary hackneyed verse" of the first selection (_O NIght of Love_) is accompanied by the Barcarolle, from Offenbach's Tales of Hoffman. The second selection is also from Tales, while the last are the opening area from Gounod's Faust. Carre is better known as a dramatist and poet, and his later librettist career was mostly in collaboration with Barbier. My RCA Book of the Opera lists only Barbier as the Tales librettist, while a playbill I have from a recent performance lists both Barbier and Carre'. I haven't dug further to straighten this out. You're up, flem. What was your route of deduction?
I knew those seemed familiar.. (Opera Grand Rapids produced "Tales of Hoffmann" this winter and Gounod's "Faust" last year..) Just couldn't place them..
Cool! The French version seemed very familiar to me, and I was almost certain that I had heard it sung at some point (I have). Thinking on it, I realized that the only Offenbach opera I've heard is "Tales of Hoffmann", and from there it wasn't hard to find the name of the librettist. Also, by way of confirmation, a quick internet search revealed his name in connection with several other operas, which would seem to confirm another clue. I'll have something tomorrow (er, today...), as I just stepped out of the car after a fourteen hour drive. Ugh.
Okay, here we go.
As has already been explained, our camp was between the two rivers
----- and -----, which were about thirty miles apart. Neither of
these rivers could be crossed, and so we were forced to remain in this
confined space. The states which were on friendly terms with us were
unable to send us grain; some of our own people, who had gone out for
quite a distance to bring in supplies, were cut off by the floods and
could not get back; and the large convoys of provisions coming in from
----- and ---- could not reach the camp. It was also the worst
possible time of the year. There was no grain left in the winter
stocks, and the new harvest was not quite ripe. The neighboring
tribes had been drained of supplies, since A------- had had nearly all
the grain taken to ------ before I arrived, and what little was left
had been used up by us in the last few days. Meat might have been a
possible substitute for the grain which we lacked, but we could not
even get meat because the people of the neighborhood had driven off
their cattle as soon as the war began. And those of our men who went
out to look for fodder and grain were attacked by ---------- light
infantry and ------- targeteers, who knew the country well and had no
difficulty in crossing the rivers, since they regularly carried with
them on active service bladders which could be used as floats.
Grant or Sherman?
Whassisname. Greek guy.
Not Grant, not Sherman.
I think it might be 18th century.
re #230: perhaps you're thinking Thucydides?
Washington
Not Thucydides, not Washington. I'd post another quote, but I don't have the book handy. I'll try to get one tomorrow (again, technically today), but may not succeed. The author is, as all authors guessed so far have been, deceased.
I suspect the setting is the American Civil War, but beyond that I have no clue.
Clark
Re 233: Actually, I'm not sure if I was thinking Thucydides or Herodotus... I had a weird mingling of names running through my head. Did someone guess Grant yet? Grant! <swa enjoys randomly throwing names into the air... ignorance is bliss>
Not Clark, Thucydides, Herodotus, or Grant.
Here is another quote, from a different but similar writing.
I myself was a long way away from the scene of action when I
received the news of these events from C------. For the time being I
ordered warships to be built in the river L----, which flows into the
Atlantic, crews to be raised in the Province, and steersmen and
sailors to be assembled. These orders were quickly carried out, and
as soon as the season allowed, I set out myself to join the army. The
V----- and the other states allied with them heard of my arrival. At
the same time they began to realize the gravity of the crime which
they had committed. The title of envoy has always among all nations
been a uarantee of safety; yet they had detained our envoys and thrown
them into prison. So now they began to prepare for war on a scale
proportionate to the danger with which they were faced. They gave
particular attention toward fashioning every kind of provision for
their fleet, all the more hopefully because they relied very much on
the strength of their position geographically. They know that on land
the roads were intersected by tidal estuaries and that on sea our
navigation would be handicapped by our ignorance of local conditions
and by the scarcity of harbors. They felt sure too that the mere
shortage of grain would prevent our army from staying in their country
for long. And even if things turned out quite differently from what
they expected, they still had their very formidable sea power, whereas
we had no ships available and no knowledge of the shoals, harbors, and
islands in the area where fighting would have to take place. They
could see too that to carry out naval operations in the vast open
spaces of the Atlantic was a very different thing from sailing in a
landlocked sea like the Mediterannean.
This should make it clear, among other things, that the setting is not
the American Civil War. In fact, the author did not write in English at
all.
Napolean.
Not Napoleon
A monarch who had headaches from "the V------," which I assume means the Vikings. That's a lot of monarchs, unfortunately. I'll guess Charlemagne.
I DOn"T know who, but I'll venture a couple guesses as to when. 1. Spanish armada, during the war between Spain and England. 2. War of 1812. #. Revolutionary war. Possibly John Laffite?
Julius Caesar
Julius Caesar is correct. The V------ tribe was the Veneti, located on the westernmost protrusion of what is now France. The first quotation was from the Civil Wars, the second from the Gallic Wars. It is interesting that the language of military campaigns has changed so little in the 2000 years since this was written; these quotations were very easily mistaken for more or less modern military situations. With the exception of words like "centurion" and "legion", I've found this to be fairly consistently the case in this book. Jan is up!
I once read an abridged version of "The Gallic Wars" in Latin. A quotation: ...followed by Biskaine and the negroes, [Sakr-el-Bahr] made his way down from that eyrie that had served him so well. He sprang from red oak to cork- tree and from cork-tree to red oak; he leapt from rock to rock, or lowered himself from ledge to ledge, gripping a handful of heath or a projecting stone, but all with the speed and nimbleness of an ape. He dropped at last to the beach, then sped across it at a run, and went bounding along a black reef until he stood alongside of the galliot which had been left behind by the other corsair vessels. She awaited him in deep water, the length of her oars from the rock, and as he came alongside, these oars were brought up to the horizontal, and held there firmly. He leapt down upon them, his companions following him, and using them as a gangway, reached the bulwarks. He threw a leg over the side, and alighted on a decked space between two oars and the two rows of six slaves that were manning each of them. Biskaine followed him and the negroes came last. They were still astride the bulwarks when Sakr-el-Bahr gave the word. Up the middle gangway ran a bo'sun and two of his mates cracking their long whips of bullock-hide. Down went the oars, there was a heave, and they shot out in the wake of the other two to join the fight. Sakr-el-Bahr, scimitar in hand, stood on the prow, a little in advance of the mob of eager babbling corsairs who surrounded him, quivering in their impatience to be let loose upon the Christian foe. From the mast-head floated out his standard, of crimson charged with a green crescent. The naked Christian slaves groaned, strained and sweated under the Moslem lash that drove them to the destruction of their Christian bretheren. Ahead the battle was already joined. The Spaniard had fired one single hasty shot which had gone wide, and now one of the corsair's grappling-irons had seized her on the larboard quarter, a withering hail of arrows was pouring down upon her decks from the Muslim crosstrees; up her sides crowded the eager Moors, ever most eager when it was a question of tackling the Spanish dogs who had driven them from the Andalusian Caliphate. Under her quarter sped the other galley to take her on the starboard side, and even as she went her archers and slingers hurled death aboard the galleon. It was a short, sharp fight. The Spaniards in confusion from the beginning, having been taken utterly by surprise, had never been able to order themselves in a proper manner to receive the onslaught. Still, what could be done they did. They made a gallant stand against this pitiless assailant. But the corsairs charged home as gallantly, utterly reckless of life, eager to slay in the name of Allah and His Prophet and scarcely less eager to die if it should please All-pitiful that their destines should be here fulfilled. Up they went, and back fell the Castilians, outnumbered by at least ten to one.
My, we're taking a morbid turn in this item. :) Burroughs?
Not Burroughs, though it sure does sound like him, doesn't it? Unlike Burroughs, this author was not known for science fiction.
It seems to be at least mildly sympathetic to the Moors, so it must have been written LONG after the 15th-century events depicted. Also, the word "Muslim" is used, so that dates it to the late 20th century; before that, "Mohommedan" (and variations thereupon) were MUCH more common.
I don't know exactly when this book was written. Sometime in the 20th century, before 1940. I had planned to do the next quote from another book by the same author, but I can't fetch it just now without waking Arlo. We'll instead take another scene from the career of Sakr-el-Bahr: They sight which they beheld was one that for some moments left them mazed and bewildered. Lord Henry tells us how at first he imagined that here was some mummery, some surprise prepared for the bridal couple by Sir John's tenants or the folk of Smithick and Penycumwick, and he adds that he was encouraged in this belief by the circumstance that not a single weapon gleamed in all that horde of outlandish intruders. Although they came full armed against any eventualities, yet by their leader's orders not a blade was bared. What was to be done was to be done with their naked hands alone and without bloodshed. Such were the orders of Sakr-el-Bahr, and Sakr-el-Bahr's orders were not to be disregarded. Himself he stood forward at the head of that legion of brown-skinned men arrayed in all the colours of the rainbow, their heads swathed in turbans of every hue. He considered the company in grim silence, and the company in amazement considered this turbaned giant with the masterful face that was tanned to the colour of mahogeny, the black forked beard, and those singularly light eyes glittering like steel under his black brows. Thus a little while in silence, then with a sudden gasp Lionel Tressilian sank back in his tall chair as if bereft of strength. The agate eyes flashed upon him smiling, cruelly. "I see that you, at least, recognize me," said Sakr-el-Bahr in his deep voice. "I was assured that I could depend upon the eyes of brotherly love to pierce the change that time and stress have wrought in me." Sir John was on his feet, his lean swarthy face flushing darkly, an oath on his lips. Rosamund sat on as if frozen with horror, considering Sir Oliver with dilating eyes, whilst her hands clawed the table before her. They too recognized him now, and realized that here was no mummery. That something sinister was intended Sir John could not for a moment doubt. But of what that something might be he could form no notion. It was the first time that Barbary rovers were seen in England. That famous raid of theirs upon Baltimore in Ireland did not take place until some thirty years after this date. "Sir Oliver Tressilian!" Killigrew gasped, and "Sir Oliver Tressilian!" echoed Lord Henry Goade, to add -- "By God!" "Not Sir Oliver Tressilian," came the answer, "but Sakr-el-Bahr, the scourge of the sea, the terror of Christendom, the desperate corsair your lies, cupidity, and false-heartedness have fashioned out of a sometime Cornish gentleman."
Is it Hermann Hresse?
Nope, not Hesse. These quotations were originally written in English - they are not translations.
Another quote, from another book by the same author: On they came until the Colonel was abreast of Blood. He would have passed on, but that lady tapped his arm with her whip. "But this is the man I meant," she said. "This one?" Contempt rang in the voice. Peter Blood found himself staring into a pair of beady brown eyes sunk into a yellow fleshy face like currants into a dumpling. He felt the colour creeping into his face under the insult of that contemptuous inspection. "Bah! A bag of bones. What should I do with him?" He was turning away when Gardner interposed. "He may be lean, but he's tough; tough and healthy. When half of them was sick and the other half sickening, this rogue kept his legs and doctored his fellows. But for him there'd ha' been more deaths than there was. Say fifteen pounds for him, Colonel. That's cheap enough. He's tough, I tell your honour--tough and strong, though he be lean. And he's just the man to bear the heat when it comes. The climate'll never kill him." There came a chuckle from Governor Steed. "You hear, Colonel. Trust your neice. Here sex knows a man when it sees one." And he laughed, well pleased with his wit. But he laughed alone. A cloud of annoyance swept across the face of the Colonel's niece, whilst the Colonel himself was too absorbed in the consideration of this bargain to heed the Governor's humour. He twisted his lip a little, stroking his chin with his hand the while. Jeremy Pitt had almost ceased to breathe. "I'll give you ten pounds for him," said the Colonel at last. Peter Blood prayed the offer might be rejected. For no reason that he could have given you, he was taken with repugnance at the thought of becoming the property of that hazel-eyed girl. But it would need more than repuganance to save him from his destiny. A slave is a slave, and has no power to shape his fate. Peter Blood was sold to Colonel Bishop- a disdainful buyer - for the ignominious sum of five pounds.
No idea who it is. But I can't help wondering how the seller came to accept only half of the buyer's original offer.
I was wondering that too.
Oops, the "five pounds" in the last line was a typo for "ten pounds". My brain must have been wandering.
Hmmm...I thought this author was only mildly obscure, but I may have misjudged. Well, I'll do a quote that is more of a dead giveaway in a few days. Probably this author's work is best known from the movie versions.
Rafael Sabatini..
Damn, too late. Reading that made me think immediately of the movie version of "Captain Blood", which quick research shows to have been based on a book by Sabatini... 'course, I don't know that it's right; just would've guessed it myself if I'd been quicker. :)
Mike has it! The first two quotes were from "The Sea Hawk". The last was from "Captain Blood." He seems to be a quite highly regarded adventure writer, both for pure entertainment and for historical accuracy. But most of his books are out of print and his name isn't well known anymore. But there seems to be something of a Sabatini revival going lately.
Sabatini rocks! (I have a whole lot of his books!)
As with the Grex Jeopardy! item, I'll post a new "mysterious" quote after the conference restart.
Dern. Are we restarting already?
We are, and did.
,
But it still hasn't been linked into Books, yet. <sigh>
Ask and you shall (might...) receive.
...but first someone has to start a Summer 1999 mysterious quote item...
a mysterious Quote item? Thot we had that already.
Not in Summer 1999 agora. They all stay around here indefinitely, however.
By "here", I mean in books!
Heh.
... but here it is almost July 4 & there's no mysterious-quote item in Books.
Sure there is - this is it: enter a quote.
This was the Spring one, Rane. (You mean no one's entered one in Agora after a couple of weeks? Who was up, anyway.)
I don't know (I play only very intermittently). But yes, this has not been restarted in Summer.
I play only very intermittently, too. If I recognize the author, I play. If I don't, I don't. ;-) Reading back, I find that Mike McNally's up. He guessed Jan Wolter's author, and then he sad he'd enter his quote after the restart. I think the problem is there's no mystery quote item in Agora.
So post something, Mike. I'm itching to get my turn.
You have several choices: